Whither the Cambridge Winter?

THOSE Californians were sure getting cocky.

Walking through the Yard last week on our way to registration, we saw them with their frisbees, their sandals, their Vuarnet sunglasses and their ugly tropical shorts. They had stopped whining about having to buy winter boots because they had traded them in for a month's supply of tanning lotion.

Most of them probably still thought snow is man-made and found only on Lake Tahoe ski slopes.

But no longer. With freezing rain and slush, winter finally announced its return from vacation. Although there has not been a blizzard yet, this frigid weather seems to be a good omen for the future.

SOME few of us had decided to come to Harvard because we wanted to experience a real winter. Instead of frolicking shirtless at some Southern school, I envisioned "Life at a Northeastern University." On Saturday, everyone would go out to the white, silent Yard and play snow football in the three-foot high drifts, while the music to Love Story murmured in the background. Then we would come inside to the warm, cozy dorm and drink Kahlua and cocoa in front of a fire.

"Boston Winter." The words conjured up magic for me during last year's long, hot Washington summer. Twenty below zero, 50 below with windchill. Foot upon foot of snow blanketing the ground weekly. Frozen lips, frozen hair, frozen contact lenses. Snow shovels. Icicles. Frozen water pipes.

Or so I had hoped. But this year, in keeping with the presidency of George Bush, even liberal Cambridge has had a kindler, gentler winter.

The Greenhouse Effect has got us. The freshman class may be the first in Harvard history not to see snow, just slush.

Instead of snow football, we yardlings must play mud football. Instead of warming our shivering bodies by winter fires, we have to turn off our heat. Instead of Kahlua and cocoa, we have diet Sprite.

WHILE past freshmen got to bundle up in layer after layer of sweaters and long johns, long, woolly scarves around their noses and eight pairs of socks, we wear shorts and T-shirts. We may never know the sensual pleasure of entering a warm room and having all the snow on our clothes melt and soak the carpet.

And what have we had instead of winter? The same boring weather, day after day. All of January was the same, 55 degrees and partly cloudy. So was the entire fall. For variation, it rains.

I admit it; it has actually snowed. You probably missed it; you were in the shower. The half-inch that fell stayed on the ground almost three whole hours before the rain washed it away.

Rumor has it that students at the University of Miami are lining up outside travel agencies to get their Fun-in-the-Sun packages--four days of 70 degree weather in New England, guaranteed spots on the steps of Memorial Church for tanning, free sailing and surfing on the Charles.

IN a way, I feel sorry for these poor, heat-crazed Western freshmen. The way this winter is going, they may never get the pleasure of falling through pristine snow and making snow angels. Instead, they will toss their frisbees at squirrels and say, "Hey, dudes, this weather, like, shreds. This is, like, what it's like in Southland--bitching. Rock!"

These Californians may never get to see the two most important urban phenomena, yellow snow and grey snow, or have the somewhat dubious honor of having local brats chuck iceballs at their head.

Maybe these "happening dudes" thought Harvard was the place to go for sun, surf and sand. But for me, if I had wanted to sunbathe in February, I would have gone to UCLA.