W Is cabin fever

contagious?

Could a boy

catch it by

standing outdoors

without a coat?

16 / OutdoorIllinois December 2006

When I was a boy I dreamedof catching cabin fever, forthe usual reasons. Beingsick meant skipping school,which meant, to reiterate,

not being in school.If cabin fever could be my ticket

home, I wanted to catch it.Although I later came to greatly value

education, I recall much of my studies inthe fourth grade were spent dreaming ofalternatives. Whatever cabin feverwas—and it wasn’t clear to me if cabinfever could legitimately be acquired in ahouse that wasn’t built of logs—I wasconvinced cabin fever would be theideal excused absence.Yet adults were vague about

specifics; so I had to eavesdrop.As far as I managed to piece together,

this thing called cabin fever was one ofthose medical conditions people acquired,then lost, between December and Febru-ary, apparently without lasting harm.I liked the idea of that.The best part, I assumed, was the

fact victims got to stay home fromschool for weeks at a time—weeks,mind you.

Reports of my condition would be alocal bombshell.“He’s got the cabin fever,” I imagined

concerned neighbors whispering as theycrunched past my house on snow-cov-ered sidewalks. “It’s that little McFarlandboy. They say he can’t go to school forweeks.”Inside, I would be reading comic

books, sipping sugary drinks throughone of those flexible straws. My class-mates would be memorizing regular andirregular verbs, reciting synonyms andantonyms under the glare of academicscrutiny.Once a week, a doctor would arrive at

the house, put his hand on my foreheadwhile also listening to my heart, then turnto my parents with a grave expression.

Story By Joe McFarland

I didn’t know much about this mysterious winter illness I’dheard adults describe—but it sure sounded promising.

In the marginsof my mathemat-ics assignmentsI calculated thehigh volume ofpresents andcards whichwould bebrought to myhouse. Thegood people ofmy community would sparenothing for the boy with cabin fever.I could spend the day opening cards,glancing at the encouraging and sup-portive words, then adding yet anothercrisp bill to the stack on my bed.There would be no homework. Ice

cream would be offered hourly. Expen-sive model trucks and bulldozers wouldfill my bedroom. For weeks, nothingrelated to effort would be expected ofthe boy with cabin fever.Total scholastic immunity would be

mine.So I began to dream of cabin fever in

early November, opening my collar at thebus stop as the chill of winter spreadacross Illinois. I kept company with runnynoses and unhealthy habits. My imagina-tion invented tragic scenes of theimpending neighborhood commotion.

ChildhoodMemoriesof CabinFever

ChildhoodMemoriesof CabinFever

(PhotocourtesytheScheuringfamily.)

couldn’t wait to catch this thing calledcabin fever. But I had a major problem:I had no idea how to catch cabin fever.The vulnerabilities were never specifiedby adults. Everybody always spoke ofthe illness in providential tones, as if thething were an inescapable doom, or anunlucky number that pops up randomlyin the darkest days of cold weatherand grips only chosen victims.Could I catch it myself? In Illi-

nois? I was determined.Maybe a dusting of snow down

the neck would do the trick. I madereckless snow angels in the deep-est drifts, buttons and zipperswildly unfastened. I was deter-mined to catch cabin fever. Myboldest theory was to remove the

plastic bags my mother would wraparound my socks before stuffing my feetinto winter boots. The bags, I suspect-ed, prevented the agents of cabin feverfrom permeating the socks and enteringthe bloodstream.My mother probably knew this, as did

all mothers everywhere. Cabin fever,like an invisible germ, probably attackswith stealth. I concluded it was a nation-al secret no child was ever told.Several winters passed and I was

unable to contract cabin fever.Along the way, I successfully

induced hundreds of runny nosesand I even threw up once withouttrying. I got something called themumps. But no cabin fever. Myclosest brush with extended relieffrom school was the day I woke upwith laryngitis—the real deal, justlike in the comic books. It wastremendous.One day later, it passed.“Here’s your lunch box,

kiddo,” my mother said on thethird day, two days after thelaryngitis came and went.My tragic childhood ended

eventually. I no longer dream

Long winter days are the perfect time to enjoy

the benefits of cabin fever.

In the end, cabin fever remains

a medical mystery best left to the imagination.

of cabin fever, having outgrown the per-fectly good desire to stay at home andread comic books every day. Yet I stillfeel cheated. The doctor with the auto-graphed football never showed up.Neighbors never sent cards. No money.I ended up, despite my best efforts,attending school and learning a greatdeal about prepositions, Dr. Jonas Salk,the Industrial Revolution and John Deere,the man who invented the self-cleaningsteel plow. I wrote a book report aboutthe life of Herbert Hoover.But cabin fever remains a medical

mystery. As each winter passes, I duti-fully head to work each day with my col-lar loosened and coat unbuttoned, evenin the coldest, most virulent wind. Delib-erately, I shun orange juice and thera-peutic lozenges—anything which mightdiscourage cabin fever infection.Yet I am luckless. Cabin fever still

eludes me.Therefore I’ve decided to advance to

my next medical hope, a different strainof seasonal illness known as springfever. I have been told by crediblesources it can be caught by merelywalking outdoors on a perfectly beauti-ful day in April, which is somethingI crave anyway, especially after a longwinter of sitting indoors, dreaming ofcabin fever.

“May I be frank with you?” the doctorwould ask before gathering the stetho-scope and pressing everything into hismedical bag. “It’ll be another 75 weeks.That is, if there’s going to be any chanceof recovery.“Rough water ahead. But he’ll make

it.”Then he’d pull my parents into the

corner of the bedroom.“It’s progressed into the follicles,” the

doctor would whisper to my parents,whose faces suddenly would turnashen. The doctor would offer my moth-er a sterile handkerchief.“Listen,” he would say suddenly, as if

the most critical point were ahead. “Donot let this boy go to school. Under anycircumstances.”My father would shake the doctor’s

hand bravely and reassure him therewould be no school.“That’s the most important thing

right now,” the doctor would say, thenstart to leave.“Oh.” He would stop himself at the

half-opened door. “I’ve got this auto-graphed football from the ChicagoBears. Mr. Halas wanted the boy tohave it. Everybody on the team wascrushed when they heard the news.”As winter progressed, I absolutely

(Photo

courtesytheH.J. and

Richard

Andrew

sfamily.)

December 2006 OutdoorIllinois / 17

(PhotocourtesytheB.H. Almstrum/LyliaAndrewsfamily.)