The Classic Wisconsin Spring Break

Spring break in Wisconsin starts with a spirited round of "When you wanna leave?" Departure times and travel arrangements create anxiety for all vacationers, but up north it's worse, because there's always some sort of weather coming. In late March, the forecast probably contains snow, which makes for an extra-exciting "When you wanna leave?" match. Will we be driving into the storm? When's it supposed to start? Is it all snow? Sleet? Where's the rain/snow line? Is there anything for us to do if we show up six hours early?

"When you wanna leave?" is so much fun, relatives may call to participate.

"Hey," they'll say, "when you thinking about leaving?"

"If we get out of here by noon, we should be fine."

"I don't know," they'll say. "I just saw an updated forecast. I'd shoot for ten or eleven, if I were you."

"You think?"

"Better safe than sorry."

A good number of people lose their games of "When you wanna leave?" and stay home. They shovel, and maybe take their kids to a movie. Which is fine. The important part is having the time off. They don't have to go somewhere to have a nice time. Those who win get on the highway, enter the snowstorm, and wish they had left earlier.

Spring break in Wisconsin would lead most to assume that the "break" takes place during "spring," which would allow Wisconsin spring breakers to get outside and enjoy the fresh sun. Curiously, "spring break" occurs while it is still "winter," so instead of spending time outside and finding some sort of kinship with all of our beach-going vacationing brethren to the south, we all pack into giant hotels and waterparks and arcades and movie theaters.

But don't worry, it's not sad and pathetic at all, because many of these places have fake palm trees and tropical themes that are nearly identical to relaxing somewhere close to the equator. Ancient Mayan culture or an African safari as interpreted by a Wisconsin Dells hotel feels pretty darn authentic, especially if we pound enough beers from the swim-up bar. Ten or twelve Miller Lites and that jungle panther might as well be hunting us for real. Back to the lazy river; he can't get us there.

Spring break in Wisconsin may seem like some sort of cultural joke, like the Griswolds meet Fargo, but we genuinely enjoy it. Even though we don't get to sample the fresh fish and fresh fruit they have down in the tropics, we go out to eat a lot and order fancier versions of the heavy meats and fried foods we order when we go out to eat back home. And every decent Wisconsin waterpark hotel has a place that sells fudge. Hotel cable TV is hundreds of times more fascinating than home cable TV. If Wisconsin has an obesity problem, on full display in countless dad-guts and two-pieces that fit way better last August, we can't imagine why.

But we do take the opportunity to cut loose, let it all hang out, have a wild time. Kids love hotels no matter what the weather's doing outside. Parents try the water slides, too. And if the family ventures out of the hotel to an indoor go-kart track or a trampoline park, there's no limit to how crazy things can get.

Spring break in Wisconsin ends the same as all spring breaks do. The kids are overtired, mom and dad are crabby, everyone smells bad, but at least Wisconsin spring breakers only face a couple hours on I-90/94, instead of airports and extended layovers.

No matter how the stay went, no matter if we opted for Tuesday through Thursday instead of Friday through Sunday, no matter if we spent way more money than we wanted to, or way less, no matter how sore the adults are from overdoing it in the wave pool, no matter how scraped up the kids are from falling because they wouldn't stop running, no matter what we forgot in the hotel room, no matter if we liked this year's hotel better than the one last year, no matter how many valuable family memories we created, we always talk about the same thing on the ride home. Next year, we should go to Florida. We could get a group of friends together, rent a place on the beach. That would be amazing. The Dells was fun. But Florida...

We'll see.

What I Would Have Lost If My Computer Had Actually Died Last Week

My wife handed me my laptop. I opened the screen, and the backlight came on, but nothing else. I restarted the device, then again, then again. I held all the combinations of buttons the internet recommended, and held my breath, and repeated the mantra of all those desperate for their electronics to spring back to life, as if the little bastards were playing some awful cruel, joke.

"Please work this time, please work this time, please work this time..."

It didn't work. 

I took the computer to the technicians on Monday morning, and the guy there assured me everything would be fine. My data was safe, he was pretty sure he knew what the problem was. There was a chance it would be expensive, but it would probably be cheap and fast. Just be patient. He'd call by the end of the day, or maybe Tuesday. Wednesday at the latest.

