Wood and Wipers

The sign read “Firewood Egg's Sold Here” so I had to see what those might be, and needing firewood anyway I took a chance.

I steered my little pickup truck into the drive, a sharp 90° on the curve of a busy highway and a lurch down a 50° grade. Weeeeee.

I approached a trailer (of course it was) but there was a dog/baby gate at the top of a long and rickety stretch of stairs (the place seemed to be built on stilts), so not wanting to alarm any dogs or babies, I just hung out, knowing someone would emerge eventually. Sure enough, one tall, thin dude came out, munching on his cereal. After getting the price (a mere 50 bucks for a rick of wood — a good price in the middle of winter) and hitting the bank to get cash (no checks), I came back, braved the driveway again, and he and his brother (skinny dude two) emerged again and directed me to the back of their lot, past the several bulls-eye and wooden deer targets (loaded with lots and lots and lots of shotgun holes), then past the chickens (even in the cold air the smell of chicken poop was pretty ripe), and over to the wood pile. As they loaded the wood we passed the time chatting about the fact that I "wasn't from around here," and "did I hunt?" The good news was that not being from around here wasn't bad because they weren't from around here either, although they were definitely from the South. Then brother three came out (stocky, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth), and we discussed the impending snow storm. They told me they were from one of the Virginias or the Carolinas and they were used to snow. When I told them I was from the snowbelt of Western New York on Lake Erie, they were righteously impressed with my snow prowess. (Score one for the transplanted Yankee.)

They all admired my little truck and I figured it was probably older than they were. After a while of watching his brothers work, stocky brother three said he was cold and headed back to the house. Yeah, the big burly one with lots of insulation. I then heard the story about a truck like mine that they had bought from the wife of a friend when she needed bail money to spring her husband from jail. Apparently the deal went sour because when the guy finally got sprung he wanted his truck back, right then, along with the title they had paid for. Somehow their Mama got in the mix, but no shots were exchanged. (They may well have run out of bullets if the deer targets were any indication.) They lost the truck, and apparently the money, which vexed them greatly.

As they continued loading the truck, they suggested I let my son help me unload the wood when I got home. I thought it was an odd remark since no one has ever made the assumption that I had kids (I just look like children wouldn’t suit me — at all). But the remark was not insincere, so when I told them I had no sons they nodded in charitable understanding. I did tell them about my dogs, which are certainly as interesting and smarter than most children, and learned that the three brothers had a Chihuahua. Somehow I imagined that child gate was holding back something bigger – like a Doberman or a Rottweiler or a Pitbull. But a Chihuahua? I tried to picture these three big guys, in their high-water trailer, with a Chihuahua. I thought it would make a good country song or sitcom — “Three Brothers and a Chihuahua” — but I let it go without mention.

After the truck was loaded so that I could no longer see out the back window and the front tires were barely touching the ground, and was sure I wouldn’t make it out of their drive, I bid them ado, and as I drove past the chickens and the shot up wooden deer, they hollered I should come back if I need any more wood. I assured them I would — at 50 bucks, it was a good deal. And they told good stories. And they didn’t mind that I wasn’t from around here and that I didn’t hunt and I didn't have a son. It was a good visit. Just sorry I never got to see the Chihuahua.

I got home and unloaded and stacked the wood in time to turn around and hit the grocery store before the snow hit. Yes, I have become a true Southerner — I run to the grocery just like every other fool in town, with even the threat of snow. Having just used the truck, I thought I would take the van. I hadn’t driven it in a while and it needed the exercise. The van, my faithful van, with no heat, no AC, no radio, no defrost, no fan, no clock, and wipers that work on their own schedule. Sadly, I had forgotten about the wipers not working except when they weren’t needed.

