Winter Medicine

You know it’s winter by the lake effect snow about to bury Central New York. My dad recites the thermostat rules, my mom reorganizes the mudroom, and I press play on my annual reminder that they chose this tundra. Wayne Mahar foreshadowing the weather on the evening news while we eat dinner. Two to three feet likely, below freezing temperatures, whiteout conditions. It’s barely November. Joanie Mahoney comes on after Wayne, and my dad smashes the mute button before her campaign ad can play. She’s on the radio, the news, the billboards, and yard signs. My dad says what he’d like to do if he ever sees her. We laugh, even my mom.

On my way to work the next morning, I snag one of Joanie’s yard signs from the VFW down the road, and that night, I plant it outside the front kitchen window, where my dad drinks his coffee at dawn. Then the snow comes.

When the lump of sign-shaped snow finally makes itself known, he’s puzzled but waits, curious. Better to watch from indoors than to risk getting dressed. Its amorphous shape is full of thrilling potential. Could be a garbage can rolled down by the winds. Some brand of mischief made by the raccoons. But the emerged top of the J is all it takes. We cackle my mom awake.

The next year, winter waits until January. I do, too. We’re all watching for the next storm. Wayne says this one is for the books. My dad keeps the oversized "World's Best Dad" mug I gave him for Christmas over a decade ago on the top shelf among the lesser vessels. It was the only decent $3 gift at the school store, and he liked it so much that he barely used it. I take it down from the cabinet while he sleeps and plant it by the front hedge as the snow's already falling.

More waiting. He notices its absence and asks me if I've seen it. Doesn't suspect me, though. It might be March by the time it reemerges, and he's as happy as that Christmas morning.

We watch each other that next winter. Wayne's inaugural winter warning is a starting gun. As soon as the cold comes, we start the firewood routine. I fill the double-handled suede wood carrier in the garage, and we haul it inside together. Until it snaps. His end. Logs rolling, threatening to crack his shins. He whips it from my hand, flings it across the garage and curses. Bury that, why don't you, he says, storming off.

I do. It's a light dusting this year. Eight inches of powder gone in a few sunny days, but the next time we need a fire, he knows what I've done. His howl fills the house. He eyes the front kitchen window, points outside, wags his finger at me. His smile is everything.

He’s taken to pointing at things around the house. What to keep, what to throw away. He guesses at this year's candidates. Bits of the past that have outstayed their welcome. Maybe this refrigerator magnet from a place no one's been. Maybe that bag of rotting carrots my mom insists she'll use. Never the remote. My mom suggests cleaning out the mud room and nominates the unmatched gloves. My dad’s eyes are waiting for mine to meet his. They lock. When her back is turned, he twitches his head in her direction and then juts his chin toward the front yard, eyebrows raised. We plot. I trust your decision, he says. After all, it's good for the soul.