Nobody I know thought it was possible, especially given the overall climate trends we’ve seen over the past ten years or so – not to mention the unmistakable fractiousness of our townspeople- but we in the Bustling Burg of Babbling Brooks are unified in our utter fed-up-ness with snow. We live in Fed-Up-Istan. Without a constitution. Even Margie from the ski hill, whose very daily bread depends on snow was heard to say that it could stop now. I’m hoarse from shouting at the sky to just stop, stop, stop it with the snow, even though I am, as you all know, a fairly avid winter enthusiast. We had another foot and a half this week. Not only that but every freakin’ day just after I hang up the snow shovel, having cleared that day’s 9 ton dump, the wind picks up and re-deposits all those snowflakes back onto my driveway. I’m on a first name basis with each and every snowflake in the vicinity. I don’t like to whine, but, well, waaaahhhhh. Boo hoo.
Oh yes, we surely do need the moisture, and even I will be thrilled (if unable to resume an upright posture after spending an endless winter heaving snow around) to find our fire danger reduced in the summer, but actually, I wouldn’t complain if it stopped snowing for at least the next four days. See, I finally broke down and paid Dan to bring his bobcat with the snowblower on it up here and get my driveway and road all cleared out, just so that my friends could drive to my house and I don’t want that luxury to be negated by more snow. We are all going to Chico hot springs for the annual lake-effect estrogen extravaganza, and my friends all decided to stop in at my new digs for brunch on the way down. We’ll all be hanging out with the mixed nuts this weekend.
The brunch is a part of my new policy of diplomacy since having moved into my new house. It’s a small house; too small to accommodate all the people I’d like to welcome into my new home, and its snowy out (yes, up above the windows, if you must know….), and thus unconducive to parties spilling out onto the putative lawn. So instead of throwing an all-out house-warming party, I’ve been inviting small groups of friends in for brunches or casual dinners, just so they can never claim they don’t know the way here. This weekend it will be my girlfriend-birthday buddies, arriving in a minivan, so just let it stop snowing this one time, and I swear I’ll never stick another wad of chewed gum under a chair again. At least not where someone else can find it and get grossed, out, though that is obviously the best part of sticking scabrous gum anywhere.
But I digress. Another interesting aspect to my trip south will be meeting up with Tom, that old college chum whom I’m not sure I’ve ever met, but who writes as though he was my twin, separated at birth. I’m cheered to learn, through our protracted negotiations to meet up some time during my trip south and his north to get supplies (I guess he only goes once a year or so. Has to bring a pick up just for the toilet paper…), that he is the type who chooses to just not drive at night rather than getting his headlights fixed. That makes sense to me. Getting headlights fixed, if you aren’t a particularly mechanical person, can be an undertaking fraught with uncertainty and ambiguous profit-loss projections. Nowadays it is never just about a shorted wire; it will involve a computer, so it will cost a lot. And face it, going out at night is not a necessary thing, unless you deliver newspapers or babies. Just stay home, like I try to do when it snows. I’m more and more intrigued with this Tom person I can’t remember. Watch this space for a conspicuous absence of mention of who he turned out to be.
But before I fly south, there’s more news from the B.B. of B. Brooks. The president of my fan club is staying home after his well-publicized visit to the hospital for a lung biopsy. His reasons for staying so uncharacteristically out of the limelight we can only guess at, and we can only be grateful for. Is it always wrong to be grateful that someone is dying? How about being pleased, relieved or just plain happy? What if the dying person was a bully, murderer and fiend who victimized his own children? Still, at the end, with six months to live, you have to imagine the fiend, perhaps for the first time, really contemplating what role he had on earth. And then you feel sorry for him. Or perhaps he only contemplates how he can throw one last, gratuitous wrench into someone else’s life. In that case, its pretty darn hard to rise above. Just ask the wikkianswer Buddhist lady. I try, but that’s all I can say.