It sounds terrible, I know it does, but it was almost like waiting for a loved one in surgery. I'm not good at backing up, and I've given that machine management responsibilities for my memories, and my creativity, and my entertainment. That's not nothing. That's not meaningless. It's certainly not life-or-death lung surgery, but I definitely felt more anxiety than my wife's wisdom tooth extraction. And what worried me most was what I would lose that couldn't be re-found, or re-constructed. What worried me most were the items sitting deep in those file folders that I had forgotten, documents and photos and files that I would remember years from now, when it would be far too late to recover.

For that reason, I am documenting the five things that I would have missed the most, had they been lost forever.

1.

This is a picture of my two-year-old daughter waking up from a nap. I snuck into her room to take pictures of her with my new old timey photo app on my phone. I wasn't quiet enough, and I woke her up. This is nostalgia, a lump-in-the-throat memory. It would have been gone.

2.

This is my favorite song ever, or at least a crappy version of it. This band (Here, Here) doesn't exist anymore. The song (Poor Sailor) is no longer available on iTunes, or anywhere else that I can find. I feel bad for these people, that they didn't find the lasting musical success I assume they wanted. But every time I listen to it, maybe that counts as a musical legacy. That would have ended.

3. 

In college, I picked a creative writing minor because it seemed like the path of least resistance. It sounded easy. Pursuing writing in any formal, professional capacity never crossed my mind. But now that I'm writing manuscripts and trying to sell short stories and taking a whole-hearted crack at it, those early writings now mean something. This is a poem I wrote in an intro to creative writing class. It's bad, but I would have missed it.

4.

The routines of my life have almost always contained a computer, and I am perhaps the first generation for whom this is true. I've lost much already, to obsolete floppy disks and upgraded machines. But a few months ago I found a way to play beloved game from my childhood, Indiana Jones and the Fate of Atlantis. All that game progress, for the second time in my life, would have evaporated.




5.

My wife, with laptop. You'll see this a lot at our house.

A computer is a thing, a tool, but that does not excuse it from human affection. For some reason, though, we are not ready to accept our fondness for our devices. When a beloved grandparent passes away, we cherish the items she left behind. Many of us have boxes in storage of the important stuff from our childhoods, and we can hold those pinewood derby cars and dolls and experience real emotion. But electronics do not receive such deference. They are dangerous things that threaten to tear families apart and ruin our children's intelligence. A life lived through any sort of electronic filter is woeful and inauthentic.

When the technician handed me my computer, with a fresh new screen (the expensive potential, after all), data intact and ready to be booted and immediately backed up (I've learned my lesson this time, I promise), the relief felt significant, and it's something I choose not to regret. This thing, this stupid, mass-produced, shiny, amazing thing has allowed me to do and see so much. It deserves a little recognition. It deserves some angst when its LED board fails.

I hate to say it, computer, but it's good to have you back.

On the Achievement of My 100th Literary Journal Rejection

In 1955, a struggling actor in Los Angeles got a job driving a cab. This allowed him to work at night, and still go out on auditions during the day. Cab drivers in Hollywood must meet all sorts of famous and influential people, and one afternoon this particular cabbie picked up a fare who topped all others--John F. Kennedy. Kennedy maintained his masterful political charm even from the backseat of the car. The then-Senator peppered the driver with questions about his family and his acting prospects, about their shared hometown of Boston and Adlai Stevenson's prospects for winning the Democratic presidential nomination.

"Unfortunately," as if publishing is decided by a coin flip

I can guess what that driver felt, because I've felt it, too. He strove for something difficult, something that many of his friends and relatives probably dismissed as an impossibility. Acting? What a cliche. What a ridiculous endeavor. Do you know how many people are trying to become actors? There's no money in acting. When one struggles to achieve something like becoming an actor, or, in my case, a writer, every experience comes to be viewed through that lens. It morphs into a sort of obsession. Every person is someone new to discuss my writing with, every new memory transforms into potential subject matter for a story or essay. I imagine that driver couldn't help but question if his encounter with JFK meant something, if, finally and at long last, his moment had arrived. Maybe that connection would finally lead to something. Who knows how, but maybe that was the turning point.

At some point during the ride, Kennedy offered this thought to the driver. "Lots of competition in your business, just like in mine. Just remember there's always room for one more good one."

Thanks, editors, for looking at my stories

As it turns out, the driver was a "good one," and his business made room for him. Leonard Nimoy acted in small parts and B-movies for another nine years after that cab ride until the pilot episode of Star Trek in 1964.

