I Am a Pilgrim

It’s time to turn back the clocks.

Pretend it’s the 16th Century and you’re a member of the separatist, Pilgrim Fathers who are salty with the Church of England. Determined to ditch Mother Britain and its Anglican ways, you and your posse strike out for the Netherlands. Only life there isn’t too rosy either: the Dutch are a thorn in your side.

What next? Get the row boat ready. It’s time to colonize.

Fortunately for you and your shipmates, the Mayflower is one heck of a vessel: your crew makes it to the new land intact. Unfortunately, two glaring details regarding your new home are instantly noticeable: 1) it’s colder than balls and 2) your brethren are falling like flies.

What next? Get the blankets ready. It’s time to freeze to death.

This last point is the crux of this entry. The Pilgrims crossed an ocean for want of a better life. They went to all that trouble and then, once here, they willingly took up residence as Popsicles.

Admittedly, “willingly” might be a slight exaggeration. But back in the 16th Century I’m sure there were rumors floating around Europe, if not eAlerts from weather.com, mentioning that Ferdinand’s grandchildren were enjoying another balmy winter in Spain (i.e. to the south).

With that meteorological factoid in mind, if you’re a Pilgrim at Plymouth Rock, why not hop back in the Mayflower and head farther down the shore? Or if the harshness of that first winter made leaving impossible -- and you were one of the 50% who survived -- wouldn’t you chalk New England winters up as “one and done” and try your luck elsewhere?

It reminds me of the old, Wendy’s commercials in which passersby are asked to choose between Burger A & Burger B: “would you rather have Burger A, a thin patty with reconstituted onions (i.e. death by hypothermia)....or Burger B, a big, juicy Wendy’s burger with your choice of toppings (i.e. life on a beach in the Carolinas with little umbrella drinks).”

Apparently, for the Pilgrims, it was a no-brainer.

Think about it. If the Pilgrims and other early settlers would have moseyed farther south, the eastern seaboard as we know it might be located in the Carolinas.

The Empire State building might be in Myrtle Beach. The Boston Celtics might be the Charleston Cadets. That little civil war of ours might have been inverted, with the south fighting for Emancipation. And I might be employed in New York City, North Carolina, where I’d be playing golf this winter instead of living through Day 87 of watching paint dry in Chicago.

In summary, the Pilgrims are to blame for my winter; perhaps the Anglican Church as well for causing the original rift. Wiser colonists might have sent their ships farther south, but "we" never got that chance. The migration to New England had already begun.

Granted, over the last 400 years a few Americans have taken matters into their own hands -- refusing to accept winter as a necessary season. Last time I checked about 1/9 of the country lived in California.

Unfortunately, I’m not one of them.

Nope. I endure five months of winter annually: whittling away life one indoor day at a time. Sure, come summer I’ll be sitting at Wrigley field marmalading Chicago like there’s no tomorrow. But right now I live longingly for temperatures in the 30s. If the thermometer every hits 40 degrees, SPF is mandatory.

And that makes me a moron. Same as the Pilgrims.

We are one in the same.