ICE
The bad kind
My wife hates winter. One time we discussed moving to Arizona and she smiled like she did on our wedding day—after it had quit raining. I never minded winter too much, at least here in West Virginia. A little or a lot of snow was generally only a short term problem, and usually the temperature only dipped near zero for a day or two at a time. But not this year. Oh no! Since January 24th we’ve been living in a one problem after another, frigid, frozen, ice covered hell!
The shit show—you’ll get that reference soon enough—started in Las Vegas at SHOT Show. On Thursday—my birthday—I started feeling under the weather; my nose was running and there was a tinge in my throat. Expected for sure. I’ve never been to SHOT Show and not contracted some viral contagion from some third world county that threatened my health and happiness. Fortunately, my son and I arrived home early Saturday morning before Snowpocalypse was supposed to hit. We were smug and glad to be back in the land of the free before the snow began to fall. Bat went to get his truck, and I waited for the luggage.
I’d been smart enough to pack a coat in my backpack because I knew it was going to be cold when we landed in Charleston. I tossed my backpack on a rental car counter, pulled out my coat, and immediately noticed our bags on the carousel. So, I grabbed them and headed outside, leaving my backpack with my computer and wallet on the counter. Of course, I did not realize I’d left my backpack with my computer and wallet on the counter until an hour and a half later when Bat dropped me off at the house. After 30 calls and a dozen e-mails to every office at Yeager Airport, I could not get a response—of course we were the last flight, and it was 2:00 AM in the morning.
I got up at 6:00 AM—double sick—and I had to drive to Charleston to attempt to reclaim my valuables. I stopped to get fuel on the way and tried to call the airport police, again. This time a man answered and when I said my name, he said he had my backpack. The officer could not have been more accommodating. He said he discovered it when he got to work that morning, right where I left it. He was a bit agitated night shift had not noticed an unattended backpack in the airport. I was genuinely relieved but by the time I got home all that bit of good fortune was forgotten because I felt like a day old dog turd.
The snow never came. Well, at least the snow they were calling for. By Sunday evening, we had about three inches, so I plowed the driveway with my Mule and went to bed. Overnight, we got freezing rain and by morning the driveway was covered with a half inch of solid ice. This might not seem like a big deal, but my driveway is about 100 yards long up a steep hill and it faces north, where the limited sun we get in a West Virginia holler rarely hits it. Going down and coming up the driveway in a vehicle would give any ride at Disney a run for its money.
Of course, the temperature has been hovering around zero ever since, and the driveway has only become slicker. I’ve been held up in the house going through two boxes of Kleenex per day with the song Tomorrow from “Annie” stuck in my head 🎶 “The sun will come out tomorrow bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow they’ll be sun.” 🎶 Nope. With the little extra snow, we’ve received the ground is as slick as snot on a doorknob, and my driveway is as slick as cat shit on a linoleum floor.
No problem, I thought, since it’s too damned cold to shoot, I’ll just stay in the house and work. I interviewed Mike Drury who is a custom rifle builder in Calgary, Canada. Alpine Riflecraft makes four-pound bolt action rifles that retail for more than seven grand. (When we talked it was 38° in Calgary and 14° in West Virginia!) We visited for about an hour discussing the history of lightweight hunting rifles and the ones he creates.
Yesterday, feeling a little better, I got the bright idea I would take what little bit of ice melt we had for the porch—it’s sold out everywhere—and spread it on the hump—steepest part—of our driveway. I grabbed the bucket and carefully made my way through the yard slipping and sliding over the ice crusted snow paralleling the driveway, because you cannot walk on our driveway. Just shy of the spot where I needed to spread the ice melting goodness, I fell. I hit hard, landed on my back, and it knocked the wind out of me. But it also caused me to drop and spill the bucket of ice melt.
For a moment I did not move, I just stared at the sky and got colder. When I finally decided to get up, as soon as I reached a two point stance I fell again. The second fall hurt worse than the first fall, and somehow or another it took a lot longer for me to hit the ground the second time. If someone had been filming with a smartphone, I would be a social media sensation by now, pulling in hundreds of dollars. This time I stayed on the ground a bit longer, contemplating a new way to rise from the ashes, and trying to decide the best arrangement of cuss words to let out my frustrations. I experimented with several interesting combinations—some I whispered, others I let out at full volume.
When I did gain my feet, I went back in the house, took some more sinus medicine, and went to bed. It was warm and comfortable, and I soon relaxed and went to sleep, detached from all my problems. Well, almost. While asleep and under the influence of a possible overdoes of pseudoephedrine and Acetaminophen, I had a nightmare—daymare—that I was a member of the Donner Party and that none of us had a frigging knife.
I woke, somewhat shaken but the good news was that my wife—on her way home from work—had managed to get a fast enough run at our driveway to come sliding in beside the house with her SUV loaded with groceries. This extra food went a long way helping me forget the uneasiness of my dream, and ironically, the UPS man had left a package from Benchmade at the bottom of the hill that she brought with her. It contained one hell of a knife!
How poetic!
Poignantly contrary to what was expected or intended, from my front window I could see where the ice melt had created a nice hole in the snow—in the yard right beside the driveway. We ate dinner, and as sort of a way of just giving in to the ice and cold, we watched the new documentary, Miracle: The Boys of ‘80, on America’s 1980 hockey team winning the Olympics. This was uplifting and we went to bed in good spirits.
However…
Yesterday morning, we realized our sewer line was stopped up. Actually, that’s not true. A 50 foot sewer snake that met no obstruction all the way to the septic tank seems to suggest that instead of a clog, my septic tank is full. At any other time of year this would not be an issue, I’d just call a honeydew truck, and they would pump it out. But with all the snow and all the damned ice, a honeydew truck cannot get to my septic tank, and by the look of the forecast it may not be able to get there until March or later after everything melts and then dries up. Regardless, the poop pumping will set me back about $750, so I’ve been contemplating going outside and falling again while my wife films it, and then we can upload it to YouTube and make enough money to pay for the turd truck.
The snot factory in my head is still fully functional, and I have not shot a gun in two weeks. I’m not in a good mood. A neighbor came in from the range side of my property and tried to improve my driveway situation with his big, bad-ass tractor. I must give him credit, he was very successful in polishing the ice to a very Zamboni-like high sheen. This of course increased the slipperiness of the driveway to the point his tractor could not even come by up.
We are supposed to get a few hours of sun on Monday, and on Tuesday they’re calling for a 41° heatwave. Of course, on Wednesday the high will be 26°—just cold enough to freeze all the melt. I imagine I’ll celebrate all this additional ice with limited toilet flushing and even less bathing. Without question I will uncover a few more unique and constructive ways to assemble foul words into a perfect representation of my shitty situation. If you’re nearby, keep an ear out, you might hear some things you’ve never heard before.
Of course, as always, it could be a hell of a lot worse! I could live 10 miles south in the Commonwealth of Virginia. They have ice too, but even worse, the new government down there has decided to go full-retard with regard to the Second Amendment and it looks like they will try to outdo New York with new taxes. I feel sorry for all my southern neighbors, except for the ones who voted for this silliness.
Never underestimate Mother Nature or the stupidness of the American voter.
I'm happy for you...bless your heart. I don't think SA is happening for me this year.
Was looking at those the other day.