Shoop, shoop, shoop. This guy jogged past me at a steady clip, breathing steady, smooth on his feet. I trudged like a turtle. Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop. I waved to him as he passed me heading south on a two way road devoid of traffic. It was just me and him, and the contrasts really couldn’t have been any clearer. He waved back and continued on his way. Approximately 10 minutes later he passed me again, going the opposite direction. This time I threw a few words his way. “I wish I had your stamina,” I said, and then he was gone again.

I continued trudging through the knee deep snow, head down, intent on my destination. Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop.

wp-1489532906540.jpgHonestly, I should have been driving, but I abandoned my car back in the village. It couldn’t make it up the mini-hill, despite the snow tires, despite the 4-wheel drive. It wasn’t for lack of trying, but I left it in the village because I didn’t trust that I wouldn’t run off the road if I continued, even if I did manage to make it up the mini-hill. So I began to walk. In my bright orange coat I knew I made a big enough target for possible approaching motorists, so I wasn’t too worried about getting run over. I began to walk.

Truth be told, the trip from the village to the house here is only about 2/3rds of a mile, but through knee deep snow, with constant snow still falling steadily from above, it might as well have been 10 miles. That jogger who passed me twice — I have no idea why he was out there, or how crazy he really is, but that man is my hero. Perhaps he was training for some kind of marathon, but in this weather, with these blizzard-like conditions, I wouldn’t have left the house if I didn’t have to work.

But yeah, back to the driving portion of the journey. I left work early after my wife called, upset that I was still there when the snow was coming down like this, while the Snowpocalypse was reaching epic heights without a plow in sight. So many businesses were closed, so many schools shuttered for the day, but at Target we soldier on. I didn’t want to be a soldier, but I got there before the storm began. Boots on the ground. Literal boots.

As the day wore on, though, the snow didn’t stop, the emergency vehicles were loud outside the doors, and the anxiety level of loved ones at home reached a fever pitch. So I left early, even though I almost never leave early, knowing that the journey would be a treacherous one, and wanting to start it before it turned the corner into impossible. I left nearly two hours early, and just in time. When I reached my car in the parking lot it was piled high with thick snow, not the fluffy, pretty kind, but the heavy wet stuff that causes accidents. I brushed it off and said a prayer that I would make it back here safely.


I’m not a fan of snow adventures. On my drive back there was no lack of adventure. I saw no fewer than 10 cars in various ditches along the way, often paired with tow trucks and police vehicles, but just as often on their own, having just gone down. Hazard lights were everywhere, but it was hard to see the lines beneath all the snow. Plows were nowhere to be seen — odd, but not too shocking. But with the sheer volume of snow I would have expected more of a presence from the large vehicles. Without them around I kept it under 20 miles an hour.

About a 3rd of the way back here my windshield wipers inexplicably stopped working, something that has never happened before. With the amount of snow from Snowmageddon coming down it quickly became difficult to see out of the front glass, so I improvised. I grabbed my snow brush from the passenger side footwell, slipped on one glove (Michael Jackson-style), opened my window, and began brushing the snow off while driving even more slowly. Cars passed me in waves, some of which ended up in the various ditches, but I soldiered on.

A trip that normally takes me 1/2 an hour stretched on to over 2 as one by one issues came up to impede my progress, but I never stopped for long. I toughed it out, freezing my arm off holding out that snow brush, my hazard lights on, waving others past like a traffic attendant, until I could go no further. Then I started walking. Because I was close enough to sense the finish line. Even if I couldn’t see it through the rapidly falling snow. That’s still coming down in layers.



Dear Journal: Some Like It Hot

Dear Journal,

It’s hot, but I’m not complaining. How could I? I’m the same guy who argued all winter that the chill was no issue. So heat is also no issue, right? I told myself that over and over again while I tossed and turned on the air bed all night, sweating profusely. I wasn’t hot. I swear I wasn’t. Who am I kidding? I miss the air conditioner.

One summer, when I was in day camp, probably around age 10 or so, we were doing basketball that year, and the final program was all about showcasing our basketball skills to our adoring families. This showcase was full of loud background music, and the song I remember the most from it was “Some Like It Hot,” by Power Station.

“Some like it hot, and some sweat when the heat is on. Some feel the heat, and decide they can’t go on.”

I remember hearing that song for the first time and thinking some people were just wusses. I mean, it’s just heat, right? But heat can be deadly. It can also be purifying, though, like sweating out all the bad toxins and coming up from the heat bath refreshed. I like that idea a lot better, especially when it gets so hot I think I’m going to melt like the Wicked Witch of the West.

Which reminds me… water would be nice right about now.


Clothesline Weather

blue_sky_and_green_grass-wideIt’s mud season here in upstate New York, that time when the snow has melted, leaving behind the water that it used to be. It seeps into the softening ground and makes it mushy, making boots a necessity when we’re out there in the marshy grass, the delicate balance of our ecosystem. But mud season means we can at least go outside now without a balaclava, scarf, mittens, the full wardrobe of winter clothing. Rain boots are definitely a good trade-off.

Mud season generally lasts for a solid two months around these parts, so we get used to wearing those boots, and when it rains that makes it last even longer. I guess other people call it spring, but flowers are few and far between here during mud season. When we find one it’s a small miracle, and days without rain during mud season remind me of why I love Ireland so much. But the rain makes their foliage beautifully green while this mud remains brown, and the grass follows suit, when we can see it anyway.

So these past three days have been like heaven. The sun has been out, and the rain has stayed away, so the ground is relatively springy and there is no mud in sight. It would feel like summer if the weather was just a bit warmer and there were clothesline-2more flowers in sight, but summer is just a couple weeks in July, and this “ain’t no July.” Instead, it’s just a strange time when a light jacket is preferable, but shorts aren’t all too uncommon. The neighbors don’t know what to make of it, so they drive with the top down and smile idiotically to themselves. I call it clothesline weather.

