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The long and short of it

I first witnessed Temporal Deceleration in the winter of 1965. If you’ve never heard of Temporal Deceleration, don’t feel bad cuz I just made it up.

So what is it?

TD is the feeling you have when, due to societal changes, the rest of the world zooms off into the future, leaving you in its dust, stumbling about in the past, lost, stunned and confused.

My 1965 TD experience was due to The Second Vatican Council, popularly known as Vatican II.

Now, a pressing question: How could a 18 year-old Jewish kid in Saranac Lake be affected by a Papal Congress? The answer is I wasn’t — at least not directly. Instead, I was essentially an observer, seeing how the Catholics I knew were affected.

There really was only one issue I knew about, which was the change of the Mass. Formerly, it’d been conducted in Latin. Now it was being conducted in the vernacular, which in the case of My Home Town was of course, English. Being the young progressive I was, it seemed perfectly sensible to me, but it sure didn’t to a lot of the Catholics I knew. In fact, not only didn’t they think it wasn’t sensible, they thought it was downright treasonous.

Why was that?

Temporal Deceleration, that’s why!

Clearly, they hadn’t understood much of the Latin in the old Mass, but that didn’t matter to them. It was what they’d heard their whole lives; it’s what their parents, grandparents, etc. had heard all their lives. It was familiar; it was tradition; it was soothing. Maybe it had even provided a kind of magic for them. And now all that was gone.

So what was left in its place? As far as they were concerned, a big fat nothing, that’s what. They were now stuck with something they didn’t want, couldn’t get rid of, and had neither a way of modifying nor any other option to pursue.

At the time, being the insensitive lout that I was, I dismissed those folks’ feelings as nothing more than a severe case of Aged Poopism.

Of course, now that I’m an aged poop, I’m a lot more sympathetic about the plight of those poor souls. This was brought to the fore recently with my own bout of TD.

Semper ubi sub ubi

It didn’t involve anything religious in the traditional sense, but it is an issue I embrace with a devotion that’s almost religious in its intensity. It is long underwear.

If I’ve learned little else at this point, I’ve learned how to live in a cold climate. My approach is not merely to exist in it, but to live in it at my best, when the weather is at its worst. Like everything else, there’s no secret to it, and it can best be summed up by the Scandinavian expression, “There is no bad weather, only bad clothing.” And foremost among good clothing for bad weather is long underwear.

Generally, I don my long johns in mid- to late-October, and never take them off till early- to mid-March. And, no, NOT the same pair. As a matter of fact, my long john supply is the essence of this column.

Given how cold our winter has been so far, my long johns have seen constant yeoman’s service. And as a result, they’ve also seen frequent changings and washings. Since this means they’ll wear out faster than in a warm winter, I decided to replenish my stock. This seemed like the simplest of tasks, mostly because it always had been. I just diddy-bopped down to one of the local stores, copped several pairs, and then diddy-bopped home, secure in knowing that if a couple pairs of the old ones went to their just reward, I still had another bunch of good ones to do their sainted thing.

Now a quick note: There are long johns … and there are long johns. It wasn’t always like that. When I was but a wee poppet, the only differences between long johns were whether they were one or two piece, and how thick and what color they were. All of them were either 100% cotton, or a cotton/poly combo. There were woolen ones, but they were for the real outdoor hardcores like hunters, loggers and the like. The ones I got, and was determined to get, were the classic cotton/poly 60/40%. So imagine my surprise when, upon hitting up the stores I figured would have them, I struck out.

It used to be I could find them almost everywhere — in hardware stores, sporting goods stores, even drug stores and grocery stores. Now, after looking high, low, and in between, I realized those old cotton/poly long johns were as far in the past as the ten-cent cup of coffee and the shave-and-a-haircut two bits. Taking their place were all sorts of whiz-bang materials, promising wearing experiences divine … and costing a whole buttload more.

So what are the new materials? If I could pronounce them, I’d tell you. But I can’t. All I know is every mother’s son who’s summited K-2, finished the Iditarod or skied the Alps has done it whilst clad in these new miracle skivvies. And what that then means (at least to retailers) is everyone should be clad in them as well. So not only are the old long johns not in the stores, but the salespeople are delighted about it. I mean, why should they be forced to wait on some sad leftover from the Ice Age? I ran into that very salesperson on last week’s cotton/poly search.

Long gone long johns

He was pleasant enough when I first went in the store, a bright-eyed, smiling lad who simply oozed helpfulness.

“Can I help you?” he said.

“Yeah,” I said, “I’m looking for long john bottoms.”

“Yessir,” he said, “we’ve got the perfect selection over here.”

He walked me to where the long johns were displayed. I checked them out and, unsurprisingly, nary a one was old school. I knew it was be futile to ask, but I couldn’t resist.

“Do you have any of the cotton/poly ones?” I asked.

“Cotton/poly?” he said. “Are you serious?”

“Never been more so,” I said.

He shook his head, and barely suppressed a condescending smile.

“This is all our stock,” he said, not adding, “You miserable old fart,” but clearly thinking it.

I shrugged, having nothing to say. He, on the other hand, had a bunch to say, deciding perhaps to enlighten this Luddite.

“Ya know,” he said, “these are far superior to cotton.”

“Really?” I said.

“Sure,” he said. “They wick. That means they transfer moisture away from your body. Cotton doesn’t. It’s why we say, ‘Cotton kills. And it’s why no one wears cotton anymore.'”

Suddenly, I was on the horns of a dilemma. What I wanted to say was this: “I know they wick. I even know what wicking means. Matter of fact, I’d bet I knew what wicking meant before your father was in day care. And, yeah, wicking long johns are a big deal when you’re skiing, hiking, snowshoeing, rock climbing and doing all those extreme sports. But when the most extreme exercise you — or in this case, the most extreme exercise I get — is sitting on my duff, turning the pages of some crappy mystery, my skivs’ ability to wick is about as vital as a cleric in a cathouse.”

Then I would pause and add for snobbish emphasis, “Capeesh?”

But I didn’t say any of that.

Instead, I said, “OK, thanks anyway,” and left the store.

As far as I’m concerned, it’s all right to be a miserable old curmudgeon. But it’s not all right to act like one.

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