Today, I had an experience that feels important. I didn't receive sage advice from a beloved politician or anything quite so dramatic. In my email, I found another rejection from a literary journal, which happens several times a week. But this one is my 100th. If all successful writers face mountains of rejection, then I am inching closer to being a successful writer. Stephen King had his infamous nail full of rejection letters. All the stories I've read about winning query letters and offer of representation phone calls feature tons of "Dear author, Unfortunately..." emails. All those people felt everything I keep feeling. Every rejection is another tiny devastation that forces the question, "What the hell am I doing?"

He probably felt inadequate, too, not just because of that haircut

But this one, I will celebrate. Number 99 stung terribly, and so will number 101. But number 100 is a milestone. I may not be good enough yet, but I am working, desperately, hopefully, tirelessly. Soon they will have no choice but to make me some room.

The Most Wisconsin Weekend Possible

Over Valentine's weekend, a polar air mass wafted down from Canada, which allowed us one of our few opportunities to feel smug and superior. Over on the east coast, temperatures dropped below zero. This deserved evening news headlines and serious-faced warnings about the dangers of numbers that low. In northern Wisconsin, we got ready for a party on a lake.

It was cold, for sure--six below--but we only felt it for a few minutes. We shoveled a big section of the ice to create a berm, a windbreak for the bonfire. Work beats polar air masses. Ten minutes in we removed our hats and gloves, and unzipped our coats, because clothes wet from perspiration would amplify the chill later. The strange feeling of warmth and sweating while the air stings skin with promises of frost is something we experience only a few times a year, but in a lot of ways, it's the core of living in Wisconsin. We respect winter, and we pay to live under it, in heating bills and chunky winter boots and snow shovels and yearning for spring. But we are not winter's subjects or its tortured peons. If the sun's out, and the breeze isn't too bad, we can shed our layers and be fine, just like we do during summer, or just like all the people down south.

Fires need fuel, so we cut down a tree.

Two balsams stood on the shore at my parents'  place in Oneida county. They were beautiful trees that provided shade for my mom's wooden swing. But sawyer beetles moved in, and over the course of a few years, the trees died. When we sat on the swing, we could hear the larvae chewing through the wood. Then big pieces of bark started falling off. The trees wouldn't recover, so my uncle brought his chainsaw and dropped the first one, 55 feet, 8 inches tall (we measured), exactly where he said he would. Then we had lunch.

A true Wisconsin gathering is done pot-luck style. Most of the items contain cheese, cream or otherwise, and several offerings need to be sausage-based. Add in some pickled fish, some sauerkraut, and a half-dozen types of "bars," and we had a full-on cultural meal. The food of our ancestors, with lots of ranch seasoning.

Oh yeah. And beer. We had a dozen kinds of beer to be sampled and passed around. A good number of people at this gathering knew a good number of the people who actually brewed the beer.

Then we bundled up and headed outside to light the fire. Heat rises, so there's no need to worry about bonfires on the ice. The warmth that radiates from the coals melts a thin layer of water, which further insulates the flames. And even if the laws of physics flip-flopped, or for some unknowable reason we found a weak spot on the frozen lake, we were only forty feet offshore, with four feet of water beneath us. Worst case scenario, we still would have been fine.

Then we drank and laughed and poked at the fire. We waved at the snowmobiles racing by. We threw a football around and brought out the beanbag boards. One of the uncles set up some tip-ups and kept running out to check them, but he didn't catch anything all day. We stepped inside for dinner, then came back out afterwards to stoke up the fire and watch a few fireworks. By then, the sun had set, and the temperature dropped fast, so we returned inside to play board games and suppress yawns until bedtime.

At 4:00 AM that night, the temperature reached 30 degrees below zero, according to my dad's weather station. That was not a record.

Developing pride in wherever you're from and the idiosyncrasies of life there isn't hard, or new. Nothing that happened on Saturday was so unique or strange that it deserves anything more than an eyebrow-raise or a curious nod. Plenty of people have never walked on a frozen lake, or felled the tree they burned that afternoon. But sometimes the threads of experience in a certain place at a certain time weave together to create a day that feels definitive, that stands for all the deep and complicated ways our landscapes affect who we are. Saturday was that sort of day. Wisconsin permeated us like the smoke seasoned our clothes, and the smell won't wash out for a long time, at least until we gather on the lake next year.