Got through grocery shopping — half the town was there — just in time to watch the snow storm hit as I was wheeling my cart out the door. By the time I got the groceries in the van, the snow was falling at a really brisk rate. It was beautiful. Big white fluffy flakes, like back home. I got in the van, wrapped my blanket across my lap, started her up, turned on the lights (yes, the lights still work — knock wood) and hit the wipers. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. They didn’t even try. And that’s when I remembered why I didn’t take the van out on overcast days. Crap! I looked for a snow brush. Damned thing was in the truck. Suddenly the wipers gave a half-assed attempt to work. They died mid-swipe and may be stuck in that position forever. Great.

After rooting though the van (which is full of crap from the summer — I mean, why empty it out when I’ll just need it in a few more months?), I finally found a paint stick and struggled out of the van (and I was so nicely wrapped up in my lap blanket too), and worked on the windows with the paint stick. Whoever said necessity is the mother of invention (it was probably Ben Franklin), was right. I managed to get most of the snow off before it stuck again and made my way out of the parking lot, hoping I wouldn’t get stuck at a light. I theorized that if I could keep going I could create enough wind shear around the windshield that the snow wouldn’t stick.

Red light. Of course. Who was I kidding? Saint Christopher? (Is there a Patron Saint of windshield wipers? No? Well, there should be.) So we sat. And we sat. And we sat. Finally the light turned green and it was time to go.

By now the streets had a good inch of snow on them, so I took my time getting home, but surprisingly my theory worked. I didn’t have to stick my arm out the window, trying to scrape off the windshield with my handy paint stick. I was able to go just fast enough to keep the snow from sticking to the windshield but slow enough not to fishtail into a ditch. A good thing too, because besides nothing much working on my van, my plates expired last month. Oops!

The snow has stopped now. As stopped as my wipers. But it’s beautiful out. Dreadfully cold but that makes the snow sparkle on the fields and the trees and … the van. I’ll go out tomorrow and get some photos of the snow before it’s all gone, although as cold as it is supposed to be, I think it will be around for a day or two.

That firewood will sure feel good tomorrow night. Maybe I should work on that song about the three brothers and their Chihuahua. Wonder what his name is? Probably Killer or Bruno or Rocky. Next time I visit the Firewood Egg Brothers, I’ll have to ask.

33 Years

“I close my eyes, only for a moment, and the moment's gone.”

Thirty-three years ago, on Tuesday, February 7, 1978, around 4:00 in the afternoon, my dog Sturm left this earth. He had been my closest companion and trusted friend for over 12 years.

I brought him home as a three month-old puppy — my aunt had a hard time giving all nine puppies away, thus the unusual delay. (And ultimately she kept two for herself.)

He was born in June and I visited him and his 8 siblings as often as my parents would drive to my aunt and uncle’s farm to see them. I once took some friends to see the puppies (we were all in our early teens), and they enjoyed the visit tremendously, playing with them and loving on them, but I remember their mother, a rather up-tight pediatrician, being unreasonably concerned that her kids would be visiting a farm, and looking askance at all of us as the puppies tumbled over the four of us and my mother, in the midst of it all. What the farm actually was was a 100+ acre ranch with horses, dogs, barn and house cats, and a host of rabbits. (We’ll leave the rabbit story for another time. Let’s just say they got out of hand.) But we called it the farm, and only God knows what this woman expected. Perhaps pigs and chickens. Who knows? But her kids were never allowed to visit again, which was a shame.

Anyway, being not only an only child but also an only nephew, I was given the pick of the litter. Naturally, I picked them all but sadly I couldn’t convince my parents this was a good idea. As a matter of fact, it was my aunt, a very forceful German expatriate and my father’s older sister, who insisted I needed a dog in the first place. I never really felt much affection for my aunt until then. She was, I am sure, a delightful person, a very talented and compassionate nurse, and an ardent lover of animals, but she was also pushy with me. But this time she pushed my reluctant parents instead, insisting that a dog was just what I needed. I gained a new respect for my aunt for that, as my parents seldom acquiesced on anything of consequence.

