Two weeks ago I was laying on the floor of my son’s room while reading him a bedtime story. We’d had wildfires all week, and the smoke outside was so thick it eliminated the horizon and even distorted our view of nearby trees. We had every window closed and the inside temperature of nearly 90 degrees slowly roasted us. As I began reading the second story, slowing my pace and lowering my voice in an attempt to lower my heart rate and minimize perspiration, I dreamed of one day being cold again.
I try not to complain about hot weather. In a month the rainy season will be upon us, and two months after that we’ll get our first frost. From that point on, it’s pretty much winter until March. So a few days of heat are nothing to fret about.
Still, I longed for a cool blast of air, and the blessed days of last week when I was able to work outside without getting drenched in sweat. This lead me to recall February 3rd 2008, the second coldest day of my life. I remember the exact date only because it also happened to be the day the New England Patriots blew their perfect season.
It was a cold day in Wasilla, Alaska that morning. How cold, I have no idea, because our digital thermometer only gave readings down to negative 25 degrees. Any colder than -25 and the display would read OFL (offline), which we took as the thermometer’s way of telling us that it’s simply awful outside, so don’t bother…doing anything…at all.
As it turns out, we should have listened to the thermometer.
Having just moved into our house a few days earlier, the first heated garage we’d ever owned was full of stacks of boxes. Consequently, our tank of a minivan had to spend her first several nights in the OFL cold of our new driveway. No problem, she (our as-yet unnamed minivan) was used to it.
The plan for Super Bowl XLII was the same as every year: We’d go to church at 11:00am and get home an hour before kickoff. We’d prepare some favorite snacks and enjoy the game in our cozy new living room in front of a pleasant fireplace.
But first, church.
When it’s OFL outside it takes roughly fifteen minutes to get a vehicle warm enough to drive. As usual, I ran out to the driveway wearing my sandals, a t-shirt, and not bothering with a hat. The auto door lock wouldn’t open. Uh oh. I used the uncooperative key, pryed open the icy door, and sat my warm back against the frozen concrete that used to be a heated leather seat. Shivering, I turned the ignition key. Nothing. I should have known. No problem, I’ll jump it with my truck.
Three failed attempts at a jump told me either the battery was simply too far gone, or I had a different problem. Either way, I needed to get her in the garage to thaw out.
I went back inside and informed my wife we wouldn’t be going to church today. After half an hour of clearing boxes out of the garage, I was ready to push the van in.
Have you ever tried pushing a Town & Country van up an icy driveway? I decided to use my trusty truck to push it in, but my truck’s front and the van’s rear couldn’t align properly without breaking or denting something on one or both vehicles. What to do?
I decided to park the running truck as close to the van as possible, climb between them, and use my legs to push the van forward as far as I could extend them. After a few rotations my wife decided to join me and we proceeded to alternate between pushing the van with our legs, driving the truck forward, pushing the van again, etc…until we finally got the van far enough into the garage to drop the garage door.
Standing in the warm garage was the first time I registered exactly how OFL the temperature outside was. But the task was complete and there was still plenty of time to thaw out before kickoff. We shivered our way through preparing two massive cups of coffee, grabbed blankets, and snuggled on the couch with as many toddlers and cats as would tolerate the mysterious, mom-and-dad-shaped ice blocks melting on their sofa. We named the minivan Scarlett, after the stubborn Scarlett O’Hara, and believe me she lived up to the name in the years that followed.
A few hours later, finally warm enough to drink a beer, I watched Tom Brady on the verge of completing his quest for NFL perfection only to fall short by the miraculous helmet of David Tyree and a few other Giants. The weather conditions on the field were ideal. The retractable roof of The University of Phoenix Stadium was closed due to the rainy forecast, but I have no doubt the chills I experienced earlier in the day were dwarfed by those of Tom Brady as he sat helpless on the sideline watching the Giants marched down the field to seal the victory.
The irony of a team going 18-0 but losing the last game was delicious. It’s not that I was rooting against the perennial Super Bowl Patriots in those days. In fact, I’m pretty sure I was still sore at the way the Giants had beat the Packers in overtime two weeks earlier. Plenty of people were rightly upset at the outcome. It was sad day for a lot of people in cold towns in New England. No doubt there many watching that night who felt equally OFL, except perhaps me because I was finally warm, and maybe the ’72 Dolphins, still the only undefeated team in NFL history. And maybe our van Scarlett, who I believe I heard proclaim from the garage, “As God is my witness, I’ll never be cold again.”