Life of Hardin Vol. IV, No. 11

Cold Blows the Hot Wind

“Those countries are coldest that never taste of bitter chill.” If that isn’t a proverb somewhere, then no sub-tropical country ever produced a sage or wise man. Otherwise he would know that cold is coldest when you don’t expect it and aren’t prepared for it.

Thermometer-wise it never gets cold here. About 45 degrees Fahrenheit is as low as the mercury falls, such as it did last month, and even then only to set the 47-year record low. There are the usual ludicrous stories that float around that there will be a frost, the temperature will drop below zero, and penguins will play on the subsequent ice floes in the Paraguay River. But they are myths.

No, it never really gets cold here, but that drop from 90 to 45 from one day to the next sure makes a body think otherwise. That and the fact that it only stays below 55 for maybe two weeks out of the year. A winter of that duration makes any sort of financial outlay to fend off the chill rather inefficient. Rarely do buildings or houses have heaters, fireplaces, central heat, or even insulation. I remember during my high school winters students would fight over the back rows to be next to the creaky old radiator. Here there is no such luxury. Instead people go to work and school and restaurants and sit inside bundled up like Eskimos.

Even tour buses and their drivers refuse to prepare against Jack Frost’s abridged nipping. I took a (another) trip to Iguassu Falls with (another) group. We departed on a chartered bus at 3 in the a.m. It was 45 degrees outside. It was 45 degrees inside. I got mixed signals from the drivers. One said the heater was broken. The other said he didn’t want to dry out the gasket. I wish he had dried it out until it shriveled away to nothing.

I have heard stories of the Battle of the Bulge, Valley Forge, and other war winters where men huddled together in foxholes covered with snow. That was what I felt like, minus the bullets. I awoke an hour into the trip with my entire body stinging from the cold. I got up and stalked the aisle, looking for anyone who had been cold-natured enough to bring a blanket and was unfortunate enough to be awake. I didn’t care who it was. Man, woman, animal, or mineral. It was a case of survival. Not many people brought cover. It would be in the 80’s, after all, during the day. People huddled together over fires made of books and card decks. I heard moans of, “I can’t feel my legs.” One woman complained that she felt like she was at a high school football game, the home team was losing, and she only wanted to go home.

The drivers stayed locked in their front cabin, dancing. The thrum of salsa music pulsed against the glass partition. I moved around for fifteen minutes before I saw someone squirm. I dove under the cover with them. I won’t tell you who it was. At the time I wasn’t ashamed, and I shall never look back on it again. I survived the night, and that is all you need know. Except take a blanket if ever travel near the Equator. Forty-five is never so cold as when compared to ninety.

Life of Hardin Vol. IV, No. 10

Shave and a Haircut

The good Lord, in his wisdom, gave Paul a thorn in his side to keep him humble. To me he gave the tangled mass of hair upon my head. It resembles more the dense and weedy undergrowth of an African jungle than it does a head of hair. It has been unruly and uncooperative most of my life. I even thought at one time about shaving my head because I heard a rumor that curly hair would grow back straight if shaved off.

In my younger days I kept it cut so short it could not curl. It was the only trick I had discovered to keep it semi-tame. I worried so much about it that I avoided conversations with girls for fear my hair would suddenly sprout an inch and cause my instant mortification. In order to keep it thus short I required frequent haircuts. I refused, however, to pay six dollars to fight a losing battle. Instead I required my mom to do the cutting. With the passage of time my hair wore me down. It never stopped growing. I tired of the bi-weekly trim, and I gave up the fight. I let my hair go. I resolved myself to the life of a mountain man, lonely and unkempt (minus the mountain).

So I freed my hair to go its own way and to curl as much as it could stand. Later I ran into an old friend, a girl, who years before held my heart in her hand. At our chance meeting that same hand shot out and toyed with my hair. “Your curls are so cute!” she cooed.

I slapped her hand down, stuck my tongue out, and went immediately for a haircut.

Now I own a pair of professional electric hair clippers. My wife uses them to cut my hair every few months or so when children begin to run from me or women instinctively run their fingers through my locks. My wife is a perfectionist. “I don’t want to mess it up,” she says as she agonizes before each trim. She doesn’t believe me when I say, “Just go to cutting. You can’t hurt it. It will grow back.” She sometimes takes half an hour to complete the task. The first time it took forty-five minutes. She double-checked each hair to make sure they were all the same length. It was the most even haircut I ever had. My head looked like a giant yellow cotton ball. I immediately went to the bathroom and unevened myself with a pair of scissors.

I still refuse to waste money on a barber to do a job more suited for a weed eater. I gladly sit on the balcony while my wife frets over each falling curl. It’s a small price for sanity.