In the dark and wet of February in the PNW it is nice to remember warmth. That bone warmth of a hot August afternoon or the sun toasting the back of my eyelids. I think of this whenever I step into my new studio space and find it surprisingly warm from the electric heater that I have determined I should not feel guilty for leaving on to keep the space heated, ready for work at any time of day.
Back when I was carting my 3 year old daughter around to daycare and me to undergrad classes at University of WA I drove a boxy 4 door 1984 volvo wagon, a definite upgrade from my previous 1977 saab 2 door. She, the volvo, was a classic maroon color with worn leather seats, creaky doors and no shocks; all the trappings of a cozy Seattle Grunge lifestyle except that she had no functional heater. It didn’t work when I bought her, hence the attractive price, and I felt no priority to get it fixed as blankets from Goodwill were readily available and we happily used them to bundle up on our morning commute. Innocence is bliss when you don’t know that alternative, right?
Well, my husband at the time decided to surprise me with a Valentine’s day gift of getting the heater fixed. I was touched with such a thoughtful gift and, in turn decided, to surprise my daughter with a warm car the next morning on her way to daycare. She, buckled into her car seat and wrapped in her habitual blanket, was none the wiser when I quietly turned on the newly installed heater and cranked it. In moments warm air started to blow out of the vents and trailed its way to her knowledge in the back seat.
Now here was the problem; she had never known that a car could produce a heat of this sort. Every single heat source known to her was a sign of clear danger, an open fire or a hot grate of which insites parents to admonish wild warnings of danger and misgivings. When that hot air started to waft over us my sense of pleasure was her mortal sense of terror. She, trapped in her car seat, let out such a wail of distress as she was sure that the car was on FIRE and that we were going to explode into flames in any second. Screeching, with eyes as big as blue dinner plates, she howled the words FIRE and HOT repeatedly, fat baby tears rolling down her cheeks, struggling to get free of her surroundings. I do believe that she would have hurled herself out the window if she were to get free.
Needless to say, we arrived at daycare worn out and dismayed at the surprise of warmth on a cold February morning. Maybe we should appreciate the cold more often?
But this morning I know that I appreciated the unexpected warmth of my studio when I walked in, tea in hand, ready to get to work on the next piece.