Snow Warriors

This is written in honor (and understanding) of the hard work and sacrifices made by all those who put their lives on hold every time there is winter weather in our forecast.

Anyone who has worked third shift, excruciatingly long hours, or a winter employed in the glam job of pushing snow will commiserate and understand that this, while perhaps amusing, is painfully near the truth.


January Snow-Event #21

A call to arms! - You just finished your regular 8-hour shift when you get the call to report for snow-duty. You are swept up in the excitement of the mass exodus of personnel and machines leaving the salt barn. You look at the sky a lot.

Hour 2 – Work is well underway. You are convinced that the motorists you’re dodging are very appreciative of your kind attention to their needs. There’s a lot of radio chatter about how the weather isn’t too bad and will probably pass soon.

Hour 4 – Third equipment breakdown. The weather is winning, but you continue to fight the good fight. You’re gloves smell like diesel fuel.

Hour 6 – To stay alert, you start to calculate overtime pay. You notice that you’re cursing more than usual.

Hour 8 – You’ve been talking to yourself for awhile now – you tell yourself to stop. The theme song from The Price is Right begins to play interminably in your mind.

Hour 10 – Whatever is decaying under the seat of the truck starts to smell good. You look longingly as you pass a closed Taco Bell before reaching an arm under the seat.

Hour 12 – You wonder if your brother-in-law’s offer to join him in his Port-O-Potty business is still open. You scrape both shins while climbing into the Bobcat to load your truck with salt.

Hour 14 – Your speech is becoming slurred and you have sudden, explosive episodes of uncontrolled laughter.

Hour 16 – Communications have come to a standstill. You make a mental note to stop rubbing your eyes and to call your doctor about whether calcium chloride causes permanent damage.

Hour 18 – You slam on your brakes when you see Bigfoot at the edge of the road... or was it a deer? You’re not sure because when you come to a stop, nothing is there.

Hour 20 – You no longer know what day it is. You search for what’s stinking up the truck before realizing it’s you.

Hour 22 – You encounter another salt-truck driver and you both pull up to have a word. You stare at each other blankly before moving on without saying anything.

Hour 24 – Involuntary muscle spasms rack your body. You think you may be losing control of your bladder and your hair hurts.

Hour 26 – You are jolted out of a semi-conscious state by the squawking of your dispatcher’s voice over the radio. You can remember nothing of the last two hours – but it looks like you got a lot done… this is good.

Hour 28 – You pull a fallen member of the salt-barn crew from the snow. He was face-down, but as near as you can tell he was only unconscious for about twenty minutes. He warms up in the truck but is too tired to remove his gloves and inspect for frostbite. Besides, he’s concerned that a couple fingers may come off with the gloves.

Hour 30 – You are experiencing symptoms of organ failure. The call comes to return to the shop, wash and fuel your truck, repair your equipment and fill out your time sheet - this should not take more than three hours. You ask for driving directions to your home.

Finally! – You’re home, showered and in bed for some much deserved sleep. The phone rings, “We need you to come back in. There’s drifting, and we need to plow before the morning commute gets underway.”

You’re blind in one eye, have oozing wounds on both shins, and have lost the ability to speak – these are not excuses to shirk your responsibility.

You cheerfully report for duty – and I thank you!

The Idle One

He whose hands are pocket-sewn
I wish him all the best,
For if he weren’t so handicapped
He’d work with all us rest.

He casts about with wary eye
And never misses chance,
To duck and dodge at just the time
That suits his scheme the best.

He toils in his own way I s’pose
Though never breaks a sweat,
While trying hard to look the part
Of a regular hard-work vet.

He jowls well with the bosses
It’s all part of his plan,
To lull them into thinking
That he’s a go-get man.

He’s daily at your workplace
We all have one I guess,
He’s good at doing nothing
In fact, I’d say he’s best.

And if one day you ask him why
His idleness is dear,
He’ll present the memo from the boss
“I’m Employee of the Year!”

But one day he’ll get busted
Though perhaps it’s not to be,
‘Cause that big job that just opened up
They gave to him not me!

It's almost Iowa-cold!

This week, temperatures reached forty-below in my state of origin, Iowa. My sister’s daughter, Jennie, incessantly complains about the Iowa-cold but stubbornly refuses to take any of the usual precautions against cold, like wearing socks.

Dear Crystal,

As you know, the brutal winters were one of the reasons I left Iowa. That, and the fact that I had done everything there was to do there… twice!

Hasn't Jennie heard about what we went through as kids on the farm?

Rising at 4 every morning, we would find no fire in the woodstove, frost on the back of the dog and the electricity frozen in the wires.

Marty was usually the first up. He hated shoveling the path through those five-foot snowdrifts to the outhouse, but somebody had to do it, and the first one out got to wear the good boots that day.

I can still remember seeing you and Mom struggling to get the fire started in the stove, as Dad and we three boys headed out to milk the pigs.