We have a clothesline in the backyard. It’s really a behemoth of precision, one line stretches back and forth between wooden posts to give the illusion of five separate lines. For the past three days I’ve been using it exclusively to dry our clothes, something that usually happens on off days when it’s not raining, so it’s been like a dream. I’ve stood out there with my colored plastic clothespins, staring up at the blue sky, hanging up one garment after another with gusto, and humming to myself some Lady GaGa tunes. I wonder how long this will last.

And I’ve probably just jinxed it. Damn.


Weather or Not

edd66c6af8ee485510dacdd6e01ee5d9I was getting proactive. I swear I was. The clothes had been washed, and instead of tossing them into the dryer I hiked all the way outside to put them on the line. You see, we have a clothesline out in the backyard. It consists of two sturdy posts with a snaking line of rope that stretches tautly between them, creating five (or six) parallel lines. That way I can hang multiple loads out at the same time, an ingenious idea that I did not come up with.

So I got the first load out, and the weather was fully cooperating, with each article of clothing blowing in the light breeze. The better to dry them by, my dear. The second load followed the first about 45 minutes later as the wind had picked up a wee bit in the interim. There were probably no less than 30 clothes hanging on the line by that point, and a third, smaller load came out of the washing machine an hour later.

The first load was mostly dry, but needed about 20 more minutes to assure they were truly dry, so I left them out. I gazed up at the sky after hanging the third load up, and it looked exceedingly clear, even though the wind had begun to whip itself into a frenzy in the late afternoon atmosphere. So, I headed back in.

Then the deluge began. No sooner had I sat down on the couch to watch some tennis when the skies opened up and water began streaming down as if from a faucet turned all the way to the left. I guess God was trying to get ready for a bath, but it took me a moment to register what was really going on. When I finally did I swore, jumped up from the couch, and tore outside. I probably would have given Usain Bolt a run for his money at that moment, skidding out the door into the downpour to rescue the clothes.

storm-clouds-2-134981298598261vguBy that time, of course, they were getting soaked, and so was I. A second after I walked out the door my glasses were completely useless, which meant my eyes were too. I was basically a blind man weaving madly around the clothesline grabbing clothes left and right, tossing them into the basket, and hustling them inside. I went out there six times in order to get all the clothes. By the time I came in after that sixth trip water was streaming off of my nose, coming off of my shoes, and my own clothing was soaking me to the skin.

And the whole time my eight-year old daughter was laughing at me. I don’t just mean small chuckles either. These were full belly laughs that shook her little body until I could have sworn she was having a seizure. I did not find it humorous. I ended up having to change all of my clothes, drying my hair, drying my hair again, and throwing the clothes that had been on the line in the dryer after all. To add insult to injury, Alexa never let me live it down, claiming she knew it was going to rain (but she somehow never shared this nugget of information with me).

It had finally started to die down as a source of mirth when, a couple of months later, I did it again. Yes, you heard right. I somehow managed to miss another sign of an impending storm, and ended up having to run out to rescue the clothes yet again. And if anything, I think it was raining even harder the second time. Maybe I’m just not meant to save energy by using the clothesline.


Should We Talk About the Weather?

th“Do you think it’s going to rain today?”
“Yeah, it definitely looks like rain.”

That’s a conversation I’ve had about a million times, and usually it’s with people who are associates. Not friends. You know why? Because with my friends we talk about real subjects, like love, war, and who we think is going to win American Idol this year. The weather is relatively boring unless something like a flood, a tornado, or an earthquake hits. Then we debate over who should have shown up with relief efforts and when. But only then.

Usually talk about the weather is just space filler, what you say when you don’t know what to say. Like on a first date, or on a break at work, or when stuck in an elevator with men wearing Brooks Brothers suits. It is the absolute last resort, and the problem is that everybody knows it. So when you adroitly bring up an impending rain storm be aware of the rolling eyes or what I call the “dead stare.” That’s when they’re nodding along but looking through you while you talk. It’s usually followed by “Sure,” no matter what it is you just said.

Do you blame them for spacing out? Talking about the weather is usually as dull as dishwater. But it accomplishes its purpose most of the time, to fill in the space. Continue reading “Should We Talk About the Weather?”

Snow Tired

snowstormPlease, allow me to vent for a moment. Now, I’m usually the guy who makes fun of others for getting all worked up over weather, so what happened today was a righteous comeuppance. It doesn’t mean I liked it, but it was definitely righteous. To truly explain I need to take you back to just over two years ago.

It was one of those rare times when I was alone at home, while my wife and kids were in Utica. We were supposed to meet at Applebees for lunch. It had been snowing steadily all morning, but it hadn’t really accumulated on the roads, so it lulled me into a false sense of security. And I was hungry for a Cowboy (Veggie) Burger.

Everything started off well, with my iPod plugged in and playing Guns ‘n Roses. The car handled well on the road, and I was well on my way… until I ran into the drifts. There’s a stretch of road where the winds are strong and they drive the snow over the road in drifts, but I was going along so well that I forgot the drifts were there. Then I was skidding, sliding across the opposite lane in what seemed like slow motion.

I ended up in a ditch that day, but I got lucky that it was shallow enough that the car didn’t turn all the way over, preferring instead to rest on its side. Several good samaritans came to my aid also, helping me out of the car and giving me someplace to rest while I waited for the tow truck, for the police, and for my wife. But since that day anytime the winds pick up in winter I get anxious. Continue reading “Snow Tired”

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