In the frozen north, one creature inspires awe: The mighty squirrel!

Okay, it’s official. Yes, I currently live in the MFT (Merciless Frozen Tundra) of Binghamton, New York, but this area also doubles as the unofficial Twilight Zone. Or I am just living through an episode of Twin Peaks? I am definitely playing a part in a Hitchcock film. You see, The Birds just visited. But let’s back up a second.

I’ve now lived here for more than one year. My first BT column about upstate NY detailed some of the strange happenings in Endicott, a suburb of Binghamton, where my husband and I first rented a house. For example, a teenager who inexplicably (naturally, I asked him why) felt the need to wrap himself in aluminum foil and walk around the neighborhood.

Well, despite the passing of a year, the locals continue to puzzle me. I have, however, de-riddled a few of the oddities. Certain mannerisms or actions are just regional nuances that have, over time, evolved into a type of social vocabulary. Kind of like colloquialisms, minus the charm.

Included in the MFT colloquialisms is the dropping of consonants when one speaks, so that the word “but,” for instance, becomes “buhhhh.” Another is the refusal by most of the populace to walk. Hence the persistent shuffling that afflicts all age groups, what I call the muftle. Jeremy has a friend who calls it the Tioga Shuffle, after nearby Tioga County. But our county’s inhabitants also are guilty of hunching forward while putting one foot in front of the other, in a manner fit for a scene from Michael Jackson’s Thriller video. But other characteristics remain a mystery, an enigma wrapped in an MFT.

Like the bird incident this morning. Out I go, dogs running before me, eager to embrace the freezing air. (Them, not me.) But wait. What’s that noise?

A lot of birds. Tons of them. Gaggles? But these aren’t geese. Some very large bird colony has descended upon the trees just beyond my yard, and their unified squawking merges into one giant grandpappy of a cacophony that penetrates the morning in an eerie manner usually reserved for horror movie soundtracks. Typical MFT.

The dogs and I stood transfixed. This was not something the terripoo Halo could pursue, not a mere squirrel to chase. No, this was bigger than man or canine. But what the hell was it? Answer: Who knows?

The bird incident is hardly alone among strange occurrences that make Binghamton an odd locale. In fact I wrote about another backyard avian oddity some months back, when starlings began to fall from the sky and splat! on our deck. Yet another reason to apply the now overused texting acronym to the MFT: WTF?

As fall bends toward winter and the days become shorter and the nights that much longer, little oddities morph into bigger oddities. And I’m not convinced that unearthing the “real” reason behind many of them is productive. Mystery fuels the MFT.

There are seasonal oddities. Some border on dangerous. As I (unbelievably) approach my second winter here, I know the telltale signs. MFTers think they are immune to the stubborn lack of sun, the relentless gray days, and the bitter snap of the brittle air. They are a hardy bunch, the MFTers, but even they are human, and thus they require Vitamin D to remain sane. If sanity meters existed, the “I am okay!” arrow would now be dipping dangerously low, correlating closely with the outside temperature. This usually starts in December and drags on into January, peaking in February. By then you’d better be packing more than snow tires if you are going to leave the house.

For the most part, MFTers are a civilized bunch, big on polite, rarely honking their horns, quick to apologize if they block your way in the canned vegetable aisle of the supermarket. This behavior is, of course, the complete opposite of Miami antics, where horn-honking is an art form and stepping in front of you leads to stepping on you, kicks to the groin, and bloody noses. But as the lifeless winter months drone on, they take their toll on MFTers, who begin to resemble an angry mob. Horns are honked, and just like the MFTer’s spirit, noses are broken.

December brings the start of the MFTers internal breaking point. Problem is, they rarely recognize it.

As a seasoned Miamian worth her ocean salt, I am trained to detect outward hostility -- spotting it and, hopefully, diffusing it before things get ugly. Of course, this gets somewhat muddled when yours truly is the extremely hostile one, as I was last late January. I had pulled into an empty parking lot in front of a diner. Someone emerged from the diner and told me not to park there. I argued with him and then, rather than simply driving away, I stared him down, along with his lunch companions, from behind my windshield. They resumed their diner bustle, exchanging perturbed looks and whispering among themselves until several booths of patrons were shooting me daggers. Ah well, February. To be expected, I tell you.

One bunch who not only survive but thrive in the MFT winters are the squirrels. These squirrels are the quarterbacks of the rodent world. Just as the squirrels in Miami reflect their surroundings, and thus are anorexic little things too busy coiffing their tails to be bothered with hunting and gathering or setting up camp, the MFT squirrels are a no-nonsense group, decked out in work boots rather than Louboutins, hunkering down to build nests in the tallest trees, which will then unnervingly (for me, not them) sway in the arctic wind all winter.

What is that about? I’m sure there is a scientific explanation. I could look it up now and edify all who read this, but to that I say, “Bah!” To do that would be to miss the point -- namely, that these Schwarzenegger rodents defy freezing temperatures, strong winds, hail, snow, and in my opinion, common sense because they damned well need to in order to survive. Come to think of it, MFT squirrels are my heroes. They are hardy, like the people up in these parts, but you can bet your ass they do not shuffle across the streets!

Yes, I am continually amazed and impressed by the squirrels here. If human MFTers are tough, the squirrels are downright bulletproof. They clearly are not only physically superior, but they excel spiritually as well. They seem to embrace their minimalist twiggy condos with quiet, existential satisfaction. Loneliness does not faze them. Like astronauts, they are one with the sky, at peace with atmospheric infinity. I want to climb up to their swaying nests and deliver squirt bottles filled with orange-flavored Tang.

On second thought, maybe I’ll wait till spring.

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