Reflections from the Swamp
Dear Reader
It’s been a fiercely cold winter. I hope you didn’t freeze to death. I love all twelve of you readers. While having a coffee at Timmy’s with a few other seniors, I’ve been struck by the use of old expressions that are probably unfamiliar to younger people. I admire construction workers, especially those working outside on these 20 below-zero days. I learned a few of these expressions in my construction days. The following is a story that includes expressions I’ve heard from friends over the years about how cold it is out there.
The windows of the Tim Hortons in Almonte were thick with frost. Steam covered the Mississippi River, barely showing the frigid water as it poured over the falls. Inside, Ritz, Delmer, and Harry sat huddled over a round table, clutching their Double-Doubles like they were life support.
The steam from three extra-large coffees fought a losing battle against the draft every time the door opened at the Tim Hortons.
Delmer, Harry, and Ritz sat in their usual booth, bundled in flannel layers that made them look like a stack of overstuffed loggers.
“Cold one,” Delmer grunted, rubbing his knuckles. “Saw a squirrel out by the falls today. Poor thing was trying to knock on a woodpecker’s door to ask for a place to get warm.”
Harry snorted, blowing the foam off his double-double. “That’s a heatwave, Delmer. I stepped out on Bridge Street this morning, and the wind was so sharp it shaved my face for me. Saved me ten minutes and a splash of Old Spice.”
Ritz leaned in, his expression deadpan. “You fellas are so soft. It’s colder than a mother-in-law’s kiss at a funeral in Corkery. I saw a politician with his hands in his own pockets for once—that’s how you know it’s a real cold snap.”
“Is that right?” Delmer countered, unfazed. “Well, I went to start the Ford this morning. It didn’t turn over. It just whimpered. I opened the hood, and the battery had a tiny sign that said ‘Closed for the Season.’ I had to build a small campfire under the oil pan just to convince the truck to go.”
“Campfire?” Harry scoffed. “Luxury. I walked past the Old Town Hall and saw a brass monkey looking for a welder. It seems some vital body parts froze and fell off.
Ritz took a long, slow sip of his coffee. “Yes, brass gets awful cold. It’s colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra out there. It’s colder than a brass toilet seat in the Yukon. My truck, Gloria, didn’t just groan when I turned the key; it filed for divorce. That is how you know it’s cold in Almonte.”
Delmer snorted, his thick woollen toque still pulled low. Gloria didn’t want to start? That’s a spring breeze, Ritz. I walked the dog at five, and it was colder than a well-digger’s butt in Iqualuit. The poor mut didn’t even lift a leg; he just looked at me and decided to hold it until spring. Ritz muttered, “Drink up, lads. If the coffee gets any colder, we’ll be eating it with a fork.”
Harry reflected, “I know we aren’t supposed to get religious at our gatherings, but it’s colder than a nun’s buns out there. I’m sure the good Lord is just clearing out the cold so that spring can feel welcome to blow in.
The three men sat in a rare, respectful silence. Outside, the wind howled across the town, but inside, the coffee was hot, and the lies were even warmer.