Three Totally Inappropriate Episodes, or Beware the Radio

I.

Eighth grade art - Mosaic Elephant, 1993

Eighth grade isn't all bad. I know we've collectively agreed that middle school wins as the most awkward and awful time of life, and, no doubt, my thirteenth-into-fourteenth year of existence contained plenty to suffer. The emotions. The urges. The hygiene. The embarrassment, the endless, heart-stopping embarrassment, like when a friend's mom suggested I start wearing undershirts. Like when some older boys asked why I sat female-style cross-legged on the bench during basketball games. I didn't get to play much during those games. I had one job: sit there and look manly. But instead I apparently adopted a posture like we were about to be served tea during our Women's Society meeting, twirling my foot and commenting on how delightfully our team was playing.

Penguin Dawn, or Maybe Crows, 1993

But eighth grade boasts plenty to balance all the awkwardness. Eighth graders are kings and queens of their schools, and junior high is the only time the achievement of top status isn't immediately followed by stressful, crushing reality. Senior year of high school means college starts soon. Senior year of college means jobs and real world. Seniority at work means the eventual slow fade of retirement. But eighth grade means... freshman year of high school. Sure, freshmen year offers its own challenges, but they are paired with freedom, and dances, and football games, and, if nothing else, relief from the trials of middle school. I called my first girl in eighth grade. My first parent-less overnight trips happened in eighth grade. Growing up takes a long time, but in eighth grade we settled in to enjoy the ride. There were still plenty of bumps, but at least we had our safety belts buckled and our seats adjusted.

That was how eighth grade felt to our class that one spring day. We were on top, high-school bound, and grown-up, not all the way, but plenty for a warm afternoon in April. Our small school couldn't employ a dedicated art teacher, so our regular teacher, Mr. Mooney (names changed to protect the innocent), led an art class a couple times a week. We focused on projects that didn't need lots of extra supplies. No paint or clay for us, just paper, scissors, and glue. Mr. Mooney was a serious man with big academic glasses who cared deeply about the straightness of lines, so art class must have been torture. Most of the time he delivered instructions, turned on his big console radio, and sat at his desk.

Everything would have been fine, if it weren't for that radio.

This memory takes place during the early 90's, so we must have heard some Mariah Carey, maybe a little Ace of Bass. For some reason, "Baby I Love Your Way" seems inexplicably linked to that time period in my mind. But in between those songs, one particular track came on the radio. The band Firehouse released the song in 1992 on their album Hold Your Fire. The song is titled "Sleeping With You," and it goes a little something like this...

We learned what it took to peel away the eighth grade veneer of confidence and well-being. It took a holdover 80's rocker singing about his disinterest in the moral ramifications of sexual intercourse.

While the song played, we all sat up straight and giggled a little, then stared at Mr. Mooney to see his reaction. If he heard the song, he didn't show it at all. Whether it was tragic obliviousness or calculated disinterest, he doomed us to listen to the whole track. The humor faded to awkwardness as we all tried to retreat into our desks. There were girls in the room. And the song was about sex. Each chorus became another set of nails on the chalkboard. No one moved. We all put our scissors down. Before the song, we felt like adults. Then Firehouse ruined us all by showing how many miles we had to go before we were anywhere close.

I blame the radio.


II.

Little kids mishear song lyrics all the time, then try to sing along with their own versions, and it's almost always cute and hilarious. When I was a little guy, this song received a ton of airplay.

My version went something like this. "Woah-oh here she comes. Watch out boys, she'll chew you up. Whoa-oh here she comes, she's a mad beaver."

My parents asked me to sing my version often, for their friends and relatives, and they all found it hilarious. It took me an embarrassingly long time to figure out why my version was so humorous. But that's okay. I get tons of laughs out of my kids saying unintentionally dirty things. Circle of life.


III.

This One Might Be Upside-Down, 1993

My kids have a superhuman ability to remember song lyrics. They hear a song one time, and then they are able to sing along with the entire thing. They inherited this skill from their mother. It's a little freaky, and it's so consistent that it has to be genetic. I don't know what advantage was conferred on my wife's caveman ancestors by their talent for repeating songs. I imagine they gained status and resources by winning caveman karaoke contests, thus passing along the trait to their offspring.

