Artwork by Micheal DiMilo
By Geoff Carter
We found a charming handmade invitation in our mailbox last Saturday morning inviting us to a Weenie Roast at one of our neighbor’s homes that evening. Despite the forecast for temperatures in the teens, we were excited to get out and do some socializing—any socializing. So, we bundled up, walked two houses over, and spent the next three hours standing outside in the cold, eating, drinking, talking, and getting better acquainted with new neighbors.
Our hosts had a big blaze going in their firepit, were roasting wieners and brats—and smores—on sticks and had also brewed up some magnificently aromatic mulled wine. We warmed our hands at the fire, talked, and got reacquainted with each other. The conversations ranged from movies to the theater to politics to ice-skating and to the neighborhood. It was a ton of fun.
After a few hours, when my feet started feeling like two frozen slabs and my fingers seemed as if they were turning into mini-popsicles, we decided to go home. On the way, I thought about how long it had been since I had actually spent any real time outside in the cold. When I was a kid, we’d go sledding or ice-skating or would build snow forts or have snowball fights for hours on end, but that was decades ago. In college, I remember hanging out with friends outside of our dorm and drinking ice-cold beers on a frosty night, or, in later years, ice-fishing with my father-in-law, but I had forgotten how exhilarating it was spending time in the cold—and how much it takes out of you. We were wiped out when we got back.
Our hostess said that she had thrown the party because she had been wanting to have a get-together for some time, but that with the recent Omicron surge, she’d been leery about large gatherings, which was why we were enjoying the great outdoors. And even though my wife and I have been able to get out a little, seeing the occasional movie or visiting with family, uninhibited social interaction is still (for those of us who still believe in science and medicine) a risky endeavor.
I think a lot of other people are feeling the same way. We’re all sick and tired of cabin fever and the winter blues and have had more than enough of the interminable Covid variants. We want to get out and see people; we need it. I’ve thought about having a few friends over for cocktails, but a large-scale event is still out of the question. Unless of course (like the Weenie Roast), the party would be outside, where the risk of infection is lower—even if it’s winter, because hardy Wisconsinites don’t mind hanging out if it’s a little cold—especially if it means spending time with friends.
My immediate family, the extended family, and most of our friends are vaccinated and boosted. By nearly every medical and epidemiological metric, we’re safe. Catching Omicron or the latest variant is still a possibility, but the effects are much less severe for those who have taken the sensible precautions. The odds are that even if we caught Covid, we’d be fine. Yet there is still a reluctance to socialize because of our concern for others.
Some citizens never stopped or even mitigated their social activities, nonchalantly attending super-spreader events like political rallies, concerts, or sporting events. Many consider precautions prescribed by the CDC (like masks, vaccinations, and social distancing) as not only useless but as infringements on their freedoms. They still think so even though infection and death rates among the unvaccinated are on the rise. In fact, it seems as if the major casualties of this latest surge are among the unvaccinated, yet the naysayers still refuse to acknowledge the risk.
The Weenie Roast, however, was an event that demonstrated a high regard for not only the attendees, but the people with whom they live and work with. The event was held outside to mitigate the spread of virus. (I’m not sure, but I don’t imagine any virus would have survived long in that cold.) It was a reason to get out and to meet people, to try something different, and to affirm the solidarity of the neighborhood. And it was fun. For once, we didn’t shave to sit in front of the television and spend a half-hour trying to figure out what to watch. We got to see kids running around, hear some bad (really bad) jokes, and exchange the latest gossip.
It was cold outside, but it was one of the most heartwarming events I’d been to in a long time. The only reason that we were standing around on a cold winter night was because we cared enough about each other to keep each other safe. Standing around the firepit, warming our feet and hands while seeing the ring of smiling faces wreathed in clouds of our breath (dead Covid cells?) was testimony to our regard for each other—and to common human decency.
Was it worth freezing our toes and fingers to meet with our friends and neighbors—and eat smores and weenies? You bet it was. It meant we were keeping each other safe and sane. It meant we were being smart about Covid, and thereby enabling each other to visit family and friends without fear of infecting them. By keeping ourselves safe, we were keeping them safe. But we were also able to help friends and neighbors get out, be friendly, take care of each other, and—most importantly—let ourselves be taken care of, too.