Off we would go, tied together with a length of rope so none of us would get lost in the snow-stormy darkness, only to find that half the pigs had gotten out of the pen and the rest were frozen to the ground.

Marty and I would strike out to round up the scattered hogs, while Jeff and Dad would begin the process of chipping out the frozen ones.

Lucky for us, Grandpa had shared a trick for gathering loose hogs during winter: Grandpa told us to start in November by letting the hogs lick honey off an unused metal fence post. Before long, they would see that post and come running for the treat.

In winter the honey was frozen solid – we couldn’t use it. But the hogs didn’t know that and as soon as they touched their tongues to the cold metal… we had them.

Leading several hogs back to the barn stuck on a single fence post wasn’t easy, but weather conditions helped - we just slid them over the snow and ice.

We couldn't even enjoy a taste of warm milk while we worked. I still shiver when I hear someone jingling loose change—the sound reminds me of milk hitting the bottom of those cold metal pails… frozen in mid-squirt.

As soon as we were done with milking it was straight out to wait for the bus. With temperatures at -40 to -50 degrees Fahrenheit (there was no talk of “wind chill” back then), we would walk the quarter mile to the end of the driveway and wait for the bus in a small cavity we had hollowed out of a snow bank.

We anxiously watched for the bus because missing it meant walking to school and certain frostbite… or worse.

I still mourn the loss of my friends who missed the bus. We were comforted by the adults who told us it was a peaceful way to go.

Jenny thinks she's cold?

I could go on and on, but the memories are too painful.

Well, enough of all that. Write when you can. By the way, I'll be returning for a visit this year—look for me sometime in the summer.

Carl

Save the Sea Kittens!

Advertising Jingle: Ask any mermaid you happen to see. What’s the best kitten? Kitten of the Sea!


I thought I would die! I had just taken a sip of coffee, when PETA’s latest act of insanity appeared on my computer’s monitor. I was seized by the uproarious absurdity, and nearly drowned as I sucked coffee into my lungs. Luckily, the coffee promptly exited my nose when I fell from my chair, racked with spasms of hoarse laughter.

It seems PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) has decided to re-brand fish as “Sea Kittens”... FISH!

Throughout their Save the Sea Kittens website, you’ll find information on threats to the welfare of these cute and cuddly creatures. There’s even a prepared email that you can forward to the director of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, to give him a good scolding. The email includes a helpful quote from a scientific advisor to the British government (impressive).

At Save the Sea Kittens, you can create your own animated Sea Kitten from a choice of trout, salmon, tuna or flounder. (I’m not sure why catfish aren’t offered as an option) While creating your Sea Kitten the website plays eerie music that is no doubt filled with subliminal messages about how you should despise your Grandpa – a barbaric human for his regular assault on the pain receptors in the mouths of fish.

The website also has a library of Sea Kitten Stories – tales you can read to the little ones as they snuggle with their pet Sea Kitten at bedtime. Of course, things won’t be so cozy in the morning. It gives new meaning to the phrase, “Sleep with the fishes.” It’s a good thing now!

In one of these stories we have Tony the Trout – litter trained in two months (litter trained?) and honors graduate with a double major. Tony is caught (no doubt by your mean, mean, Grandpa) and fed to a child whose mercury poisoned mind is wasted at an early age. Message: Just say No to Trout.

The most disturbing of the four stories is Sally and the Land Kittens. This frightening tale begins with Sea Kittens chasing balls of yarn (under water!) and goes on to tell how Sally goes insane and plots revenge against the much-better-off Land Kittens. The story is accompanied by artwork showing a Land Kitten that has been baked into a soufflé. (I ask you – is this ethical treatment?)

PETA even has a Fish Empathy Quilt – no doubt destined to be displayed at locations across the country, where people will slowly walk past the quilt, weeping silently for the plight of filleted flounders.

You can purchase Save the Sea Kitten merchandise, too! There’s T-shirts, buttons, totes and mugs. I’ve got to have one of the mugs – it’ll be great to start each day with a mug of coffee and a good laugh. I wish they offered a large glass tumbler – it would make an attractive and ornamental home for my goldfish, Ricochet.

PETA has taken their lunacy to new heights. Fish are not lap pets. They’re scaly... slimy... and when prepared correctly... lunchy. Young fish are psychologically preconditioned for their fate – that’s why we call them fry. As a matter of fact, that’s exactly how I like my Sea Kittens – fried.

Next time you’re feeling down and need a good laugh, I urge you to visit the Save the Sea Kitten website at: http://www.peta.org/sea_kittens/index.asp

While there, check out “Sea Kitten Facts”. You may want to take these “facts” with a grain of salt… or a shot of salt water. Strike that! It’s best not to consume beverages when you visit this website – you could drown and end up “Sleeping with the Sea Kittens.”

Mount Golden Comet

When my wife and I noticed that “Large” eggs were apparently being measured on the Bantam-scale, we decided we could do better.

We ordered Golden Comet layers from the feed mill, and soon received the call, “Your chicks are here. Come up and get ‘em!”

