My dad got the winter coat out. Thereās a magical time of year where both my parents switch out all their summer clothes for their winter ones. For my mom, this means an entire wardrobe shift. For my dad, he brings his flannel-lined jeans to the front of the pile and hangs his winter coat by the door. I donāt know where he stores the puffy jacket during the rest of the year; itās Ā stupid-massive. It must have its own corner in the shed or a designated spot in the depths of the basement. All I know is that it takes up 3 hooks and seems to inflate more each cold season.
Ā My dadās a fairly skinny guy. All leg and no ankle. No butt or density. It makes sense that heād need the equivalent of a pioneer quilt with arms for the North Dakotan winter months ā you gotta keep warm somehow. Dressing in proper winter attire was stressed early for my sisters and me. The entire hall closet contains a giant wool ball of hats, mittens, scarves from each decade of our childhood. You never know when a guest will show up unprepared during a sudden snowfall. This allows my mom to wrap them up tight in an early 00s Aeropostale monkey hat and a lopsided hand-knitted scarf my sister made in an ill-fated attempt at crafting. Sheāll send us out behind the departing visitor, equally cocooned, to help remove accumulated snow from their car. My dad stands behind lurking in his black coat, arms crossed like a monstrous bat, waiting to scrape any packed-down snow from the driveway as soon as the visitor backs out of the driveway. We are not allowed to complain about cold noses or fingers or toes. We have the tools to be prepared.
Ā Once when I was about fourteen or so I was in a doctorās waiting room where another patient in a wheelchair was loudly telling an unprepared and not-quite-apt audience about her legs, bandaged up to the knee.
Ā āIt was quite the blizzard. Came up outta nowhere. I mean Iāve been driving for years and Iāve never seen a thing like it. Ended up in a ditch, the whole ordeal, and I knew all the experts say ādonāt get outta the carā but it was freezing and I was sure I could find shelter elsewhere. So I left the car, right there in that ditch and started trekking. Guess I got disoriented, but I did end up finding this little abandoned farmhouse. Well by then Iād taken my boots off. In a blizzard! I was in some kinda state. My feet just felt too large so I threw the boots who-knows-where. Kicked in a window and just huddled there ātil the storm passed. Now Iāve got frostbite something terrible. Theyāre waiting for the toes to fall off.ā
Ā I looked closer, at the very end of the bandages on her legs, ten mummified toes peeked out. They looked like those little sausages on toothpicks left on the platter at the end of a party. Shriveled and charred, yet translucent. To this day I have a large collection of thick socks and at the first sign of chill they. are. on.
Ā So dadās coat makes sense. Except it makes him look like Hagrid, Keeper of the Keys whoās missed Leg Day for the past fifty-odd years. But my dad doesnāt keep keys, he keeps milk.
Ā āTheyāre serving them nice and chilled today, bud,ā he grins, slipping into the booth across from me at McDonaldās. Ever since MickeyDās started serving milk, my dad will order two white milks, ecstatic each time the cashier hands him the bottles cold.
Ā āItās almost as if they refrigerate them,ā I say.
Ā He keeps the milks in his coat pockets until heās ready to drink them. That way they stay cool. The jacketās completely and effectively insulated. He does this at a lot of fast food joints that offer dairy beverages now. Heās like a Lactose Special Agent ā reaching into the depths of his jacket to retrieveā¦a healthy alternative to soda.
Ā Like snowpants, I was brought up amidst a plethora of milk. Lots and lots of it. Weāre not doomsday preppers or anything, we just hate feeling chilly and we eat a lot of cereal. We store both extras downstairs.
Ā āWeāve got the eggs and the sugar for the mix, but we donāt have milk,ā my dismayed friend announced to the sleepover group consisting of a few gangly girls and even more sparkly butterfly clips. She stood staring down at the half-mixed batter to which weād already added chocolate chips, M&Mās, and marshmallows, āI donāt know if theyāll bake right without it.ā
Ā I was confused by my peers. āJust go get some more from the Milk Fridge.ā
Ā And thatās how, at the age of seven, I discovered that not all families have an antique Kelvinator in their basement whose sole purpose lies in storing extra cartons of milk. The Milk Fridge is the family shrine in our household. Our ancestors watch out for us through it, their power stemming from the gleaming cartons inside. Or something.
Ā I donāt know why we have such a penchant for dairy (2%, only in half-gallon cardboard cartons, because my dad swears he can taste the plastic from the gallon containers, and Skim is a sin), my mom grew up on a farm, but they raised hogs. My dad had an All-American upbringing, maybe itās just in his DNA.
Ā With the exception of my dad, who is really a child trapped in an old manās body trapped in a giant winter coat, none of my sisters or my mom or I have ever broken a bone. We have very sturdy frames. Wiry, but solid. For Halloween I dressed as a Loose Tooth (a.k.a. a slutty molar). The costume was a design all my own constructed from a bedsheet and starch, a feather boa, and booty shorts. While I was out at the bar in my dental attire, a guy started chatting me up, inspecting the costume.
Ā āThis thing is pretty sturdy. You made it yourself?ā
Ā āYea. It was pretty simple, actually. And I drink a lot of milk so I have strong bones. Makes for strong teeth.ā
Ā āI got a strong bone for you,ā he replied. Earlier heād been pretending the band was too loud to hear me talk about my time at grad school in England, so the fact that heād been waiting for a penis-pun-opportunity and managed to hear me well enough to reply so quickly, alerted me to the fact that I had to get my tooth-self outta there. My bum was kinda out, it was to be expected.
Ā My parents came to visit me while I was abroad. It took weeks of pre-trip convincing that A) a spring jacket would be enough and B) yes, they do have milk in England.
Ā āIs it regular milk? Like not warm or unpasteurized or something?ā my dad questioned.
Ā āThey will have milk everywhere I booked, I promise. Most people just put it in their tea or coffee so you may have to ask for a glass of it at breakfast.ā
Ā āDoes it taste like plastic?ā He didnāt want to bother the hosts at our B&Bās so he just waited until they left the room and then finished off the unused milk meant for the tea. Maybe I ought to get him a little pewter pitcher to remind him of his time across the pond.
Ā So obviously, Iām still under my parentsā roof despite society saying I should be married in my own home with little babbies rolling all over. Iām a little short on love, money, and maternal instinct, but I do know that when I finally flee the nest, a house will not be a home until itās full to the brim of extra snow gear and a spare refrigerator stocked with milk. Or I can just fill my pockets at McDonaldās.
Ā The Schmidtās dad had a coat
And in his pockets where eāer he went
it held milk as white as snow.
For now Iāve found a fabulous print to honor my familyās penchant for the white stuff (that's a low quality photo of my high quality collection, but you should really take a longerĀ look at the "Delicious Milk"Ā and other prints here).
Winter is coming. Bundle up.
