A couple of weeks ago, spring was in the air. It was growing from the ground, it was singing from the pond next door. The crocuses were blooming and the frogs were squawking their furious mating calls.
A week later, the crocuses had croaked and the croakers, probably the same. Their betrothed, who were ribbited a week earlier, were now croaking, “Dude, what the hell?” The arrival of spring was Fake News, and we fell for it yet again. It was a hoax perpetuated by the Chinese and hacked by the Russians.
The blizzard of 2017 was here. I took the day off, and when I turned on the television the propaganda machine was in full swing. You couldn’t see them because of the snow, but reporters were on the street to report that it was snowing.
Back in the studio, meteorologists were plying their meteorology. Accumulations were predicted to be somewhere between seven inches and the End of Civilization. We were told not to leave the house for any reason, and if possible hide under the bed until June.
All the airports were closed, and not one person entered the country. The president immediately took credit for solving the immigration problem. “Forget the wall. We’re going to build a blizzard, a great, great blizzard, a wonderful blizzard. It will be the greatest blizzard in history!”
It didn’t used to be like this. Back in the old days, Mr. G would come on the air and tell you the weather. You never heard words like “polar vortex” or “cold advection;” the guy wouldn’t even tell you the other letters in his name.
Cheap as I am, my wife finally convinced me to hire a snowplow guy. But as a compromise measure, I went out and bought an electric snow blower, which plugs into an outlet in the garage via a huge extension cord. This device is not exceedingly powerful, but I figured it could handle the smaller snowfalls of about a quarter inch or less.
Last week’s accumulation was so voluminous, that I thought it would be a good idea to crank up the electric snow blower and try to get a jump on things before the plow guy came. It was the equivalent of emptying the lower Mississippi River into the upper Mississippi River a teaspoon at a time. The wind was gusting so hard that it blew the snow back inside the snow blower, and the snow blower blew it back out again. It was nature’s way of saying, well I can’t print exactly what it was nature’s way of saying, but I wish nature had phrased it a little differently. Every time I use the snow blower with the huge extension cord I am amazed that I am not electrocuted. I will continue to be amazed by this until such a time as I am electrocuted.
After all that, the power went out. It was still light out, and I thought it might be kind of nice to go old school—start a fire in the wood-burning fireplace, heat up some leftover pizza on top of it and curl up with a good book. I forgot to heat up the flue first, and smoke billowed out of the stove and filled up the room. I had to open up the outside door to clear the smoke, so it was freezing inside. Then, all of a sudden, the power came back on. Thank God, because first of all, it was almost time for Judge Judy, and second, I don’t know how to curl up a book.
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