Last year, my kids heard "Animals" by Maroon 5 and sang it all the time. I picked them up from school one day, listened to their rendition a few times in the car, and when we got home I had a great idea. I would put the video on repeat so they could sing along. That would entertain them for at least an hour. I took advantage of one of the fancy technological features of our television and zapped the video from my phone to the TV screen. Then I retreated to the living room to write. Solid parenting. A+ dad.

After at least six times through, a thought occurred to me. "I wonder what that video is like?" I assumed it was fine. Maroon 5, a popular band, would never put out anything to offend their younger fans. So I watched the video, and saw this.

That's right! I willingly played this creepy, dirty, sex-saturated, horror-movie video for my seven- and five-year-old. Multiple times. Ha ha!

After watching it on my phone, that last thing I wanted to do was race into the family room and make a big deal of it. That would confirm whatever scary salaciousness my kids most certainly suspected and make the video even more enticing. So I casually walked over, ready to flippantly comment on the song and suggested we switch to a different video.

And then my wife came in the door.

She saw what was on TV, and I tried to calm her down.

"I know this is bad," I said, "but we can't make a big deal out of it."

My wife didn't agree, so I accelerated the plan. I turned the video off and expertly deferred the kids to another Youtube clip. After a hundred apologies and assurances that kids see weird stuff all the time, I didn't ruin them for life, no problem, my wife forgave me. I still get to see our children.

But as part of my penance, I must warn others of the dangers of popular radio. There's some dirty stuff out there, as I seem to experience over and over again. Please, take my advice. Stick to classical music.

Like Always, the Answer is 80's Toy Commercials

Two weeks after Christmas, the verdict is in. We failed. Once again, for the seventh year in a row, my wife and I did not succeed in giving our children any gifts that held their attention longer than two weeks. All the wrapped boxes earned plenty of excitement Christmas morning, and eve, and the weekend after Christmas when we attended our extended family parties. But in perhaps the greatest example of the first-world-problem cliche I can muster, we couldn't find the right overpriced construction of plastic and electronics to entertain my kids, and it's stressing me out.

But this is not one of those nausea-inducing entitlement stories where awful, whiny children complain of their boredom while surrounded by all the trinkets they begged for and threw tantrums over only a few weeks prior. They actually didn't ask for anything for Christmas. We spent hours around the kitchen table, flipping through catalogs and brainstorming the items their friends used to entertain themselves.

"Do you want a remote controlled car?" I asked.

"No," said my son.

"How about an Xbox?"

"Not really."

"More Legos?"

"I guess I could use more Legos," he replied. His list eventually filled with duplicates of items he already had, like a fancier set of walkie-talkies, and things he saw his parents and grandparents ask for, like a digital weather station.

Finally, I figured it out.

My kids' lives feature very little advertising. Most of their television viewing occurs through Netflix, with no commercials. They spend a fair amount of time on their Kindles, but the ads they see on Youtube usually don't apply to them. My son likes shark videos, but the spots in front of those are for cleaning products and cell phones. It's not that my kids don't like toys. It's that they don't know what toys are. They don't know how much blissful, wild fun can be delivered by a plastic action figure, because they've never witnessed child actors illustrating that particular joy.

My kids are fine. They switch between half-heartedly regulated screen time and their imaginations, between time with friends and time crafting and creating and time outside. They participate in a relatively healthy mix of distractions. Just not toys.

So... I have seen the problem. And he is me.

This all means 80's commercials were incredibly effective, way beyond what I've ever given them credit for. Look at those TV kids. They were so happy. And they all lived in the foothills of the Rocky mountains, where boulders abounded and paths on which they could drive their Cobra vehicles snaked through their childhoods. And when the toy required a more abandoned, industrial setting, they had those too. Everyone back then lived just around the corner from an old warehouse, where underground laser tag and crossfire tournaments regularly attracted throngs of fist-pumping fans.

Those kids were never alone. Playing always meant excited friends, none of whom would rather have played Nintendo or baseball after the group started playing Ninja Turtles. They never fought over who shot who first, they never claimed they "dodged," which was always ridiculous, because one can't simply dodge a bullet or a laser blast or a well-thrown nunchakus.

The evil wizards in the marketing departments at Hasbro and Kenner wielded a power that I don't think they understood. They worked me into a toy frenzy all those years ago, when Christmas morning meant joy and satisfaction beyond much that I can recreate as an adult. Possessing that new MASK vehicle, acquiring all the pieces necessary to construct a complete Voltron, those were profound and cherished memories. But their dark magic has earned them sales thirty years later, as I stand in the toy aisles weeks before every Christmas and try to put together a selection of toys that will give my kids that same dopamine wash, that same plastic-induced rapture.