Backing up for a minute, I should explain my aunt bred her dog especially so I might have a puppy — a puppy she was sure would be healthy. (Actually, I think it might also have been a convenient excuse to have puppies, but she’s no longer around to ask so I'm just guessing.) She was insistent that I have a dog. I had just that past spring flunked ninth grade. Unheard of in my family. I didn’t fail because I was stupid. I failed because I refused to go to school. At a very early age I developed a strong phobia to social situations, and there’s not much more social than high school. One day during lunch I had had enough, snapped, and simply refused to return. I guess I probably had a bit of a breakdown as I was convinced all the kids hated me (and a few did), and it was just too much to bear. So I spent most of the spring semester locked in my room, unintentionally torturing my parents, thinking their only child had gone wack-o. A pretty hard pill to swallow, especially for my father, who was the Assistant Director of a major state mental hospital.

So, my aunt, decades before her time, decided a dog would be good therapy for me. Since I had so few human friends, she instinctively knew a dog would be a great companion — someone I could love unconditionally and who didn’t care if I was, as my good friend calls me, batshit.

And so the love affair began. Sturmie and I were inseparable. He came to live with us on September 2nd, just a week before school was to begin, and I was to start 9th grade all over again. But I was so taken with him and the love we shared, the rest didn’t matter. Crappy day or good, there was always Sturm to come home to. I had someone to focus on besides my adolescent, hormone-driven, self-indulgent self. He brought calm to the whole family. My parents had had another German Shepherd early in their married life and missed her greatly after she passed. (I knew her too, if just for a few years, and she was indeed my sibling.) So they were reticent about getting attached to another dog, since putting Heidi to sleep had broken their hearts. But Sturm just lightened the whole atmosphere and brought joy wherever he went.

In the summers we spent our days on the beach, and he was quite adept at finding rocks I would throw in the lake for him. Down would go his massive head, and up he’d come with the very rock I’d thrown. He’d drop it at my feet to be thrown again and again. He was popular with everyone on the beach — everyone knew Sturm. And he helped me make friends and get over some of my social phobias. In the mornings we’d leave the house just as dawn lit the sky. (We’d climb out the window so as not to wake my parents. The marks from his toenails are still on the windowsill.) We’d return for lunch, then be gone again until dinner. After dinner we were out the door again until the sun went down. It was a wonderful life.

In the winters, he loved the snow, and we’d go on long walks through the woods that surrounded the hospital. On one winter’s day, when he was out in our fenced yard and some patients were shoveling the snow from the sidewalk, my mother overheard a heated discussion between the two of them, arguing over whether he was in fact not a dog but a reindeer. After much discussion, it was finally determined he was in fact a reindeer, and after that they would regularly visit him on their shoveling rounds. Had a been a dog, they might not have been as comfortable around him, as he was rather massive and imposing; but his sweet nature must have convinced them he worked for Santa, so he couldn’t possibly be a threat.

As I grew older I turned to writing journals. I recently thumbed through some of them and I discovered how much time I had spent writing about him — his colors, his sleeping, his dreaming, his funny moods, his sharing my bed until he thought I was asleep and then jumping down to find a cooler spot. I even tried a few crude sketches of him. Oh — and the farts he’d leave in the room, looking disgusted as if his flowers of sulfur had sprung from me. But he was never far away.

It seemed suddenly, though, that he became old. We discovered a small mass on his leg, another under his eye, and a third on the tip of his tail. The thing on his tail would prove especially vexing as he was always a very enthusiastic tail-wagger. We had a very narrow, long hallway from the kitchen to the rest of the house. (If you’ve ever found yourself in state-provided housing, you know it’s not particularly inspiring but very practical.) The walls in the hall were very high and were painted a light, high-gloss yellow. And Sturmie’s tail, always moving with sheer enjoyment, would batter against the unforgiving plaster walls. The tip of his tail would break open and blood would splatter all over those bright glossy walls. Not enough to damage his tail, but enough to look like a very messy murder had taken place. This was regularly scrubbed down, only be to be replaced the next day by the same energetic streaks of blood.

