The man of steel and I are no strangers to May snowstorms. They were more common than we liked during our years out west. One particularly vicious storm dumped 18 inches of snow on Harding County, South Dakota after Mother’s Day. But when we moved to central Iowa in 1985, we thought we’d left nasty May weather far, far behind.
And we had. At least until last week when the winter that will not end graced us with several inches of wet, heavy snow. During the storm that left the landscape looking more like early March than May, the man of steel and I said some things that made us look at one another and ask, “Did I just say that?”
Here are a few of the head-scratching comments heard around here:
- Hiram, it’s snowing really hard. You might want to leave for work a little early.
- Where’s the snow shovel?
- I wonder if school was called off.
- Have you ever seen a tulip shiver before?
- Maybe we should cover the plants on the porch.
Now, it’s your turn. What did you say during last week’s snowstorm that made you scratch your head and ask, “Did I just say that?”
Today is Friday the thirteenth. Listening to the radio this morning would have sent me into a tailspin if I was superstitious: the stock market was down again, too many people were killed in a commercial airline crash in Buffalo, the bloom is off the stimulus package rose, and a snowstorm is bearing down on the “Highway 30 corridor.” Since I live 100 feet north of Highway 30, my town is in for it.
But I am not in a tailspin because today is Valentine’s Party day at every elementary school in America, and I am not in a classroom riding herd on a passel of kids aiming for the mother of all sugar highs. Many of my friends in this town are are, and I’ve been feeling sorry for them all week. With the snowstorm moving in (one snowflake floating gently to earth outside a classroom window has the power to whip the most placid child into a frenzy), I’m feeling even sorrier for them. Thankfully, tonight’s not a full moon (kids get weirded out when the moon’s full), or I’d feel obligated to enter the lion’s den and give one of them a hand.
Instead, all I have to do is feel sorry for them, pray for their perseverance and sanity when I think of it, and keep writing. In my book (no pun intended), this Friday the thirteenth is a marvelous, wonder-filled gift I don’t deserve. I’ll try to use it well.