Cold facts about colds and local history

For five years, we’ve pilgrimaged to Truckee with the SASBs (Stephanie Boone and family). Stephanie didn’t get deterred that on our first mountain trip, we totaled her SUV, nor that on the next four trips, it refused to snow, and so we took long walks instead of slaloming, which worked out well for me since I have never been on skis.

But this year there were honest-togoodness flakes on the ground. Actually, a little too much — several feet, and so we found ourselves indoors 90 percent of the time.

SASB dished out the Clue, Monopoly, Heads Up and Mystery Caramel games while I cooked Avengers waffles, bacon and hot cocoa. It was almost perfect except that Aidan had been incubating a death cold for three days before the trip, and he coughed every germ he could find into the teeny cabin.

I had been avoiding this. I made Aidan sit on Brian’s side of the car on the drive. At first, I denied that I was getting sick, walking outside, reciting poetry in the blizzard. On the six-hour chain-controls drive home, with the first of the sniffles, I got angry about stuffy noses. I hate taking Nyquil.

With the first backache I popped Airborne and garlic and hydrogen peroxide, bargaining with my immune system to back me rather than the virus.

But with the sureness of a zombie apocalypse, the cold first took Aidan, then Zane, then Brian. Alas, yesterday, back at work, the sneezing and the coughing began.

I went home, measured the low-grade fever and took the hated cold medicine. I slept for nine hours. When I woke up, I surrendered. No chicken soup could deter it, and I acquiesced to the next 10 days. I would survive, and in a fortnight my life would seem much better.

In the meantime, I grabbed what joy I could and as soon as we walked into the blue bungalow in the outer, outer, outer Excelsior, I insisted on the “Talling of the Boys.” For a decade, Aidan and Zane have stood with their back to the wall of the bathroom door, and Papa has marked their height with a blue laundry marker. For the record, Aidan came in at 4-foot-8 and Zane came in at 5-foot-4, a mere 2¾ inches shorter than his dear old dad. Zane’s comment: “I think we’ll need a bigger door.” A little ambition is good for the soul.

During my acceptance phase, I remember Nurse Vivian saying, “Feed a cold and starve a fever!” and so to please her eternal soul I baked pork chops and mashed potatoes and sneaked in scoops of Oreo ice cream. When I go back to Weight Watchers, I can blame it on my mother.

My head cold became a metaphor for politics. Head colds are unfair. Not one of my friends voted for a head cold. I don’t have to like it; I only need to survive for four years. I will resist with all my might, but when I finally give up, I will still find what joys I can in the new world order. And my resistance will get stronger.

Oh, yes, other joys: the Fisher-Paulson After Christmas Puzzle. Turns out that every one of my readers knew the original name for San Francisco and that most of the natives admitted that Irish coffee was not born here, but rather immigrated in its infancy.

Greg Peck explained that the slope of Filbert Street was 31.5 percent, not 31.5 degrees (the fact that I managed to graduate from college without taking one single math course may have factored in here). Marc Duste clarified that Freddie Mercury played not the Winterland Ballroom but the Winterland Arena, as charming as “a bomb shelter.”

There was debate about where you could get buried in San Francisco. Judy Scully Boyle pointed out that her father, who had served in the same war as Pop, was buried in the Presidio. Joseph F. Melanson claimed that you can get your ashes dispositioned at St. Dominic’s. I haven’t been able to verify this but if true, my mortal remains will spend eternity in the city’s only shrine to St. Jude.

The most fiercely argued question: “What foreign nation lies south of San Francisco?” Robert Cherney suggested Australia. Chris Hebert and Irene Takahashi’s husband insisted on Oman. Sheldon Bacchus and Eric Naftaly averred that it was Mauritius, and John Underhill said Iran. Mark Hett picked Russia, and even though Putin will seize a lot of territories in the next four years, I denied that.

The best answer came from Bob Nyden, who stated that there is no country south of San Francisco. After you reach the South Pole, you’re no longer going south. Everywhere else is North. But Canada, I still love you. Please annex us as soon as possible.

Tim Curley didn’t argue that Al Capone played the banjo, but asked if that was why he was imprisoned in Alcatraz. He was right! Research showed that Mama and Papa Capone had actually wanted young Alphonse Gabriel to play a woodwind, but he skipped out on his tenor saxophone lessons.

Clearly a case of Sax Evasion.

My head cold became a metaphor for politics.