Battling Winter’s Last Gasp and Marching Toward Spring

This winter hasn’t been too bad in our neck of the woods. We have little to complain about, but that won’t stop us from doing so.

It’s not as if winter hasn’t left a mark. It has. We recently endured levels of subzero cold that are often associated with the formation of vast areas of new permafrost.

When the mercury finally rose above zero, we weren’t sure if we could trust what our thermometers (who are known to be blatant exaggerators) were telling us. After venturing timidly outdoors, we exclaimed, “This is great! It’s almost 30 degrees! Where did I put my Parrot Head T-shirt and my Bermuda shorts?”

It was a celebratory moment when conditions made it possible for liquid water to once again exist on the surface of the earth. This, however, did not please ice fisherpersons, who are so antisocial that they will drive out onto a frozen lake and stare at a hole in the ice for days on end in order to avoid interacting with other humans.

 We know that this warmup won’t be our true spring and that we’ll have several false springs before the real thing finally arrives. It’s similar to watching half an hour of teaser trailers before the movie starts.

The liquid water that we have noted with such elation will no doubt revert to its solid state. It will then wait for us, like a leopard in a tree, for us to be inattentive for just a nanosecond. The world will suddenly spin before our eyes, and we will become so disoriented that the next thing we know for sure is that we’re signing up for a timeshare condo.

No, it’s not as bad as that. The ice might cause us to fall, and with any luck the only result will be some mild embarrassment. If you’re unlucky a tumble can cause some mild fractures, which is like saying that you’re slightly lost.

An important lesson regarding the transformative nature of water can be gleaned from history.

Back in the day, my wife and I owned a particular kind of car. I won’t mention its name, but it rhymed with “cavalier.”

Anyhow, GM had decided that their cars should have transverse engines. This meant that a car’s engine would sit in its compartment sideways instead of being positioned front-to-back as God intended.

All fine and dandy. That is, unless you live in a rural area that’s subject to snow and cold for several months of every Mayan calendar year.

On one particularly cold and windy winter Sunday afternoon, my wife and I and our two young sons drove to town for a grocery foraging foray. During our absence, the wind picked up loose snow and crafted it into drifts that spanned the width of our township road. Some drifts were higher than our car’s bumper.

Getting through such snowdrifts requires a certain amount of finesse. If you don’t hit them hard enough, you may find yourself stuck in the drift until help arrives or the encroaching glacier carries your car south, whichever comes first. If you hit the drift too hard you risk a spinout, which could mean spending quality time in the ditch.

Thankfully, I possessed all the skills needed to navigate this situation. Don’t ask how I obtained these skills; let’s just say that during my youth I had become intimately acquainted with numerous roadside ditches.

I hurled the car at the drifts, hitting each of them with a satisfying POOF! Snow flew up onto the windshield, causing brief whiteouts.

We were all relieved when I parked the car in our driveway. The next morning my wife got into the car to drive to work. Nothing happened when she turned the key.

“The car won’t go,” reported my wife, which is her expert automotive diagnosis for everything from a dead battery to the entire car being missing.

I tried to start the car. Not even the feeblest grunt arose from the engine when I turned the key.

I jumpstarted it. Nothing. I tapped on random items in the engine compartment. Nothing.

As I glumly contemplated the conundrum, I noticed that the starter was bolted to the front of the engine. Right where it could absorb snow that could melt and later turn into ice!

That’s how I found myself lying beneath the car on our frozen driveway, pointing an asthmatic hairdryer at the popsicle-like starter as cold meltwater dripped onto my face. Did I mention that the thermometer said it was -15?

 My wife came out to check on things. “Are we having fun yet?” she asked.

“You bet your ice we are!” I replied.

Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy” can be found at www.workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.