sovay | Conductor, stop this train

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Conductor, stop this train

I was right not to be confident. Because as I approached Park Street on my return from the green-and-purple-PVS land of dental consultation, I observed that the station was surrounded by a crowd of people milling around on the cold bright pavements of Tremont Street, many of them on their phones, none of them actually descending the stairs to the subway. A woman approaching on a similar vector to me said out loud, "That doesn't look good." I agreed it didn't. People in cold weather don't usually linger aboveground if they have a train to catch in an even minimally warmer environment. We went down cautiously. The station was a maelstrom. There were people milling in front of the turnstiles; there were people milling behind the turnstiles; there were people asking each other questions, none of which anyone seemed to have the answers to; I caught one man in an orange safety vest saying there were no buses at this time, but they expected to have the problem resolved very soon now, which my new companion agreed was not the most reassuring thing to hear, especially the vagueness of "problem." Eventually I approached a man in a watch cap and MBTA jacket who was on our side of the turnstiles—near the stairs to the Red Line, where the behind-the-turnstiles crowd was densest—and asked him straight out. He said there was a police emergency downstairs; the Red Line was suspending service indefinitely and the station was temporarily shut down. (I learned after the fact it was a bomb scare. Oddly, in the moment I thought he must mean an arrest or pursuit.) Shuttle buses were being organized, but they weren't ready yet. It was unclear how much the Green Line was running: which directions, which trains. My companion and I gave mutual thanks that we hadn't already paid our fares and began planning our fallbacks. She was planning to walk to Downtown Crossing and try re-routing through the Orange Line. I said I had to call someone who could look at buses on their phone. We wished each other well. I went aboveground and called

derspatchel: "It's four o'clock, it's fifteen degrees out here, and I don't have sunglasses. Give me walking directions."

I walked to Lechmere.

I am not physically comfortable in cold weather. My circulation has been rotten since college; my hands go numb easily, my fingers blanch, stiffen, hurt like crazy, I notice it less with my feet only because I wear hiking boots all the time. My uncle was diagnosed with primary Raynaud's some years ago and ever since then I've assumed it's the same thing, especially since my brother started showing the same sensitivities around the same age. I lost my very good pair of gloves last winter and this morning I couldn't find one of the makeshift stretchy pair I'd been using this fall, so I had to leave the house without any gloves at all. That was painful but fine for walking from my doorstep to the Davis T station, carrying a pad of paper to take notes on and Mark Valentine and John Howard's The Collected Connoisseur (2010) in case I was left to my own devices at the dentist's for any length of time. Walking for thirty minutes from Park Street to Lechmere as the sun was setting was somewhat more problematic. I ended up stuffing the paper and the book inside my jacket just so I could get both hands into my pockets, because after a few minutes in the open air it was impossible for me to text from my phone and even dialing was becoming difficult. Tremont Street to Cambridge, Cambridge to Staniford, Staniford to Lomasney, and then past Science Park and the Museum of Science to Lechmere. I texted Rob: The canal beside the Science Museum is intensely beautiful in the burnt dusk. (It was a lovely day, in the clear bone-chilling way of winter: previous updates had included Beautiful winter sunlight: very bright, very dry. Downtown Boston looks good in it. Well, except for City Hall and Strong blue-gold light now, already fading. Church bells.) Even in my pockets, flexing them to keep the blood moving, I could feel very little of my fingers by the time I got to Lechmere; my back was in a kind of shuddering lock and my face had that blasted, glassy feeling you get from walking into freezing wind. Last night and tonight have been the temperatures I refer to as dumbass cold, where all of your intellectual concentration goes to repeating stupidly, "It's cold out here! It's really cold! I am so cold!" while all of your planning abilities are funneled into getting out of the cold, with not much left over for intelligent discourse. And I felt a lot better about it than about waiting at Park Street, equally chilled, much less in motion, for buses that might or might not be organized in time to get me home and warm faster than my own feet to Lechmere and either the 80 or the 87 from there.