This past Christmas, Santa got my son a remote-controlled Millennium Falcon, a toy far cooler than I anything I had as a kid. He still plays with it, every once in awhile, so it wasn't a waste. But when he's not around, I hold the thing, scrutinize it, look at all its parts, and how they fit together. Owning such a cool thing just makes me happy.

My son owning such a cool thing makes me almost as happy, too.

Brilliance Achieved While Clearing Snow

Every snow removal event begins with noble intentions. This time I will shovel. Shoveling is great exercise. Old people sometimes summon heart attacks with the effort of shoveling, so it must burn incredible calories. And shoveling forces quality time with my yard, my land, my little fiefdom on the corner of Nimitz St. and Pamela Pl. I can survey my kingdom like a baron while I scrape the concrete. And shoveling builds fortitude and work ethic, like I'm a role playing game character. Every stroke of the snow shovel is a point. When I was kid, I leveled up every few snowfalls, but an advanced guy like me takes years to unlock new achievements. Still. Someday, when I need to battle an abominable snowman or other extreme ice creature, I'll be ready.

You know what? The snow's a little heavier than I assumed. There's a few more inches than I thought. The snowblower will clear the brunt of it, but I'll clean up with a shovel. That will still count.














Jobs That, Like Clearing Snow, Will Eventually Do Themselves
1. Building demolition
2. Artificially aging new clothes so they look worn
3. Killing livestock
4. Wiping up spilled water off of surfaces that are unaffected by standing water
5. ???

My brother and I handled most of our family’s shoveling when we were kids, but not without an admirable amount of whining.  My dad, with saintly compassion, suggested we try a new approach.  “Try making a game out of it,” he suggested.  “Guess how many rows it will take you to finish the sidewalk, and see how close you are.”  As he had shoveled considerably more miles of sidewalk than I had, I tried it.  Now I count everything - minutes until the end of my work shift, hours until the weekend, socks that need to be folded, words in my writing, and swipes of the toothbrush. The long section of the sidewalk always takes about 90 rows.

People Who Benefit Most From Snowless Winters
1. Flip-flop manufacturers
2. Grave diggers
3. Bugs
4. Kids who really like rolling down hills
5. Bike messengers?

One thing I care about a lot more because of the snow - My shoes. We all do up here. We all have to. In some parts of the world, people can just throw on any pair of shoes at any time. Can you imagine what that would be like? Can you imagine how much less pressure those people face when it's time to leave the house? Up here, one needs to consider how much snow fell, what type of snow fell, how much ice covers the sidewalks, what kind of ice, how warm it will get, and what tasks the day will contain. Only then can an appropriate pair of shoes be selected, and we all know exactly which ones will work in every winter situation.
One thing I care about a lot less because of the snow - A few weeks before a particularly nasty snowstorm about ten years ago, a middle-aged gentleman and his wife moved into the townhouse across the parking lot from my wife and me.  He drove a burnt-orange, shiny Firebird.  After the aforementioned snowstorm, he attempted to drive his perfectly stereotypic mid-life-crisis-mobile.  He spun his tires for ten minutes, spraying dirty slush fifteen feet up the side of our building.  Three weeks later, he sold the car.  He explained to me, “It just didn’t make sense for winter.” In fact, no cars make sense for winter. They're all covered in a salt glaze, and no matter what you do, your floor mats will be thick with dirty ice balls. So give up. You can get a car wash in April.

Every time I turn on the TV in the winter, I hope that one of the local weather anchors will break into show, out of breath with excitement.  She will try to collect herself as her weather teammate, also visibly perturbed, will furrow his brow and switch from his normal, forced exuberance to a calm monotone that indicates what he is about to say is very, very serious.  Then, they will both try to piece together the following story.  Meteorologist scouts stationed in northern Canada were awoken by the screeching of their instruments.  They sprang from their cots still half asleep, but were shocked into total alertness at the readings racing across their screens.  They ran a few tests that confirmed the wonderful news - the jet stream shifted south, which meant the south side of the Eau Claire, with my house as the epicenter, would be receiving a massive, record-breaking, mind-boggling amount of snow.  Then, the two anchors,  overcome by their happiness, would hug.

I really like snow. Sometimes I just need to remind myself.