larrybadger
Expert Expediter
This little article, pasted here with full references from The Detroit News online, is mainly for those of us up here in "Cold Country" and for those who have migrated southward; but it also has an important lesson contained within that I think all of us, during some points in our lives, would do well to emulate.
< Saturday, February 5, 2005
You can reach Marney Rich Keenan at (313)222-2515 or mkeenan,@detnews.com. Read her columns each Wednesday in The Detroit News Features section and every Saturday in Homestyle.
http://www.detnews.com/2005/lifestyle/0502/05/E04-79077.htm >
OPTIMISM WILL STOP THE DREAD OF WINTER DEAD IN ITS TRACKS
By Marney Rich Keenan / The Detroit News
The other morning, I was driving our oldest daughter to high school in the early morning. It was so cold the windshield was as creviced as an ice skating rink, even though the defrost had been on high for 10 minutes.
This being Groundhog Day, we were listening on the radio to the annual prediction taking place in Punxsutawney, Pa. An energetic crowd of about 2,000 people was already assembled by 3:30 a.m., the announcer said.
"Oh joy," I said with all the enthusiasm of a hibernating rodent.
We listened while the reporter gave us a live report on the plump groundhog named Punxsutawney Phil being summoned out of his burrow at 7:31 a.m.
His handler placed him atop the old oak stump, where he surveyed his surroundings. Here, the reporter paused for a few seconds of evidently profound silence, just like at pro golf events.
Then, we heard an official apparently translating Phil's decree:
"Changing seasons is a wonderful thing.
"Now it's Groundhog Day and we think of spring. Will Spring come early or will it come late?
"It's time for me to prognosticate. As I study the sun, it's all about fun. But I'm sorry to say, I see my shadow today. When my shadow I see, six more weeks of winter there will be!"
While much of the country collectively groaned in disappointment, my daughter and I looked at each other and huffed: "Yeah, so what else is new?"
In my own head, I began to list all the reasons I find the next six weeks almost unbearable.
For one, I can't remember a February and March in Michigan that has been anything but one dreary day after another. The skies are shrouded in a monotonous gray, hardly any fresh new snow falls, so everything looks dirty.
On the rare occasion the sun does make the snow glisten, I beam my face upwards, desperate for one sliver of warmth to shine down on me.
The holidays are over, we stopped singing "Let it Snow" a long time ago, and it's still too cold to dismantle the outdoor lights.
The Christmas bills have come in, and once again I shake my head with incredulous denial. Every year, I promise to spend less, and every year I spend even more.
I'm tired of so many routines: the thermostat war with my husband, tired of hunting for the matching glove, tired of having to start the car in the morning 20 minutes before I leave.
I'm sick of cabin fever and the kids either complaining it's too cold to play outside, or wanting to be driven for the third time in one day to the sledding hill at the nearby farm.
I've made so many stews and soups, roasts, and meat and potato fare that, by now, winter comfort food is more labor than comfort.
My skin feels dry as the cracked desert even though I've resorted to baby oil on my legs.
I've had it up to here with playing the part of the hearty, rosy cheeked, outdoor runner with the dog. I've sure done enough boasting about it too, and am now back at the gym, where I don't have prove anything to anybody.
I'm sick of getting the van washed only to have it splattered with muddy slush the day after. I'm tired of the frozen water bottles left in the cup holders, or worse, Starbucks' lattes.
I read with disdain now the cheery women's magazines that are meant to get me out of these winter doldrums. I sneer at the articles that read: "Can't wait to get into your new spring buys? Want to trade in your wooly winter wear for more playful pieces? The solution: layering."
And I'm thinking: "What spring buys?" "Layering? I'm SICK of layering!"
I'm through with the flu, bowls of chicken noodle soup and the smell of Vicks VapoRub.
I hate the whine of the snow blowers, the politics of which neighborhood streets get plowed first, snow days where the kids are absolutely delirious in the morning and bored by lunch-time.
I'm so weary of the dirty puddles from wet boots by the fireplace, too many marshmallows in the hot chocolate. I hate remembering that we need put salt on our porch step at the precise time that I slipped with my arms full of groceries.
"Can you believe it?" I said to my daughter. "Six weeks of this left!"
"I know," she said. "And we haven't even gone skiing yet. Come to think of it, we haven't gone ice-skating either. How about this afternoon?"
I was caught red-handed. Self-perpetuating dread stopped dead in its tracks by the optimism of youth. Without a moment's hesitation, I switched gears, grateful that she'd brought me to my senses, particularly without her even knowing it. "Sure," I said. "Maybe I can even get the skates sharpened."
I have a friend who likes to say: You can always start over. If you wake up with a certain premise, there's nothing in the world that says you can't change it, or "start over," before you're even out the door.
I'm pretty sure this is what he meant: shadow or no shadow.