Lechmere was another maelstrom. With an awesome stationmaster. Faced with the day's normal commuters plus an overflow of cold, confused Red Line refugees queueing for buses that weren't supposed to leave for another twenty minutes on the schedule, he threw out the schedule and started scrambling drivers: "Get Laura out here! Get Judy! I got all these people! You going to Davis Square? You going to Somerville Ave? Give the lady a hand with that—thank you!" Out of service buses were pulled back into service. Drivers were pulled off break. He asked for people's destinations and told them the buses they needed, gave them walking directions from unfamiliar stops, suggested transfers, made sure one woman got safely onto her bus with all her luggage. (It was my bus, but she was behind me; I couldn't see if she was older, frail, or just handling heavy and awkward bags. She got off before me, though, and the same spirit prevailed on the bus: I heard people calling, making sure someone had got all her stuff, making sure she'd got all her stuff, before the doors closed.) He was loud and stressed and efficient and I didn't have a chance to thank him; he moved off too quickly into the crowd. I shouted it anyway. He was amazing to see in action. I got on an 87 that was packed to tinning capacity—driven by Laura, who waved me on without asking for fare—and I got off in Porter Square, where I bought an herbal chai latte with a shot of pumpkin syrup instantly. Rob met me a few minutes later. We had planned on grocery shopping; instead I just bought some conditioner so that I could take a very hot shower tonight and headed back into Davis for dinner before he left for rehearsal. It was a full hour and a half later than I'd planned. I got home at 6:40. I've been sitting here drinking tea since. I believe that was an adventure.

I've been married for a week.

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Props to that stationmaster, and I'm glad you were able to go safely whither you needed to go. (And yay, tea.)

Props to that stationmaster, and I'm glad you were able to go safely whither you needed to go.

Thank you! I wish I had some way of identifying him beyond "the Lechmere stationmaster," because

nineweaving has suggested I write to the MBTA about him, but I can hope it will be obvious from whoever was on duty that night.

(And yay, tea.)

I had been going to write that I pretty much live off tea in the winter, but then it struck me that I pretty much live off tea in the summer, too. Not even iced. Just tea. Man.

It's useful stuff.

An adventure indeed, oh glory. All praise to that stationmaster, and to Laura and Judy et al!

Dumbass cold is an excellent term, and an extremely accurate one. I enjoy the cold, up to a point, but after that point it just eats the brain.

All praise to that stationmaster, and to Laura and Judy et al!

Seriously. Laura's bus was pulling into the station Not in Service; she must have been going off shift. Judy was inside, presumably on break. I do not discount their willingness to keep driving.

I enjoy the cold, up to a point, but after that point it just eats the brain.

rushthatspeaks pointed out that it dominates not only your thought processes, but those of everyone around you: you say stupidly, "It's really cold!" and the next person says, "I know! I can't believe how cold it is! It's really cold!" So at least it's a collective reaction, but man.

I love winter as a season: I prefer being cold to being hot, because I can always put on clothing; I can't remove skin. I just wish I'd turned out to be better adapted for it.

Dumbass cold is an awesome term.

I write this from the over-warm guest bedroom of my mom's new house in Florida, to which she retired abruptly this fall--I always knew it was coming because she has Reynaud's, though, it was just the speed that was distressing. So, having seen how miserable that is, sympathies.

Dumbass cold is an awesome term.

Feel free to propagate it!

she retired abruptly this fall--I always knew it was coming because she has Reynaud's, though, it was just the speed that was distressing. So, having seen how miserable that is, sympathies.

Thank you. I hope never to have to move for the climate. Seasons are important to me. I don't know where your mother moved from—how is she finding the change?

New England--she grew up in southern NH, lived in MA for most of my lifetime, and moved back to NH in the last few years after my dad died and she meet her now-husband.

She loves it; she loves the heat, and her husband has family near-ish, plus she has the knack for socializing, so except for the distance from her grandkids, she's great.

What a hero! I hope a few hundred people praise him to the MBTA. To the skies.

Would you like gloves for Christmas?

You crystallize wit and beauty out of chaos and subzero.

Nine

What a hero! I hope a few hundred people praise him to the MBTA. To the skies.

I never heard his name, but I would say nice things about him to his superiors. I wonder how one actually does that these days.

Would you like gloves for Christmas?

I seem to have been offered gloves by my excellent lover who knits, but thank you for asking! You can get me books and shelves to put them on. Those are always in season.

You crystallize wit and beauty out of chaos and subzero.

Thank you. I do not want to be a dull reporter.

