We've all been there, looking out from the warmth of inside, our eyes large like dessert plates, watching the falling snow. The burble of excitement for accumulating fluff. We think snow angels. snowmen, snow balls, rollicking through the drifts and white washing our unsuspecting friend. What we don't think about seriously, until we're adults at least, is the duty of clearing walkways, driveways and porches. When we're young it's just a chore added on to the endless list of to-do's forced upon us from our parents. A seasonal addition.
Sure, a shovel does the trick. The repetitive scoop, toss, scoop makes for good exercise but it also exhausts the aching bodies of post-adolescents. And that, my friends, is why we all invest in snow blowers.
The relative ease of turning the ignition (or pulling the lawnmower-esque cord for the older models) is mere child's play compared to the hunched back and strained arms of shovelling. The light forward pressure applied to the handles to start the machine in its slow march through the heaps of snow, whether it be hard and iced or light and airy, is almost too easy. The slow crank of the lever to re-direct the shoot of snow, is almost meditative. And when you're done you simply park the beast and admire the ruffled edges of the snow banks, tapering off where the farthest snow landed.
What really blows, is when you wait all morning for the snow to stop without any mid-way shovel or dent in the accumulation. I'll just blow it all away, you think to yourself. Sure in your plan. Just like I've done a million times before. You recall the envied look of your neighbours, blushed with strain and huffing small clouds of hoarfrost as they struggle to finish the job.
The snow stops falling and you strut outside, sure footed as you make your way to the garage. Smirking as you wade through the knee-high powder, you think what a blast this will be -- literally. The giant, rotating teeth of the snow blower will chew through this dump fast enough to get you inside for the second half -- no problem. You tweak the ignition, push her to the top where the rabbit signifies speed, prime the gas and turn the key --nothing. Must be cold, you think to yourself and yank the cord. Nothing. Ah, the good old electric start, that always works. You plug it into the outlet and saunter back to the machine, push the automatic start button and... nothing.
For-crying-out-loud, the damn thing won't work. Now what? Do you admit defeat and grab shovel? Risk being seen by those same struggling neighbours, deflated from your regularly gloating self? Are you less than a man? Less than a woman? Has your rough-and-tough snow blowing extension of yourself failed you? Hindsight comes slapping back and you peer out from the clouded garage window at the 3 feet of heavy snow wishing you had picked up shovel mid-storm. You consider hiding in the garage until the neighbours have returned inside for dinner, then swiftly and without sound shovelling at the speed of light to avoid being seen. But it's all just pride and you realize that pride won't clear the walkways or allow for a car to get out. So you rummage through the depth of the garage until you find the old steel shovel, rusted on the corners and curved with years of use.
Ah, It's just like being a kid again.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Monday, December 15, 2008
Profanity's Connection with the Downward Spiral of the American Economy
"Well, Fuck."
That's the sound of the economy going down the toilet and with it, Americans' ability to vent frustration verbally -- without the use of naughty words. Usually well-behaved adults have recently resorted to an adolescent expression in everyday language preferring to replace adjectives such as "very" with the more sinister "fucking". As in, "I'm going to get into my fucking car and drive off a cliff." And more descriptive nouns from such simple things as utensils, to the more complex, have been replaced with the vulgar "shit" or "crap". Other unruly words such as the less offensive "damn" to the queen-of-all-swear-words "mother fucker" can be heard in offices, grocery lines and yes, even around kitchen tables.
Once reserved for only the most inexplicable or desperate of times, swear words are fast becoming commonplace in everyday language.
It's obvious that the current vernacular is directly connected to the dismal state of affairs in the economy. With every job lost, comes an expletive; with the New York Times stating that "...The economy has shed 1.2 million jobs since the beginning of the year (2008)," how could we not express our frustrations in heated verse?
The most depressing of cases are reported in households whose use of the once outlawed words are now cropping up. Returning to their childhood homes for what they think is going to be a nice, enjoyable meal, grown children find themselves horrified by the use of course language by once proper parents. Stay-at-home moms are getting together in book clubs and describing main characters as "jackasses" and "bitches". Educated fathers are complaining about the "shithead" that walked into his office during prep time. Elderly folk now regularly use terms such as "dingle berry" and "fuck face" when upset.
