Sam Adams: The Winter Of My Discontent

I never took much stock in made-up doctrines designed to show sympathy for the weak, like seasonal affective disorder.

If you can’t stomach Midwest weather, then go back to your West Coast Utopian climate of monotonous perfection — the dandelions in your sun-bleached dreadlocks will grow better there.

Frostbite and hypothermia? Character builders. To quote the great John Candy from the against-all-odds bobsledding classic Cool Runnings as he escorts a group of chattering-teethed Jamaicans through their first Chicago snowstorm: “It’s not so much the heat, it’s the humidity that’ll kill ya.”

Such was my thinking. But then my seemingly unbreakable Midwestern resolve was inexplicably shattered. Starting around mid-December, I fell into a wintry funk, and I have not been able to right the ship since.

Maybe it was my diet. But, no, everything was good there: Pierogies, deep-dish pizza, Italian beef, Old Style….

But then, deep in thought on a blustery night with the frigid lake wind viciously pummeling my windows, I came upon The Great Idea, an escape plan so foolproof that old Cool Hand Luke himself would be turning over in his grave. Immediately, I texted Arturo, my partner in crime:

“Guess what … I’m buying a camper van! The solution to all my problems!”

While I eagerly waited for the glee that my dearest friend would surely express upon learning that I had found a blueprint for eternal happiness, I began to imagine myself conquering America with my wonderful new portable home…

I would traverse all 50 states, and once fluent in the unique character that defines each, I would publish a generation-defining opus, a veritable hybrid of On the Road and Travels with Charley that would somehow manage to exceed the literary prowess of both.

I would name my beloved buggy Rocinante III as a symbol of my humble deference to the soon-to-be-vanquished Steinbeck, and drink expensive bourbon with migrant Russian families in its spacious cabin.

I would be a man of the world; small children would run after my house-on-wheels with tears in their eyes as it left their village; men would take off their hats as it passed and stare with looks of solemn, national pride; women would make the stations of the cross and scatter rose petals in its wake. Ah yes, mine would be a grand adventure with overtones of Great American Heroism.

Then Arturo responded:  “This would solve nothing as I would have to accompany you and I am useless to you in such matters due to the fact that I refuse to learn the Skill of Driving. And even if I did drive, the accommodations of the RV would be be too inviting for drinking canned beer — some while relaxing by a window, some by various drinking games. This brings up the problems of a sober driver. We could hire one but there’s still the issue of money for beer, Beef Jerky, gas, hunting jackets and overalls. Realistically, we would end up parking on the side of your mother’s house trying to get the Cubs game on a dollar-store AM radio. Plus, RVs start at $40,0000.”

“No, no, no!” I began to protest. But then reality set in….

The cold wind beats at my window. A snowflake falls on the barren panes. It is shaped like a Winnebago. A singular tear begins to make its way down my cheek, but it freezes before reaching its destination. The Winnebago is whisked away.

I open up Google on my computer and type:

“Seasonal affective disorder….”

by Sam Adams