My sister sent me a set of coins the other day-- a U.S. Mint Set from 1970. Seeing it brought back happy memories of that year: 13 years old, racing around UCLA on my wanna be stingray-like bike. "Blonde hair shinin' in the sun." Nothing but blue skies and warm weather.
That was also a time in my life when seeing a -8 was not necessarily a bad thing. If there were a hundred questions and I got a -8, chances are that was still a low A. Then again, if it was a spelling test of 20 words, well, -8 might just land me in some hot water.
Which brings me to today's -8: I'm not going to suggest a grade for this score but it certainly did land me in hot water. Lots of it. And for as long as I could stand there.
Growing up as a kid on LA's westside in the 70's there was no conception of minus eight degrees. Minus eight degrees existed in a science lab up the street at UCLA. Minus eight degrees existed in the pages of National Geographic. Minus eight degrees was an absurdity, an aberrance noted because, surely, somebody froze to death. Minus eight degrees was screeching coins into blocks of dry ice.
Unfortunately for this adult no longer residing on the westside of Los Angeles, this morning it is minus eight degrees and that means I'm going to bundle up in a down coat and mittens and watch for patches of ice as I haul the trash out to the curb. Then I'm going to go fix someone's broken bones--- someone not from the pages of National Geographic but from right here in the middle of Michigan-- someone who also knows the dark side of -8, someone who slipped on the ice.
Brrrrsville, as we say in Sherman Oaks.
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