Blue-collar workers, known for their colourful language and use of rough terms, are leading the way in the (mis?) education of the country. Once thought of as the only social group with enough to fret vulgarly about, these workers have perfected the complaint. Years of under pay, cut-backs and pink slips have prepared this group of men and women to shine in this time of economic uncertainty and verbal expressionism. Office workers, geared in tailoured Brooks Brother suits and Bluetooth headsets have been seen sharing a pint down at the local pub in an effort to expand their vocab. Manicured CEO professionals are hanging around building sites to catch an earful of "shit and giggle" terminology to use in voicing their own frustrations with today's world and the unstable work environment.
With all that is on his plate as the incoming president, Obama doesn't have time to focus on the degradation of the American vocabulary. With his plans to rebuild the economy, increase jobs and thus, decrease unemployment, he hopes for a trickle down effect to take hold in our language. Otherwise, "we may all be fucked."
That's the sound of the economy going down the toilet and with it, Americans' ability to vent frustration verbally -- without the use of naughty words. Usually well-behaved adults have recently resorted to an adolescent expression in everyday language preferring to replace adjectives such as "very" with the more sinister "fucking". As in, "I'm going to get into my fucking car and drive off a cliff." And more descriptive nouns from such simple things as utensils, to the more complex, have been replaced with the vulgar "shit" or "crap". Other unruly words such as the less offensive "damn" to the queen-of-all-swear-words "mother fucker" can be heard in offices, grocery lines and yes, even around kitchen tables.
Once reserved for only the most inexplicable or desperate of times, swear words are fast becoming commonplace in everyday language.
It's obvious that the current vernacular is directly connected to the dismal state of affairs in the economy. With every job lost, comes an expletive; with the New York Times stating that "...The economy has shed 1.2 million jobs since the beginning of the year (2008)," how could we not express our frustrations in heated verse?
The most depressing of cases are reported in households whose use of the once outlawed words are now cropping up. Returning to their childhood homes for what they think is going to be a nice, enjoyable meal, grown children find themselves horrified by the use of course language by once proper parents. Stay-at-home moms are getting together in book clubs and describing main characters as "jackasses" and "bitches". Educated fathers are complaining about the "shithead" that walked into his office during prep time. Elderly folk now regularly use terms such as "dingle berry" and "fuck face" when upset.
Blue-collar workers, known for their colourful language and use of rough terms, are leading the way in the (mis?) education of the country. Once thought of as the only social group with enough to fret vulgarly about, these workers have perfected the complaint. Years of under pay, cut-backs and pink slips have prepared this group of men and women to shine in this time of economic uncertainty and verbal expressionism. Office workers, geared in tailoured Brooks Brother suits and Bluetooth headsets have been seen sharing a pint down at the local pub in an effort to expand their vocab. Manicured CEO professionals are hanging around building sites to catch an earful of "shit and giggle" terminology to use in voicing their own frustrations with today's world and the unstable work environment.
With all that is on his plate as the incoming president, Obama doesn't have time to focus on the degradation of the American vocabulary. With his plans to rebuild the economy, increase jobs and thus, decrease unemployment, he hopes for a trickle down effect to take hold in our language. Otherwise, "we may all be fucked."
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Oh, The Spirit Has Arrived (in the form of a tree)
It's the sort of excitement that bubbles up with anticipation, every step a pure delight. Like unwrapping a piece of milk chocolate from shiny tin foil paper, you know what awaits you with every peel and tug of the covering, but just the act is rewarding in itself, the exposed chocolate the definitive and satisfying conclusion. We were going to get a tree today, a Christmas tree.
Faux-Christmas -- as I called it -- had occurred the day before with my father's side of the family. Not obscenely early, but still early enough to make the act feel a bit forced and un-Christmas like. Perhaps it was the lack of my own decorations around the house, I thought. Maybe I needed to get more into the good old Christmas spirit? And what better than the symbol of Christmas -- no, not Santa -- the tree! That classic balsam fir, "Oh, Christmas tree" carol-inspiring, bulb-wielding, light-twinkling holiday icon.
The heat blew out in short puffs from the heater along the back of my bed, its force ruffling the blue curtains by my head and stirring me awake. Erik had been up for an hour already, maybe two, and I lay alone in bed, sprawled diagonally across, happily hogging all the blankets. The winter blue-pink light shone into my room and I peeled back the covers reluctantly, rolling out of bed. Suddenly the thought occurred to me, today was the perfect day for a tree!
