Pedestrian View

The snowshoeing mentioned in my last entry was postponed by a day due to Monopoly. We’re approaching 48 hours now that our street hasn’t been plowed, so with no one going anywhere, we hunkered down over the familiar board last night. Actually, we couldn’t find our game, so we borrowed Abrahamson’s 1957 edition. Pretty sweet.

Our neighbor Lisa – also snowed in – came over for her first Monopoly game. At age 29, a Monoploy virgin. Her comment as she slowly worked her way toward bankruptcy was, “This is so much like real life!” Like real life, Kylie won mostly by making sure at every turn that I didn’t win. This stems from a long history of family games where I have shown no mercy to my children. The school of hard knocks teaches some painful lessons, some of which come back to bite the teacher.

I digress. I’m supposed to be writing about snowshoeing along Miller Creek.

This is what I was expecting – pristine stretches of drifted snow. I can no longer consider this “my woods,” though. At least one snowshoer and one back-country skiier beat me to it. You gotta be quick to snowshoe the virgin powder around here (second time with the v-word…what’s up with that?).
I started out with my trusty dog, Pepper, but the snow was too deep for the poor thing. She floundered for awhile, and then just sat there up to her chest and stared at me, so I turned around and brought her home.

As you can see, the other intruders kept mostly to the creek bottom.

The rabbits and the deer were also leaving a few tracks. The next photo shows where the deer have been following each other, plowing through. It must be tough for them in these conditions.

Mostly it was great to be out in the sun, the wind, and the dazzling white of the new snow. The only sounds were the wind, the soft shushing of my snowshoes, and the ambient sounds of the snowplows clearing the LSC parking lot.

Such is the urban wilderness. I left only my tracks, which by now have been joined by only a few others.

This is mostly for my Hawaiian readers.� Here’s the view from my living room looking�east yesterday.

Winds were gusting over 60 mph from the east (from the lake) and snow was falling 1-3 inches/hour.� The wind leaves some places completely bare, and right next door a 5 foot drift.�

My neighbor had nearly a six footer in his driveway.�

Check it out:

George and I had a bit of a snowblower rodeo.� There’s nothing like getting out there with 8 1/2�horses of Briggs and Stratton and tossing some snow around.� The sad part is that this – and the storm we had last week – were the first of the season, which is essentially over.� We’ve had a nearly brown winter.� I suppose we’ll have two more.� How lucky can we get?

To back track, here’s looking�north at the storm’s height:

It was a “snow event.”� Forget old fashioned terms like Blizzard or Show Storm.� No travel was advised, but Sherry had a hair appointment.� Naturally, we had to go, so we headed for Shear Katz in Fitgers by the lake.

While I was waiting, since everything was closed except Shear Katz (during blizzards, only the essentials:� grocery, liquor, and Shear Katz),�I took the opportunity to go out on Gitchi Gummi at the height of the storm.� Two weeks ago during a cold snap, the thing to do was skate the lake, which my wife and children happily did without me one cold day.� Anyway, I headed out – the wind driven snow sandblasting me – onto Superior below Fitgers.� I thought it was a little slushy, then – perilously far from shore with absolutely no one knowing my whereabouts -�I sank to my right knee.

It was time to return to the rocky shore quickly and not mention it to my wife.� Later at home, I confessed my stupidity to my family, only to be told that they’ve been warning against going onto the lake for a week now.� Who knew?

Back home, of course, the girls were home, warm and safe.� School was cancelled both Thursday and Friday.� Lucky us!

As I said earlier, I spent the whole morning with George running my snowblower, blowing out my driveway and�another neighbor’s (they’re retired, but Marilyne still runs a mean blower).� No one’s going anywhere because the roads aren’t plowed yet.� As soon as a plow comes through, we’ll have to blow again because the plow will just fill up our driveway.

My teenage daughters, however, showed that they still have imagination.� They built�show caves, and played cave monster.� Here’s Maia:

She’s the leader in snow event activities.� She strapped on snowpants and headed out first today.� Yesterday, she learned how to run the snowblower, too.� I thought she was having a great time (she did a great job), so I let her do the whole driveway.� Afterwards, it’s reported that she came in, stomping snow off, claiming, “I’m not doing that again.”

Later, she said, “Dad, when I ask to try something like that, I just want to go down and back once.”� I’m still learning a few parenting skills.

Maritha and Kylie are good soldiers, and once Maia led the way, they got into it.� Here they are:

In truth, they didn’t play snow monster, but their caves are�pretty cool.�

If you’re in Hawaii right now, you’re probably thinking that you’ve got it pretty good, and I’m not saying you don’t, but I’m going out snowshoeing in awhile here.�

I’m thinking I’m going to catch some pretty good waves down by the creek.�

At my semi-annual dental checkup last week, I put my hygenist to the test.� She and her kind have been harping about flossing for decades.� I heed the brow-beating each time, too.� Authority figures in flowery smocks make me termble.� I heed them for about a week; then my memory fades and my flossing goes down the tube.�

A year or so ago, she showed me a short video (comfortable seating) about Perry O’Dontle disease, and it was terrifying.� Perry was connected to a list of certified killers – heart disease, diabetes, athlete’s foot and others (who can remember them all).� He reminded me of Perry O’Parsons, the�crooning alter ego of Perry Smith (cold blooded killer of the Clutter family of Holcolm, Kansas in 1959 – see In Cold Blood below). The andedote to Perry?� Floss.�

So simple.

I vowed to floss.� I was determined.� I quit within a week.

This fall, however, I began to have some real hot and cold sensitivity.��A glass of water made me wince.� A spoonful of soup sent me through the ceiling.� I asked my daughter Maia to google “tooth sensitivity” one day, and 15 seconds later, she uttered, “It just talks about Perry O’Dontle…”� That’s all I heard.

I went downstairs and began flossing.

In truth, I’ve kept it up for 3 months, which brings me to my little hygenist test.� The temperature sensitivity had gone away, and I was pretty sure flossing was helping, but I wanted to see if she noticed, so I didn’t brag about flossing like one might expect when I sat down in the chair.� Sure enough, she passed.� After about�two minutes of poking around in my mouth with sharp and hissing instruments, she asked, “Have you been flossing?”

She’s pretty sharp, that one.� She gave me a gold star.� I have a new respect for both her and floss.�

Now my wife, who doesn’t floss, claims that the hygenist also congratulated her on her flossing.� She claims she just played along.� I may have to take her gold star since it wasn’t earned each night with a slipping and popping piece of string.� I also worry about her relationship with Perry O’Dontle.

My previous entry takes my daughter to task for having public convesations filled with private references.� I should be ashamed of myself.

I’m not, but thinking back, I was party to a few noteable inside jokes myself.� My cousin, Mark, and I were pretty close, and we thought we were pretty funny when we were together.� Many times, there were certain words that amused us, and we’d take them as our own and use them for all sorts of unintended purposes.� Zwieback is the one I remember.� It served as both a greeting and a sending, and it was a hard working adjective (“Zwieback Bells” at Christmas).� It seemed to have more uses than profanity, and even subbed for profanity.� Even today, when we talk to each other, invariably we greet each other with “Zweiback!”�

I also remember my friend Keith and I developing a code language to talk about female anatomy that was based on bicycle parts.� We went through a serious bicycling phase, so I guess it was natural to comment that I liked Jill’s…fill in the bike part.� I’m too chicken/politically correct to post a real example – every one that I think of sounds pretty crass now.

There you have it.��The inside jokes are�a phase, a mid range gear.� They’re all going to�grow into the tandem eventaully.

Zwieback!