Naturally concerned about the growths, we took him to the vet. They looked like overgrown dark warts, and even my dad, a physician, wasn’t unduly alarmed. Then we got the diagnosis.
Squamous Cell Carcinoma.

Keep in mind this was 1977 and cancer was relatively unheard of in dogs then. It certainly wasn’t the epidemic it is now. And, of course, there was no treatment for it. Especially out in the boonies where we lived. And even had there been, I don’t think we would have opted for radiation or chemotherapy. It is not a choice our family is comfortable with or confident it.

So there he was, growing older and grayer, slowing down and sleeping more. And he had cancer. It wasn’t so much a death sentence as it was simply a matter of fact. “Your dog has cancer.” Watch him. Enjoy him. And let him live out the rest of his life.

And so he did. While my dog had cancer, he didn’t know it, so it didn’t really matter. In the end, it was renal failure that ultimately determined our decision to let him go. Had the cancer metastasized to his kidneys? I don’t know. An autopsy was never done, or if it was I simply don’t remember.

What I do remember vividly is the day we drove him to the vet. My girlfriend, Judith, and I were simply taking him for a check-up. That’s what we told ourselves. He wasn’t feeling well, but neither of us, nor my parents, really suspected this would be his last ride. After dusting about 2 feet of snow off the car, all three of us struggled into my tiny hatchbacked Mustang. Judith was at the wheel and I was sandwiched in the back with Sturmie. The ride isn’t generally a long one, but this day it was. As I sat in the back with him, I stroked his fur and tried to memorize his beautiful face. He had typical German Shepherd markings, but he had gorgeous sable and red fur instead of the customary brown. His saddle was black, his legs were tan, and his muzzle was now a brilliant white. But his eyes were sad, and somewhere during that ride, both my girlfriend and I silently realized he would not be coming back.

Had it been possible, I would have asked the vet to make a house call. But back then it just wasn’t something that was done ‘for a dog.’ So I stayed with him until the end, leaving his body to be cremated. I managed to hold it together long enough to get out of the office, and then I just lost it. I don’t think I have ever cried as hard in my life. And Judith cried. And when we returned home, with only his leash and collar, doors closed and my parents cried. Not together, but alone.

I was 27 years old and I slept with Sturmie’s blanket hugged in my arms for months after that. I still have fragments of that blanket. And it still has a few of his hairs on it, 33 years later, although long ago it lost his smell.

His ashes, along with the ashes of the other dogs in my life who have passed, sit on my dresser. I have plans to be cremated too, and have all our ashes mixed and scattered, some over the lake and some in Texas. My wife has told me she will need a crop duster to scatter us all, but that’s OK. We’ll all be together again. Even if we are dust in the wind.

So this blog is dedicated to my beautiful Shepherd, Sturmie.

My mother would follow him, a month to the day, also from cancer.

But that story is perhaps for another time.

I miss you, Sturm. After 33 years, I still miss you.

Reuben

I wrote this letter to friends shortly after having to have Reuben put to sleep.

Lancaster, TX
January 7, 1999


Those of you receiving this note hold a special place in my heart, and so it is with sadness that I must tell you that my friend of over 15 years has passed away. You all have heard stories of Reuben, and some of you have met him. A few of you knew him well, as you looked after him on the few weeks each summer Lia and I would travel to New York. Some of you would ask about him each time we met, and that was a joy to me as it meant you remembered something special about me - my wonderful animals. And some of you offered advice and support as I struggled with the realization that I must put him to sleep. Your kindness and thoughtfulness will not be forgotten. It is, in large part, because of these special souls that we have become friends... because we have all realized our capacity to love and be loved by them and, more importantly, our unique ability to appreciate the gift of the enduring bond that can form between animals and humans. Sadly, most people do not possess this ability, do not realize this gift. I can only feel sorry for them, as these creatures have much to teach us - about play, about love, about responsibility, about death and about ourselves.