A light dusting of snow had blanketed the ground, renegade leaves that had refused to be bagged poked out, reaching for the sun for one last hoo-rah before being forgotten in winter's cover. I checked the thermometer -- single digits, ruthlessly cold. Excited, we made space in the living room, pushing couches this way and chairs that way, piling plants on tables, straining to inch the television just a schmidge to the left until finally a small corner was cleared, prepped for the tree. Standing back I could see it in my mind's eye, full and heavy with ornaments. I inhaled, imagining the sap and fresh outdoorsy scent encompassing the house.
We laced up our boots, exchanging eager glances. I told him about the crudely painted yellow and green wooden sign I had passed the other day. The penmanship was something second grade teachers would roll their eyes at, but incredibly charming nonetheless. In a pudgy line across the middle, four pine trees with spiky boughs advertised the wares: Christmas trees. A shaky arrow pointed down the road to the left, "1 mile" it had read.
"That's where we will go," I told him. "We need to stay local. Why go downtown to get a tree that was grown in North Carolina when we could go up the road to our friendly neighbour the tree farmer and get a fresh, Maine tree?" I had recently read in the paper how most trees people purchase are from out-of-state tree farms, explaining the high prices, and I swore I would stay local.
The air was crisp as we marched outside with our hats, mittens, scarfs and coats pulled snuggly over our bodies. The snow began to fall in fluffy white chunks like someone was sprinkling fine pieces of cotton candy down from above. I held my tongue out to catch the treats, the cold kissing my cheeks and clutching my eyelashes.
Huddled inside the cab of the truck we made our way up the road looking for the splintered sign I had seen before, the rear-wheel drive squirreling out around snowy corners. Spotting the sign, we pulled on the back road toward the farm, unsure of what we would encounter, but giddy.
The tree farm looked like a regular house, only a house with a few rows of trees in the front, back and side yards. "Is this it?" Erik asked.
"I guess so. What do you think we do?" I asked peering out the fogged up back window of the truck toward the house. "Is anyone home?" We shrugged at each other and made our way toward the house, a dog barked somewhere inside and I hoped that it wasn't a large, defensive guard dog. Lord knows a bite to the arm would have ruined this Christmas endeavour, holiday cheer or not.
A slender man in his fifties greeted us as we approached the house (sans dog, thankfully), he wore a faded red sweatshirt with a college insignia and rough blue jeans, atop his head sat a lopsided baseball cap. "Hello there!" He welcomed. "We're not really open, but help yourself to some hot cocoa," he said as he gestured toward a thermos on the picnic table, "and you can just go pick any tree you want, here's the saw. Just go out there and cut one down yourself." How he was technically "not open" was confusing as he seemed prepped for customers, the hot cocoa and all.
We turned to look at the sea of choices and sprinted into the Christmas forest. "This one. No, this one. No, this one!" we shouted out, trying to find the perfect tree for our house. We frolicked through the groves looking for the perfect tree. "That one is too thin. This is too naked on this side. That one has no top." We ogled each tree, comparing it with the last like a piece of fine art for sale. In the end, we both went back to the first, the first tree we both saw from afar.
We took turns with the hand saw, cutting into the trunk easily, our hands chilled by the cold air. With the final cut Erik yelled, "Timber!" as the seven foot tree slowly fell over, his hand guiding it from the top as I drew the blade across the final piece of bark.
Hauling it back to the truck, we smiled, satisfied at our choice. The anticipation was over, it was finally Christmas.
The heat blew out in short puffs from the heater along the back of my bed, its force ruffling the blue curtains by my head and stirring me awake. Erik had been up for an hour already, maybe two, and I lay alone in bed, sprawled diagonally across, happily hogging all the blankets. The winter blue-pink light shone into my room and I peeled back the covers reluctantly, rolling out of bed. Suddenly the thought occurred to me, today was the perfect day for a tree!
