Yesterday, Jason and I went out for a walk in the neighborhood.
It was, generously, in the 40s. It was windy. But, overall, not really bad. There wasn’t a lot of humidity in the air. There was sparse cloud coverage and the sun was bright.

It wasn’t bad. It was still a pleasant day.

But, ten minutes in, my fingers had turned into blunt icicles that couldn’t become warm no matter how much I kept them under my armpits. A couple of good wind blasts to the chest left me desperately wishing I had brought one of mom’s scarves as I could feel the back of my shoulders stiffen. The upper back started to creak – just a bit – that may foretell of a full blow ‘owie’ that may come.

It didn’t, thank goodness.
My evening wasn’t spent in pain other than the typical nausea associated with working on my college classes.

What was embarrassing is that my Floridian, Jason, who has had a lot of experience with this type of weather was fine. He strolled straight back and arms swinging beside me. Without gloves, he had no issues using his phone. He was fine and could have walked longer. We only stopped for my sake.

Super embarrassing.

I didn’t want to stop moving. Actually, although we were busy in the house most of the day, I was still craving some movement — walking — something — because I use it to take the edge off stress.

I have a lot of stress, apparently, and I think that’s evident by how Dr. S keeps switching up my mental pills.

But, what eves. What eves.

I actually came here to write about my hands.
They haven’t always been low-grade piercing weapons when it turns cold. I wasn’t born with poor hand circulation – not that I know of. But I’ve had trouble with them for most of my life and I can all but squarely blame that on my dad.

You see, dad worked in a factory. Long hours in dirty, hazardous conditions were what he knew for most of his life and, I’m sure, was a major contributor to his death.

He didn’t allow that to extinguish his entrepreneurial side. Dad built houses and rented them. He started a business that, to this day, takes care of his widow and can (if Biden doesn’t mess it up) a solid future for his children. Even now, this house that Jason bought from Mom, was from his efforts. If it wasn’t for Dad’s drive, we wouldn’t have the opportunity to insulate ourselves from the growing financial storm and world bull shit pile that becomes bigger every day.

At work, despite his dirty job, Dad would take two coolers filled with soda and sell them for fifty or sixty cents a can. Essentially, he started a mini-job at his main job and was successful. Apparently, the break room was on the top floor and charged nearly a dollar a can. Dad was on the ground level and provided the same product at a cheaper price.

— I think that it also gave dad something to ‘stalk.’ There were multiple times that we would drive around the tri-county area looking for specific soda flavors and sales to maximize the profit. It provided an outlet that was more cognitive and planning than his main job. Truly, dad was wasted as a factory.

But, anyway… packing the coolers was a ritual. He wasn’t going to do it. Mom did somewhat but was way too busy running the house and working herself. Bless her.

As the oldest, I took it upon myself.
This was more complicated than it sounds.

For dad, the coolers need to be organized in a certain way and the cans had to be prepared.
That means that there was a list of how many of what flavors went into the coolers. Since the cans were stacked three or four levels deep, certain flavors had to be on top. The Pepsi and Coke brands were separated, which is why there were two coolers.

To help keep them cold, the cans were placed in a freezer for at least five hours before going into the coolers. Then, they had to be doused with ice.

This kept the customers (dad’s co-workers) from rummaging around the coolers, helped provide a good presentation, and they could easily be picked up and paid for.

As I said – dad was wasted in the factories. He placed a lot of thought into this and paid attention to people’s buying habits to develop the list of what exactly needed to be brought in what quantities.

This also showed his absolute disregard for authority. Selling product, even if it is just soda, at a business and cutting into the profits of the soda vendor, is a way to proverbially stick it to the man. That was also his MO.

Anyway… I wanted to fill the coolers. I wanted to be helpful and feel important. With both parents working two jobs, I needed to pull my weight. Preparing and filling the coolers was one way I felt that I could help out. It also kept Little Brother and Little Sister from doing so, which was also important to me. Being Big Sister, I felt that I needed to protect them for some reason. I wanted them to stay children for as long as possible. Responsibility, like filling the coolers, wasn’t something I wanted them to do.

There’s another reason for that.
If it wasn’t completed in the specific way dad wanted, I’d get yelled at. Not cussed, but to the point where it was nearly done. I “just didn’t listen” and “refuse to understand.” This was an ongoing theme for multiple years and not something I wanted to expose my Little Siblings too.

So… either way… it was a win-win all the way around for me.

And, honestly, it was kind of fun. Slinging ice and sneaking a Big Red every now and then was fun. I enjoyed hunting for soda deals and riding in the back of the truck when successful. It wasn’t all bad.

Then, winters.

Placing bags of ice on already freezer-cold cans of soda isn’t fun.
And, of course, I refused to wear gloves. It was a point of pride. Since I could handle near-boiling water when washing dishes, I felt that I could handle ice without protection.

It was also insanely difficult to manage the ice and soda wearing mitten gloves. I couldn’t stack and put enough product in the coolers easily and in the time frame needed. (This had to be done right before dad went to work.) Ideally, this would be effectively completed while he was eating dinner.

Gloves off, standing in the cold, stacking freezer cold cans of soda in a cooler with bags of ice.

It doesn’t sound too intelligent now, does it?

But that’s what I did for multiple winters. I think this kept going until dad was laid off from one of the factories. I don’t remember why he stopped selling soda. Mom probably had something to do with it or maybe the other factor had enough of his policy violations. (I just compared him to someone selling cocaine on the streets. What would that make me? Odd brain.)

I think my hands were okay for the first couple of winters. Pulling my fingers from the cans probably left some skin cells. It was cold, certainly, but didn’t have any lasting effects. A few more winters passed, and my hands started to turn red and then white while I did my work. It was uncomfortable. Still, I’d just come in and run them over the hottest water I could stand in the kitchen. The rush of blood and warmth to them was nice. It became a sensation that I enjoyed.

But, one winter, something changed.
My white and red skin became cracked. Bending my fingers became exceedingly painful. I finally started wearing mittens but that didn’t work out. I still couldn’t get the quality and quantity I needed during the limited time I had.

Gloves off and, after a couple of days, my skin started to crack at the joints, and I started to bleed.

Still, I carried on. It wasn’t a lot of blood, mind you. I wasn’t smearing the cans and it congealed quickly.
I didn’t think it was anything to be concerned about and, apparently, no one else did either as I carried on for a couple of winters after.

As I got older, I noticed that the cracks and the bleeding didn’t go away. It doesn’t happen all the time. Actually, it rarely happens as I’ve been in Florida for the past twenty or so years. I know I’m still sensitive to the cold and always will be.

But, yesterday, it really kind of hit home about * how * sensitive I am and drudged up all of these memories that you’ve read. Kudos to you for getting this far.

This actually feels like a long post and kind of like a story.
Maybe my mental acuity is starting to swing in the right direction — although I have a long way to go.

Anyways… Jason’s phone is chiming and it’s nearly eleven.
I better go and do something else for a while.

Peace. =)