As have all my dogs, Reuben taught me much. He taught me that the best place to sleep during the hot summer's heat was the bathtub. He taught me that floating in a kiddie pool was a great way to spend an afternoon. He taught me that rolling in new-mown grass, in dry Texas clay, in warm sand was more than a fun past-time it was a form of artistic expression. He taught me tag and keep-away and hide and seek. He taught me how to jump fences and hide in neighbors' cars. He taught me how to sing with the pack. He taught me how to be satisfied with only a third of the bed. He taught me, simply, how to be happy.

As we grew older, he taught me more important things. He taught me patience and kindness. He taught me not to ever plan to sleep through the night. He taught me that worry and anxiety and two A.M. trips to the emergency vet were just part of the deal. He taught me the meaning of a kind word and touch. He taught me to slow down and pay attention to the small things, the important things, the things we too often take for granted. He taught me to look deeply and listen quietly.

In the end, Reuben taught me about responsibility. He taught me that love alone cannot make things better, hard as we may try. He taught me many things about myself, things I needed to know. Animals have a great capacity for teaching us about ourselves, teaching us about the kind of people we really are, not the kind we wish we were or imagine ourselves to be. How we respond to them, how we treat them, how we care for them and love them, and finally how we let them go - this teaches us more than all the science and philosophy and religion man will ever write.

On December 29th, at 4:50 P.M., Reuben was put quietly to sleep, at home, in his own bed. I held him and covered his beautiful head with tears one last time. He was a magnificent friend, a true friend, and I miss him. His ashes sit in a little box aside Ludi's and Sturmie's and Stutzie's, all waiting one day to be mixed with mine, to be scattered in special places.

Look deeply. Listen quietly. It's something I've learned from a wonderful friend.

Marigolds

(I wrote this many years ago, while I was still dating. My housekeeping, sadly, has not improved much since then.)

Funny how I never noticed before -- the filth I mean. Weeks of laundry marked out a footpath on the floor -- the clean, the dirty, the indifferent -- and that pile by the bed seemed, from time to time, to move on its own. The magazines and papers heaped artfully against one wall and the precarious stack of album covers, long ago orphaned from their records, teetered a foot-high on the tattered coffee table, my most treasured bargain from Goodwill. The stereo groaned under the weight of records, thick with dust and stacked ten high -- the topmost, Magical Mystery Tour, covered in paw prints and kitty litter from the cat's most recent experimental, if brief, dance maneuver on the spinning turntable. Books and books and more books littered every flat surface and milk crate in the place. There was dirt everywhere. And this was only the living room.

As I made my way through the half-empty boxes of fried chicken, doughnuts, and pizza, I felt a growing dread. I could smell the kitchen even before I got there. My God, had the cat murdered something and squirreled it away under the stove for a future feast? Was some putrid rodent carcass rotting under the floorboards? I paused at the door, overcome. Did other single guys live like this? And if so, how did the species survive? Did I really live like this? Every plate, every fork, every knife, every spoon piled in the sink. Spent Pepsi cans and milk cartons, crowded together, marched shoulder to shoulder across the counter like anxious soldiers heading to war. It was a war zone. I remembered emptying the garbage once -- didn't I? Walking across the floor, my sneakers sucked at the linoleum, sticking to -- what was that on the floor?

I stopped and gathered courage at the refrigerator door. “Be brave, boy,” I told myself. After all, what could be in there? I was poverty-stricken. I didn't have money for real food -- nothing that would need refrigeration at least. I yanked at the door as it struggled against me. Was there something living in there? Had that been the reason the light had gone out – the little refrigerator man finally got fed up and sabotaged the bulb for a little privacy? I reached for the flashlight I kept in the freezer and cautiously peered in. One bottle of cheap champagne. Check. A tomato. A tomato? A tomato. Check. Some cheese -- I think. Raisin bread. Where did that come from? And something leathery and shriveled that might have been Jell-O. Or maybe gravy from last Thanksgiving. Well, not exactly a feast. Maybe the cat would share. I carefully closed the door and headed for the bathroom.