A light dusting of snow had blanketed the ground, renegade leaves that had refused to be bagged poked out, reaching for the sun for one last hoo-rah before being forgotten in winter's cover. I checked the thermometer -- single digits, ruthlessly cold. Excited, we made space in the living room, pushing couches this way and chairs that way, piling plants on tables, straining to inch the television just a schmidge to the left until finally a small corner was cleared, prepped for the tree. Standing back I could see it in my mind's eye, full and heavy with ornaments. I inhaled, imagining the sap and fresh outdoorsy scent encompassing the house.
We laced up our boots, exchanging eager glances. I told him about the crudely painted yellow and green wooden sign I had passed the other day. The penmanship was something second grade teachers would roll their eyes at, but incredibly charming nonetheless. In a pudgy line across the middle, four pine trees with spiky boughs advertised the wares: Christmas trees. A shaky arrow pointed down the road to the left, "1 mile" it had read.
"That's where we will go," I told him. "We need to stay local. Why go downtown to get a tree that was grown in North Carolina when we could go up the road to our friendly neighbour the tree farmer and get a fresh, Maine tree?" I had recently read in the paper how most trees people purchase are from out-of-state tree farms, explaining the high prices, and I swore I would stay local.
The air was crisp as we marched outside with our hats, mittens, scarfs and coats pulled snuggly over our bodies. The snow began to fall in fluffy white chunks like someone was sprinkling fine pieces of cotton candy down from above. I held my tongue out to catch the treats, the cold kissing my cheeks and clutching my eyelashes.
Huddled inside the cab of the truck we made our way up the road looking for the splintered sign I had seen before, the rear-wheel drive squirreling out around snowy corners. Spotting the sign, we pulled on the back road toward the farm, unsure of what we would encounter, but giddy.
The tree farm looked like a regular house, only a house with a few rows of trees in the front, back and side yards. "Is this it?" Erik asked.
"I guess so. What do you think we do?" I asked peering out the fogged up back window of the truck toward the house. "Is anyone home?" We shrugged at each other and made our way toward the house, a dog barked somewhere inside and I hoped that it wasn't a large, defensive guard dog. Lord knows a bite to the arm would have ruined this Christmas endeavour, holiday cheer or not.
A slender man in his fifties greeted us as we approached the house (sans dog, thankfully), he wore a faded red sweatshirt with a college insignia and rough blue jeans, atop his head sat a lopsided baseball cap. "Hello there!" He welcomed. "We're not really open, but help yourself to some hot cocoa," he said as he gestured toward a thermos on the picnic table, "and you can just go pick any tree you want, here's the saw. Just go out there and cut one down yourself." How he was technically "not open" was confusing as he seemed prepped for customers, the hot cocoa and all.
We turned to look at the sea of choices and sprinted into the Christmas forest. "This one. No, this one. No, this one!" we shouted out, trying to find the perfect tree for our house. We frolicked through the groves looking for the perfect tree. "That one is too thin. This is too naked on this side. That one has no top." We ogled each tree, comparing it with the last like a piece of fine art for sale. In the end, we both went back to the first, the first tree we both saw from afar.
We took turns with the hand saw, cutting into the trunk easily, our hands chilled by the cold air. With the final cut Erik yelled, "Timber!" as the seven foot tree slowly fell over, his hand guiding it from the top as I drew the blade across the final piece of bark.
Hauling it back to the truck, we smiled, satisfied at our choice. The anticipation was over, it was finally Christmas.
Monday, December 01, 2008
Keep... going...
I'm running. I'm running. I'm running. It's a burst of energy to keep going. Going. Going. Going. I pile on the duties and keep shuffling through the paperwork or everything else I have to do. Procrastination clouds over, a clogged flue to the chimney of productivity.
Coughing, I expel the last article before deadline and strive to make the crossing line. Just to perch in anticipation of release, muscles flexed, sprung and pumping forth. Again, another, a second helping. Bloated with responsibility I scratch for the ends, flitting strands of bridled twine. Woven sometimes carelessly and splayed. Harder to grasp. Harder to put through the eye and make the connection, the breakthrough, the beginning.
Coughing, I expel the last article before deadline and strive to make the crossing line. Just to perch in anticipation of release, muscles flexed, sprung and pumping forth. Again, another, a second helping. Bloated with responsibility I scratch for the ends, flitting strands of bridled twine. Woven sometimes carelessly and splayed. Harder to grasp. Harder to put through the eye and make the connection, the breakthrough, the beginning.
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