We brought fifteen chicks home to a cozy bed of fresh straw, in a varmint resistant hen-pen. By week 16 the girls were laying about forty eggs a week!

My wife, youngest son, and I, attempted to consume eggs on pace with production. We fried, boiled, scrambled, poached, pickled, coddled, baked, broiled, and deviled. We sliced, diced, mashed, and blended. We tried egg-soup, and omelet recipes from every region of the world. After awhile, it became too much for us…. we were egged-out.

Our older son was no help at all. From the moment he witnessed the laying of an egg first hand, he became ova-intolerant. He hasn’t eaten an egg since.

Eventually, we were fortunate enough to find customers to buy our excess inventory and relieve us of the burden of an all-egg diet.

Another problem we encountered, with our egg-operation, came in the form of an indignity my wife suffered some weeks back.

You see, I keep a clean chicken pen - as a result, our compost pile has grown to massive proportions. I had taken the pitchfork out to turn it one day, and left it piled high.

Actually, I had challenged myself in this mounding of the pile, and I was proud of the result. It was a regular mountain of compost. While I worked, I had visions of selling lift tickets and hot chocolate as people came from all around to ski and snowboard. I would call it Mount Golden Comet, in honor of the girls - after all, they did most of the work.

A few days later my wife started a gardening project and rolled the wheelbarrow to the compost pile to get some “good dirt.” I saw her there, and paused to note that the pile had settled into a bit of a tilt.

I continued to watch as she stuck her shovel into the pile, which gave a little jiggle, then started to topple. I tried to help - I yelled, “AVALANCHE!”

This didn’t help at all. She turned and gave me a strange look before turning back to see the pile sliding her way. She dropped the shovel and ran.

She almost made it, too! She had cleared the edge of the wheelbarrow when the pile caught her… she was buried from the waist down in chicken-based plant food. The wheelbarrow caught part of the load, which was the only thing that kept her from being buried alive.

I ran to pull her out but didn’t say a word... break a smile... enjoy a moment of silent, convulsive laughter... or let slip with a chuckle or guffaw. After 20 years of marriage, I've found it best to get a little time between her and an event before cracking a joke.

I extracted her and soberly skulked away in silence.

We still have fifteen chickens – and three of us have reacquired a taste for eggs. The compost pile is still there too… though maintained at a much lower altitude.

Pop-Tart Diet

So... you’ve resolved to lose weight. Me too!

For me, the decision came when I realized that buttoning the waistband of my pants had become a matter of timing: Breath out - stand on tiptoes - lean forward - kick left leg… button.

Sometimes it takes a couple tries.

I have a lot of experience in the weight-loss-resolution. A few years back, I instituted a regimen of one 800-calorie meal every 24 hours. I made it four days.

Apparently, I passed out when we were shopping at Sears. I dreamed I was eating bagels. When I came-to, I was gnawing on the wheel of our shopping cart. My wife tried to ease her embarrassment by telling everyone I was teething.

I bought a book on dieting once. Dieting for Tubbies… or something like that. I still have the book – it’s shimming up the short leg of the workbench in the barn.

More recently, I tried the fodder from a health-food store. I purchased several of their earth-friendly, reusable, cloth grocery sacks, to lug my treasure home. It was literally a treasure – I considered taking a second mortgage to afford this fiber-me-thin diet.

I had representatives of every color in the organic-produce palette. I bought farm-grown kelp and fifteen pounds of flax seed. Three bottles of cactus juice went in the refrigerator, right next to the string-tofu.

After several days, and in order to save myself from starving, I ate the cloth sacks. I made them into a stew. I was desperate for something filling - anything but health-food… I’ll take my chances.

Then there was the incident when my wife and I went on a strict diet together.

When we bought groceries, she picked up a box of Pop-Tarts. I thought, “This must be some sick way of testing my will power. I’ll show her! No Problem!”

That night, I didn’t even open my eyes when I got up and beat a direct path to that box of Pop-Tarts. She had hidden them, but it didn’t matter. The box was transmitting a homing signal and I locked on like a cruise missile.

I grabbed the box, and opened it by slipping a knife into the cardboard flap at the bottom. I snatched a packet of two tarts, ate them, resealed the box with a dab of real-fruit-filling, and placed it back in the vault.

The next morning, my wife opened the box-top to warm a breakfast treat for the boys, and was incensed to find that we had been shorted by the manufacturer. She charged back to the grocery store demanding a replacement box.

When I learned of this breakfast-time drama, I shamefully confessed my crime. She made me return to the store and apologize. The lady at the store understood - she gave me a box of Pop-Tarts for my honesty.

I didn’t tell my wife about my good fortune. Instead, I enjoyed a tart as I drove home, then stashed the box behind the seat of my pickup… just in case.

I’m going shopping later today – pants are on my list of things to buy. I’m thinking something with elastic in the waistband, probably.

I’ll likely have a couple Pop-Tarts on my drive to the store - only one on the trip home, though. After all... I'm on a diet.