As I headed down the hall, I considered my options carefully. I had exactly an hour to pull it all together. Yet -- there was no doubt about it -- I needed a week. I didn't even know where the vacuum cleaner was. Right now, I couldn't even remember if I owned a vacuum cleaner -- or if I knew anyone who did. I knew I had some Pledge, but wasn't sure it would work on dirty dishes. And where would I stuff all my stuff? The closets were a hopeless, bulging mass of rubble and junk. And if the bathroom was half as bad as I remembered...

And then there it was. The bathroom. Maybe, I thought as I staggered back, maybe she won't have to pee. All night? How realistic was that? Women pee. Or they do something in bathrooms. Usually with other women. In packs. Thankfully, I didn't have to worry about a pack of women peeing in my bathroom tonight. Just one. And I couldn't very well send her out into the bushes if she needed to relieve herself. Well, I could, but it was certain I'd never date her again. Maybe I could lie and tell her the pipes were broken. She might feel sorry for me, having to suffer so. Sympathy can be romantic, can't it? No, that wouldn't work. And what if I had to pee? "Excuse me, Dear, I have to go outside to water the marigolds. Sit tight. I'll be right back. Can I get you a petunia while I'm out?" No. I needed a plan.

No. I needed a new apartment.

I had just finished dressing (I sniffed around and by a small miracle followed the clean pile of clothes) when the doorbell rang. And there she stood -- stunning -- beautiful -- civilized -- clean. I couldn't bring this innocent into my den of dirt.

Quickly, I killed the lights behind me as I stepped out onto the landing to meet her.

"I thought we were going to spend the evening at your place?" she said, radiantly.

"How much do you love me? I whispered in her ear.

"I love you terribly!" she sighed, looking at me peculiarly.

"Let's keep it that way, then,” I laughed as I bolted the door. "At least for a little longer. How about we do dinner and a movie instead?"

"Well, okay. Sure. That sounds like fun too. But what happened? I thought you had the night all planned? I was looking forward to seeing your place."

Yeah, I thought. You and my place -- Goldilocks meets Chernobyl. "I did. I really did." I hesitated. "But the pipes in my bathroom burst and, well..."

"Oh, you poor guy!" she soothed as she grabbed my hand and gave it a knowing squeeze. She looked around and giggled. "These bushes don't look very inviting anyway. And I'd hate to ruin the marigolds."

What a girl!

Orbs

Recently the kids (well, they're grown but will always be "The Kids") visited during the Thanksgiving weekend. We had occasion to enjoy an unusually balmy day sitting on the deck, enjoying conversation surrounded by my dogs. Several photos of Boris (my eldest dog) were taken, along with the rest of the family. Interestingly, a number of the photos of Boris had a blue orb which showed up only in his photos. No one else had blue orbs -- or any orbs for that matter. There was no dust on the camera lens, and no light leak or reflection. And just Boris had an orb. The rest of us were orb-less.

I have looked up "blue orbs" on the Internet (yes, of course, the apotheosis and repository of absolute Truth) and have discovered blue orbs to mean: " ... an indication of angels being around you, especially Archangel Michael as he resonates with the color blue." I also discovered different colors of blue mean different things: light blue means tranquility and pilot light blue means shielding. (Who in heck knows what 'pilot light blue' is. And who knows who decided what colors mean what?)

Of course, there is no science to this. But it's interesting.

In reading about the Archangel Michael, I discovered he's mentioned in Jewish, Christian, and Islamic texts. (Who knew?) And considered, among other things, to be the "field commander of the Army of God." (Thank you Wikipedia.) (OK, is it just me or does the idea of God having an Army sound just way too bizarre, nasty, and hateful? Must be the God of the Old Testament, that vengeful, spiteful, very human-like God, since we 'know' the God of the New Testament is a loving God. Not sure how Archangel Michael ranks in the Islamic text.)

