Farmer’s Almanac is predicting another bitter Winter season.
What have we done to piss you off, Mama Nature? Whatever it is, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do it. I’ll never do it again. blah, blah, blah.
Last year was our first year living in the hilly landscape of Southern Indiana and I really thought all the hills and trees were pretty.
Gawd I’m stupid.
Our driveway is like a roller coaster ride at a major amusement park. It starts with a short flat spot to throw you off and then, as you clear the curve in the drive surrounded by trees, plunges downward at a breathtaking rate that heads right toward our pond. It’s so steep I barely resist the urge to fling up my hands and scream.
Add in a good patch of ice or two and you’ll quickly find yourself swimming with the fishes wearing a ton of steel as a skirt and circular, rubber shoes.
Not good. I don’t think that’s what aficionados of ice fishing had in mind. I really don’t.
So, last year, DH and I spent lots of quality time together climbing our sheer drop called a driveway and flinging salt on the near vertical surface to avoid the whole swimming with the fishes thing. Our new neighbors who, for whatever reason have decided they like us, kept calling to make sure we weren’t packing up the kitchen and preparing to move to Saint Lucia.
We weren’t. Gawd we’re stupid.
We’d been duped. When we moved farther South we really thought Winters would be slightly milder. When Winter arrived with a roar in our little neck of the woods, we convinced ourselves the whole cold, icy Winter thing was a fluke…a rarity. In fact we were repeatedly assured by our neighbors that was the case. But they flippin’ lied. The only question is whether they all got together ahead of time and came up with the lie for grins, or if they just pulled it right out of their butts, all spur of the moment like.
So here we go again.
This year I’m gonna do it. As I plunge downward toward the icy, fish-filled water below, I’m flinging up my hands and screaming. I might as well entertain myself as I die.