Edited 2013-12-13 06:10 (UTC)

Presumably the T will know who was directing traffic at Lechmere then. They take commendations here.

I bow to

rushthatspeaks. Their gloves will be a work of art. Books and/or shelves it is.

Nine

Edited 2013-12-13 17:51 (UTC)

Send glove specs (color, size) and I will add to the knitting queue, I think gloves would be an interesting thing to knit.

One thing to be careful with in knitting gloves is to remember that the fingers will be shorter when worn than on the needles. Also binding off the fingers steals length. Says the person who owns several pairs of gloves with ever-so-slightly-too-short fingers.

Send glove specs (color, size) and I will add to the knitting queue, I think gloves would be an interesting thing to knit.

I will try on some gloves until I figure out what size my hands are. If we can scrounge up our measuring tape (the tailor's kind that coils, not the metallic carpentry kind), I can even send measurements. Green is almost always best.

Thank you, love.

Yikes, that doesn't sound like the good kind of adventure. I'm glad you made it home and have presumably defrosted.

I'm glad you made it home and have presumably defrosted.

I drank a teakettle's worth of hot tea. And wrapped my hands around the mug a lot. I am pleased to report that I don't even crackle when I type now.

And wrapped my hands around the mug a lot.

This, of course, is why we evolved fingers. (Well, that and the challenge of glove-knitting, to add an extra dimension of intelligence.)

Ow ow ow, those are really perfect descriptions of that kind of cold, which we are having here also. I hope you are warm now.

I don't suppose your unmarried weeks were less eventful, really, but there seems a kind of extra sheen on these events.

P.

Ow ow ow, those are really perfect descriptions of that kind of cold, which we are having here also.

Thank you. I had a lot of time to think about it.

(I am much warmer now. I actually can't type comfortably when my fingers get too cold; it used to be a problem in New Haven, where the heat in the building wouldn't turn on until November at the earliest, December one year. So far, not a problem here.)

I don't suppose your unmarried weeks were less eventful, really, but there seems a kind of extra sheen on these events.

I like being married. I am actively enjoying this state. It interests me: I didn't know that it would make a difference.

I didn't know either that getting married, to somebody I already lived with, when we couldn't afford a honeymoon trip, would make a difference. It just seemed practical. But it seemed to change both everything and nothing.

P.

If "item knitted most frequently" = one's knitting specialty, mine is fingerless mitts.

I'd be happy to put a pair in the January queue for thee if they'd be useful/welcome.

I'd be happy to put a pair in the January queue for thee if they'd be useful/welcome.

I have two conflicting responses:

1. It's a lovely offer, but since my fingers are the majority of the problem, I'm not sure how useful it would be for you to spend time making me fingerless gloves.

2. I've never had fingerless gloves before!

They tend to help a fair amount just by keeping nearby areas warmer, but if the problem is approximately equal to Raynaud's syndrome you're going to do much better with fully covered fingers. (My boyfriend and his mother both have similar problems, so I've had a little experience.)

but if the problem is approximately equal to Raynaud's syndrome you're going to do much better with fully covered fingers.

That is my general feeling; under normal circumstances, I wear gloves from late September until thaw. This year has not been normal, which is why my hands hurt much of the time. (I could look so Dickensian, though.)

(My boyfriend and his mother both have similar problems, so I've had a little experience.)

It's turning out to be commoner than I'd thought!

It is possible to make fingerless gloves that go over regular gloves if the regular gloves are sufficiently thin or if they've been made to be compatible in bulk. That would give you extra warmth, and Dickensian stylishness, as well as a secret pocket between the gloves.

Those can be very useful, and the same goes for the kind of fingerless gloves that go underneath the regular gloves.

I used to have a pair of the latter, and I found them very helpful for playing mandolin and bouzouki in cold rooms* as well as for boosting the warming capabilities of my regular gloves. At the time I was on a medication that messed with my circulation, so I used them a lot.

*And also for typing in similar circumstances.

Edited 2013-12-14 01:21 (UTC)

pecunium has Raynaud's as well, and finds the pocket sized multi-hour handwarmers to be a godsend when he's out in cold weather for a while.

I am grateful for the excellent station master who got you home, and for the fact that you did not freeze solid.

and finds the pocket sized multi-hour handwarmers to be a godsend when he's out in cold weather for a while.

