Snow Turtle

Snow: whimsical, magical, fleeting, ethereal rapture, or sadistic, murderous, interminable torture from hell? If you dwell in a region which provides regular shrouds of snow, enough so that it stays with you for days on end, you either love it or you hate it; there can be no in-between, unless you happen to be like me: I love to hate it.

 

Ethereal pleasure or sadistic torture?

This is one of the few times in my existence when pragmatism outweighs aesthetics, the way an old 4WD 'Yoda outweighs the prettier, American-made truck. There is no room for doubt. There was a time when I could don my winter, fur-lined boots, and traipse anywhere I liked, to better capture the beauty of what was being presented. I have the pics to prove it. 

Alas and alack! Such is the case no longer, yesterday’s early morning frustration on the driveway, the most recent evidence to thrust its way into the limelight. After hiking up to The Bell from my front door, a ten-minute brisk stroll, escorting leashed Margie Rae and Ellie Mae, without incident, I made it less than ten feet coming back down before my feet jetted out in front of me, and I crashed and burned-and slid-on my left side.

Stunned, I was content to lie there in an ocean of self-pity-dramatically, I might add-the dogs literally in my face. This lasted about seven seconds before I realized that the peculiar sensations I was experiencing on my backside, were icy cold, and even wetter. By the time I tried to scramble to my feet to prevent any more soakage, that ship had sailed.

Besides, any thought that I was going to “scramble” anywhere, or anything besides eggs this morning, departed as quickly as it arrived. Beneath the two-inch-thick veneer of snow on the ground, was a solid sheet of ice, remaining from when last night’s heavy rainfall froze, after the temperature suddenly plummeted below freezing.

Up on The Bell

Whereas hiking up the driveway had been smooth sailing, because gravity was content to keep winding the rubber band propeller tighter and tighter, the return trip was white-water rafting all the way. The snow was sopping, the sheet of ice was lethal, and I was the equivalent of a turtle on its back. 

My left wrist was numb, my problematic left knee was throbbing, my incorrigible right shoulder was four-letter-wording-it and my chronically sniveling right toe, was sobbing like a pre-schooler. Wriggling like a king snake trying to escape the grasp of an eleven-year-old boy, I was an undulating mass of squirming, writhing frustration, and probably entertaining as a destruction derby at the Ukiah Fairgrounds.

I would have found it so, were I not still trying to figure out the best approach, besides calling time out and backing the truck up about eleven minutes or so, when I made the absurd decision to try and stick to routine. Well, I learned something today, and as I have always said, when I stop learning, put me out of my misery and cremate me. I’m done.

I did manage to stagger to my feet, and had just sidled off the slick road and onto the even more slippery, icy weeds to the left, when I was chop-blocked from behind by sweet Ellie Mae, who toppled me as effectively-albeit illegally-as any NFL linebacker in the league.

Yep. I ended up flat on my back again, both dogs once more hovering over me inquiringly, their cartwheeling antics extinguished for the moment. My chagrin elevated from stunned to flummoxed, I turtled my way over onto my stomach, completing the sponge-effect, and once more straggled to my unreliable feet.

"Uh, I don't think he's kidding..."

By now the girls realized that this old man was not going to be able to hold his own in the snow, and they sobered up quicker than a group of middle schoolers, caught with peppermint schnapps on the school field trip.

Truly, both dogs hovered on either side of me, as I made like Bill Murray in “What About Bob?” and baby-stepped my way back home, falling thrice more and catching myself a dozen more times, besides. Those near-falls are just as disastrous, because in trying to right the ship, I end up snapping the mainsail, if I am unlucky.  

Gone are the days when the three boys and I waited impatiently for the snow, in pre-internet days when forecasting was as primitive as “talkies” back in the twenties. “There’s no business like snow business,” I would sing, and we all envisioned the fun we would have, before freezing toes and ears, drove us indoors for hot cocoa and chocolate chip cookies.

We built two different igloos on two different sites, and the memory remains vivid to this moment. We tobogganed, made forts and in later years, the boys snow-boarded down the driveway from up on Bell Springs, something that scared the bejabbers out of me.

Blue Rock and ranch barn

So, hell yeah, my snow days are over. After all, what on earth could possibly entice me to go back out and freeze my toes off again? Knowing I am bound to fall at least twice? Knowing that snow is emphatically not for old dudes? Knowing, in point of fact, that snow is ONLY for kids?

Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Dancing Girl has predicted that the first grandchild Ollie Mac will arrive today. Dang, kids do love the snow. Dang!

I can hear Ollie Mac and me already, “There’s no business like snow business…” Repeat until snow is sticking on the ground, and then head outside. I am still determined to not only build another igloo, but to spend the night in it. I'm betting Ollie Mac would like that too.