January 27, 1955, was a cold one. “A shivery mass of Arctic air blew down over the northeastern part of the country yesterday,” the Times reported, “tumbling temperatures to their lowest level this winter.” To make matters worse, a brisk wind swept down Fifth Avenue and across 50th Street, chasing these women and their headwear toward warmer, less exposed climes. I don't know whether they calculated the wind chill factor in those days, but the thermometer hit a low of 10 degrees Fahrenheit (less than -12 Celcius).
If I can’t be me listening,
may I be a eucalyptus,
one of many in a grove
(Is that too much to ask?) as I heard
when the first wind of winter blew in?
When I, too, may sing—
full-throated—a hallelujah chorus?
What luck, the happenstance—me,
the trees, the wind, the green song—
the wind carrying our shouts
through cathedral skies.
by Grace Hughes Chappell