Catching a Chill
Last week I caught myself cataloging my folk beliefs and assessing my superstitions. After I shared my latest topic of interest with her, Sasha inquired, smiling as always, “Does living in Ukraine make you more superstitious?” I said, “No, not really. I’m always superstitious. Living here is making me think more about it, though.” She nodded, smiling.
I spoke with Kelli after I posted Superstition and she said, “After 21 years of marriage I’m still learning things about you.” I said, “22.” She said, “Really?” and we figured that out for a few seconds. She then asked, “Well, what are your superstitions?” and I said, “Well, when I used to play baseball I wouldn’t step on the chalk lines when I ran to the dugout or back out onto the field.” She said, “Ha.”
She asked whether Ukrainians have a lot of superstitions. I said, “Yeah, they do,” and I told her about whistling inside. I have been admonished a few times — maybe warned is a better description of the communication — for whistling in my office at work — tempting fate to deliver me bad luck and privation. An intriguing explanation is that demons speak by whistling. I recall that whistling in a confined space was also considered bad luck in Lithuania, our previous post. Kelli asked, “Did you put that one in the superstition story?” and I said, “No,” and she said, “That would’ve been interesting.” I share it now.
Another belief in Ukraine relates to exposure to cold or wet weather and brisk breezes. Many Ukrainians are wary of catching a chill by sitting under a fan or air conditioning vent or having air blow on them from an open car window or by wearing inadequate clothes on a chilly day. Forgoing a woolen cap, having your coat’s hood down, or walking around with an unbuttoned or unzipped jacket on a raw day are particularly egregious transgressions. Science says that’s not how we get sick but this superstitious epithet remains strong here and elsewhere.
I thought about catching a chill yesterday when I was running on a snowy day. It was minus something Celsius, which I no longer convert into Fahrenheit — not because I know but because I just bundle up snugly for my winter runs. As I ran I wondered if I would need to abort due to numerous icy patches I initially encountered. I shuffled over those gelid spots oh-so-carefully, Yak-Trax strapped on and doing their thing. I then found runnable sidewalks, pavers and cobblestones, plus some knee-high snowdrifts in the Desyatena Monastery Park that I chose to tackle. It was an easy run overall.
After about an hour and a half running, my head was feeling hot and stifled under the layers. I pulled down my hoodie, removed my cap, and rubbed my head, airing it out. I do this periodically during winter runs to let off heat, give my skull a quick scratch massage, and let my unruly hair free. I wear a mask while running so I was fiddling with the straps around my ears as I was pulling the cap back down over my ears. I struggled getting the woolen cap back on just right and had it off for quite a while as I tussled with the mask straps, cap, Merino neck gaiter, and hoodie combo.
At that moment, sweaty head exposed to the elements, I felt my body shiver and considered whether I had just caught a chill. Simultaneously, an older Ukrainian woman with rosy cheeks fiery from bitter winds blowing off the frozen river below, pointed right at me while conversing with another older woman. Perhaps she was telling her friend that I was surely going to a catch a chill.
I was out about 2½ hours yesterday, longer than my usual winter trots. I enjoyed the run immensely, endorphins flowing, traipsing through the park watching huge snowflakes swirl. Running through a foot of fresh snow is kinda like running on very soft sand, but with a bit of powdery resistance, for those who have not yet tried. I did not suffer from the cold and my legs and fitness felt just fine during the run.
Somehow I feel pretty good today, too. I will stretch more later. I stretch more often these days, several times a day during pandemic homebound life.
Run and think.
Stretch and think.
Think and create.
I remember that my Grandma Ruth spoke of the dangers of catching a chill, too. Ruth’s mother Ana — who we called Baba — was apparently born in Stanislav, now called Ivano-Frankivsk in western Ukraine. Baba, who I only knew briefly as my elderly great grandma, told her kids and grandkids, including my mother, that she came from Polish Russia. I didn’t realize that this city was now part of Ukraine until I arrived here and learned some Jewish Galician history, including the tragedies of the first two World Wars that occurred there.
On the other side, Olga Chigger, my dad’s grandmother, was born in Kamianets-Podilskyi, Ukraine, which appears on a family tree I drew while in seventh grade (that my mother saved and gave me last year) as Kamianets-Podilskyi, Russia. Olga’s surname means thicket, according to one of the language instructors on my staff. Whether Olga had Hungarian Gypsy blood, as her daughter my Grandma Fay told me, is family folklore. Perhaps we have Roma Gypsy blood in our mix, which would be pretty cool, I’d say.
In my mind I can tell when I get the chill: I experience a shiver. I try to fight it off with copious Vitamin C and zinc. It is rare, fortunately, but a few times the next day, alas, I have a cold. I like to point out to Kelli the moment when I think I catch a chill. This is superstition, I suppose, or is it foolishness? But the concept of catching a chill is understandable to me.
Once the airports reopened last summer in Kyiv after the three-month pandemic lockdown, I wanted the window open for improved airflow in my Uber on the way to the airport to visit Kelli in Rome but the driver did not want the window down. I put the window down and he put it back up. “Hmm,” I thought, “I am not linguistically prepared for this battle.” I figured that he thought that he might catch a chill from my window’s draft, even though I was sitting in the back on the passenger side. In my fledgling Ukrainian I tried in vain to explain that moving air is indicated for limiting virus transmission. I put the window back down anyway, much to his chagrin, I could tell.
When I pointed to my mask without speaking as I entered the taxi, the driver put on his mask reluctantly, which had been neatly covering his Adam’s apple. I surmised, therefore, that he was already perturbed with me even before the window breeze situation. I tipped him anyway. He was working and probably supporting his family. I simply couldn’t hold someone’s superstition against them, especially amidst a global pandemic.
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