By Marney Rich Keenan / The Detroit News
Larry Badger
Plainwell, Michigan
Future expediting company driver
Stay-at-home Dad, 2000-
25 years self-employed in landscaping business
< Saturday, February 5, 2005
You can reach Marney Rich Keenan at (313)222-2515 or mkeenan,@detnews.com. Read her columns each Wednesday in The Detroit News Features section and every Saturday in Homestyle.
http://www.detnews.com/2005/lifestyle/0502/05/E04-79077.htm >
OPTIMISM WILL STOP THE DREAD OF WINTER DEAD IN ITS TRACKS
By Marney Rich Keenan / The Detroit News
The other morning, I was driving our oldest daughter to high school in the early morning. It was so cold the windshield was as creviced as an ice skating rink, even though the defrost had been on high for 10 minutes.
This being Groundhog Day, we were listening on the radio to the annual prediction taking place in Punxsutawney, Pa. An energetic crowd of about 2,000 people was already assembled by 3:30 a.m., the announcer said.
"Oh joy," I said with all the enthusiasm of a hibernating rodent.
We listened while the reporter gave us a live report on the plump groundhog named Punxsutawney Phil being summoned out of his burrow at 7:31 a.m.
His handler placed him atop the old oak stump, where he surveyed his surroundings. Here, the reporter paused for a few seconds of evidently profound silence, just like at pro golf events.
Then, we heard an official apparently translating Phil's decree:
"Changing seasons is a wonderful thing.
"Now it's Groundhog Day and we think of spring. Will Spring come early or will it come late?
"It's time for me to prognosticate. As I study the sun, it's all about fun. But I'm sorry to say, I see my shadow today. When my shadow I see, six more weeks of winter there will be!"
While much of the country collectively groaned in disappointment, my daughter and I looked at each other and huffed: "Yeah, so what else is new?"
In my own head, I began to list all the reasons I find the next six weeks almost unbearable.
For one, I can't remember a February and March in Michigan that has been anything but one dreary day after another. The skies are shrouded in a monotonous gray, hardly any fresh new snow falls, so everything looks dirty.
On the rare occasion the sun does make the snow glisten, I beam my face upwards, desperate for one sliver of warmth to shine down on me.
The holidays are over, we stopped singing "Let it Snow" a long time ago, and it's still too cold to dismantle the outdoor lights.
The Christmas bills have come in, and once again I shake my head with incredulous denial. Every year, I promise to spend less, and every year I spend even more.
I'm tired of so many routines: the thermostat war with my husband, tired of hunting for the matching glove, tired of having to start the car in the morning 20 minutes before I leave.
I'm sick of cabin fever and the kids either complaining it's too cold to play outside, or wanting to be driven for the third time in one day to the sledding hill at the nearby farm.
I've made so many stews and soups, roasts, and meat and potato fare that, by now, winter comfort food is more labor than comfort.
My skin feels dry as the cracked desert even though I've resorted to baby oil on my legs.
I've had it up to here with playing the part of the hearty, rosy cheeked, outdoor runner with the dog. I've sure done enough boasting about it too, and am now back at the gym, where I don't have prove anything to anybody.
I'm sick of getting the van washed only to have it splattered with muddy slush the day after. I'm tired of the frozen water bottles left in the cup holders, or worse, Starbucks' lattes.
I read with disdain now the cheery women's magazines that are meant to get me out of these winter doldrums. I sneer at the articles that read: "Can't wait to get into your new spring buys? Want to trade in your wooly winter wear for more playful pieces? The solution: layering."
And I'm thinking: "What spring buys?" "Layering? I'm SICK of layering!"
I'm through with the flu, bowls of chicken noodle soup and the smell of Vicks VapoRub.
I hate the whine of the snow blowers, the politics of which neighborhood streets get plowed first, snow days where the kids are absolutely delirious in the morning and bored by lunch-time.
I'm so weary of the dirty puddles from wet boots by the fireplace, too many marshmallows in the hot chocolate. I hate remembering that we need put salt on our porch step at the precise time that I slipped with my arms full of groceries.
"Can you believe it?" I said to my daughter. "Six weeks of this left!"
"I know," she said. "And we haven't even gone skiing yet. Come to think of it, we haven't gone ice-skating either. How about this afternoon?"
I was caught red-handed. Self-perpetuating dread stopped dead in its tracks by the optimism of youth. Without a moment's hesitation, I switched gears, grateful that she'd brought me to my senses, particularly without her even knowing it. "Sure," I said. "Maybe I can even get the skates sharpened."
I have a friend who likes to say: You can always start over. If you wake up with a certain premise, there's nothing in the world that says you can't change it, or "start over," before you're even out the door.
I'm pretty sure this is what he meant: shadow or no shadow.
By Marney Rich Keenan / The Detroit News
Larry Badger
Plainwell, Michigan
Future expediting company driver
Stay-at-home Dad, 2000-
25 years self-employed in landscaping business