Reflections from 20 Below

It’s been cold here in Maine.

Like, “hurts to breathe” cold. “Special weather advisory warning not to go outside” cold.

I didn’t grow up with this sort of thing. I was raised in Colorado, on the front range. And yes, it gets cold on the front range, but usually not for long. The sun comes out, the snow melts, and it could be 60 degrees any day of the year.

Maine isn’t like that. Here in New England, it gets cold in the winter, and it stays cold.

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The world changes when the temperature drops this low.

The snow squeaks when you walk on it. Your house starts to behave differently; doors that usually close swing open as the wood contracts, pipes freeze, appliances don’t work, and cars get temperamental. And, oddly enough, the sun is usually shining on the coldest days (cloud cover would retain some heat, and lately it’s been too cold to snow).

The first morning it reached -20, my daughter and I went outside to see what it was like. The sun was just rising over the hill behind our house, and I expected the entire world to be silent, still, and frozen.

I was wrong.

All the birds were singing from the treetops.

It sounded victorious to my ears, like the tiny creatures were celebrating their continued existence in spite of the cold. There’s something inspiring about the chickadees, who weigh less than half an ounce, singing their hearts out at -20.

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