Huh. I have never thought of that as an option. It's always been gloves, pockets, and a certain amount of expected pain. I will have to consider.

I am grateful for the excellent station master who got you home, and for the fact that you did not freeze solid.

So am I!

I've been married twenty months tomorrow. I wonder when we stop counting?

I've been married twenty months tomorrow. I wonder when we stop counting?

Maybe never. I'd be cool with that.

Mazel tov, twenty months!

I'm glad the workers and commuters of Boston transit seem to have carried themselves well under the circumstances, and that you are now warm.

I'm glad the workers and commuters of Boston transit seem to have carried themselves well under the circumstances, and that you are now warm.

Thank you. I am not accustomed to being impressed with the MBTA, but everybody at that station deserved it.

I'm sorry for the mess. I'm glad the stationmaster was awesome, and that other folk were as well.

I believe that was an adventure.

Sounds like. Hope your next adventure will be more fun.

Of course, one of the clichés of military science fiction* is some grizzled veteran telling an impressionable youngster that "Adventure is someone else in deep [fill in "shit" or italicised local word meaning same as appropriate] far away."

I hope you'll have as few of that kind of adventure as possible.

*Or at least of the military science fiction I read massive quantities of during the 90s

Edited 2013-12-14 01:18 (UTC)

Hope your next adventure will be more fun.

Tonight's? Mostly! Then epic public transit fail. Balance is maintained in the universe.

I can't quite conceptualize that kind of cold (I don't think I've ever been anywhere that was colder than just below freezing), but I wish I could send you some of our mild LA winter weather.

I can't quite conceptualize that kind of cold (I don't think I've ever been anywhere that was colder than just below freezing), but I wish I could send you some of our mild LA winter weather.

Hah. Thank you. I actually love cold weather; autumn and winter are traditionally my favorite seasons, even if they have also been for some years the seasons that are most difficult for me. I'd just like a circulatory system that more closely matches my feelings!

Wishing you a lot less adventures like this! Kudos to the stationmaster, though; he deserves it. I sympathise about poor circulation: my hands turn various shades of purple, so it's a choice of mittens or deep pockets for six months. I hope you enjoy Connoisseur.

I sympathise about poor circulation: my hands turn various shades of purple, so it's a choice of mittens or deep pockets for six months.

Okay, much commoner than I'd thought! Fascinating. I always thought it was unusual of me.

I hope you enjoy Connoisseur.

I loved the collection. Do you recommend the authors' other work?

*Do you recommend the authors' other work?*

I certainly do! All too often though, they're published by small presses for silly prices. Swan River Press have brought out collections by both in the last year, that are a *bit* more affordable (between twenty-five and thirty pounds); there's a slim biography of Machen by Valentine that's worth seeking out second-hand, and he also edits a journal on fantastic and decadent literature called Wormwood.

there's a slim biography of Machen by Valentine that's worth seeking out second-hand, and he also edits a journal on fantastic and decadent literature called Wormwood.

That's cool. (I see they're currently closed to submissions, or I'd tell you to write about some of your favorite authors for them.) How are Howard's non-Connoisseur stories?

That stationmaster is a true hero. How wonderful. You should send that in to the MBTA--they get plenty of bad press, plenty of it deserved--they should be celebrated when they get something right. … Or actually, it isn't even them, but **him**. What a remarkable guy. Let's hear it for the stationmaster!

I hope you thawed out well, afterward. An adventure like that on your week anniversary bodes well for the adventure quotient of the overall marriage, I'd say. How was Rob's day?

That stationmaster is a true hero. How wonderful. You should send that in to the MBTA--

I will! This weekend was slightly derailed.

An adventure like that on your week anniversary bodes well for the adventure quotient of the overall marriage, I'd say. How was Rob's day?

I think it mostly involved writing. He did serve as my direction-finder, though, and came out to meet me for chai and dinner. We can trade off being harbor and open sea.

I am glad for the excellent stationmaster and for the large quantities of tea. May your adventures be less challenging and more fun.

I am glad for the excellent stationmaster and for the large quantities of tea. May your adventures be less challenging and more fun.

Hah. Thank you! I think I can deal with challenging so long as it comes out all right.

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Conductor, stop this train

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