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This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandchildren (who exist), and my great-grandchildren (who don't) — the Stickies — to haunt them after they become grups or I'm deleted.
Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, and/or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering
Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader
Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies (& Gentlereaders),
Winter is coming but the good news is it's been three weeks since each and every day included a minute or two of more daylight than the previous day.
The bad news is that with the Christmas and New Year's holidays behind us the only pending holiday that we have to distract us from another frigid winter here in Canada's deep South (Northern Ohio) is the Superbowl.
Easter won't be here till April the 12th and...
[Wait-wait-wait. The Super Bowl's not a holiday and winter started three weeks ago.]
Close enough for all intents and purposes, the Super Bowl I mean. If I'm elected king I'm going to issue an official proclamation that makes Super Bowl Monday an official holiday. America loves three day weekends.
And yes, winter did officially begin three weeks ago and with the exception of a couple of full-dress rehearsals, it's been unusually mild.
Anyone who's lived here long enough to understand why (and appreciate the sly joke) any discussion of the (mis)fortunes of the Cleveland Browns will invariably include one of the parties involved saying:
"Oh yeah? Wait till next year!
Has lived here long enough to regard the latest claim that economic revival,
locally speaking, is just around the corner with a jaundiced eye isn't putting the snow shovel back in the basement or reevaluating their choice of nat gas suppliers/contracts just yet.
Speaking of local humor, what are the four seasons of Northern Ohio?
- Almost winter
- Still winter
[Your kind of a glass half empty person, ain't ya Sparky?]
I suffer from seasonally affected disorder.
[You mean seasonal affective disorder?]
Nope. I mean I hate winter. Well, let me clarify that statement.
I hate winter when I'm living, even temporarily, anywhere that might result in my getting killed just trying to get around. Not just now and then, like in other areas of the US, but a solid three months or more of existential threat.
[Temporarily? May I remind you that you've been living in southern Canada, temporarily, for what, 34 years now?]
Hope springs eternal. Glass half full.
I'm not being pessimistic, nor am I depressed. I'm being realistic. I pride myself on my clear-eyed realism. Having been nearly killed as often as I have while wintering well north of the Mason-Dixon, hating/fearing winter is a rational response.
[Aw c'mon, killed? You sound like a wild-eyed exaggerator, not a clear-eyed logician. Can you cite any examples?]
How much time do you have?
[Just one, give me just one example of a time when winter almost killed you. I'll bet that...]
My personal favorite is the time I was driving to work one morning, slid off the road, and went through a gas station sideways between parallel rows of gas pumps.
[Well, I gotta admit that...]
No, wait, it's the time I found myself spinning in circles, rather like a carnival ride, across a frozen field and stopped just short of landing in an abandoned canal.
[Well, at least it was abandoned and you...]
Abandoned as in no longer used. It still contained a good four or five feet of water.
[Well, at least you didn't land in the water...]
This is true, and I only had to walk about two miles to get help and then pay someone to hook up a chain to my 1971 VW Super Beetle with the custom paint job and winch me across the frozen field so I could go home.
[What's the custom paint job got to do...]
Nothing, I just really liked that car.
[I don't suppose that...]
No, she was brutally murdered by a hooge Pontiac station wagon in 1977.
[I'm sorry for your loss.]
Thanks. It was in the wintertime.
Winter is coming to my rusty little corner of Flyoverland and just because we've been lucky so far means nothing:
Picture an enormous Monarch butterfly (street name Mothra) wintering in Malibu with his life partner, Maynard. He's standing on the deck of his beachfront condo and flapping his wings, trying to shake off a mild hangover.
He and Maynard hosted a party the night before and the "electric" nectar was flowing freely.
While most people are aware of the fact that a butterfly flapping its wings in Japan can affect the weather on the other side of the globe, most people are unaware of what causes a polar vortex to attack the Northern US.
You guessed it, butterflies wintering on the California coast.
Brrr! Is it cold in here or is it just me?
Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day
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