Later (again in Wikipedia) I learn the name Mike (if he's visiting my dog, we're on a first name basis) "in Hebrew ... means 'who is like God' [by the way, that's a question, Christian friends, not a statement], which in Talmudic tradition is interpreted as a rhetorical question: "Who is like God?" (which expects an answer in the negative) to imply that no one is like God. In this way, Michael is seen as a symbol of humility before God." I like this explanation much better. My dogs would certainly be humble before God, if there is one. After all, dogs are named after God, only backwards.

I'm not sure how to interpret the presence of an orb that means both tranquility and shielding, but I like to think my dog will have both as he moves through his later years. Nor am I sure what the presence of these orbs means to my aging dog. Are they the spirit one of my other dogs? Tasha, perhaps, my beautiful German Shepherd who was Queen of the house, or maybe Linga, whom Boris loved without measure.

I just think it's interesting that my dog had blue orbs when no one else did. Are they dust motes? Let's not spoil it and say they are. Let's just enjoy the fact that my boy Boris is unique and the Universe recognizes this uniqueness and sent him some angelic blue orbs to bring him tranquility in his old age.

I wouldn't mind a blue orb myself, thank you.

The Palmer Method

I am personally partial to chocolate Easter Bunnies -- especially the bunnies manufactured by the Palmer candy company. Those named Popper and Sunny, Lil' Hopper and Baby Binks I count among my favorites. These Easter treats are hollow and somewhat fragile and must be eaten with extreme care, especially when wolfing down one or two while driving out of the parking lot of Eckerd’s. It is here where I buy my Palmer bunnies by the dozens -- ostensibly for grand children, nieces, nephews and favored neighborhood children. One learns early that counter staff in drug stores are prone to judgmental expressions of disdain if they suspect adults of buying Easter candy for themselves. So, to avoid such negative profiling, I have learned to fabricate elaborate stories about treating neighborhood urchins to Easter goodies or giving young relatives generous Easter gifts. Of course, I have no nieces or nephews, I care naught for the neighborhood children and my grand children live 700 miles away. Nor would I ever consider sharing my chocolate bunnies with any of them, even if they lived next door. Let them get their own bunnies. After all, they're children. Someone is bound to buy them chocolate bunnies for Easter. Adults have to forage for these treats on their own.

Despite the fact that the quality of Palmer chocolate is anything but gourmet, the company nevertheless goes to remarkable lengths with the packaging and preserving of their hollow bunny treats. Not only have they found it necessary to wrap these confections of little or no know nutritional value in gaily colored foil, the visage of the characteristically demented holiday hare, complete with toothy smile and gaudy bow tie or ribbon, (depending on its sex), emblazoned on the shiny surface. But, (in all likelihood because these bunnies are hollow), Palmer has also decided, in order that the chocolate not get crushed beyond recognition before being eaten and therefore rendered unsellable, (as pulverized chocolate bunny parts do not seem that attractive to the average consumer), each bunny must also be carefully cradled by its ears and feet between several fiercely inviolable layers of festively colored cardboard, and then shrink-wrapped in remarkably impenetrable plastic. While this certainly makes wresting the confection from its prison nearly impossible while driving, one has to admire the construction of each little package. Not only is each wrapper within a wrapper within yet another wrapper an unequivocal burden on the long-suffering ecology of burgeoning landfills nationwide, but this process of multiple packaging yields a product that doubtlessly has a shelf life akin to that of plutonium, making the products that don't sell one Easter available the next, and the next, and the next, until the treats are either purchased or disintegrate completely in their foil and cardboard armor. Not surprisingly, one never finds an expiration date on holiday candy of any kind. Easter bunnies are no exception.

Because of the nature of the Palmer bunny wrapping method, accessing the confection while operating a moving vehicle is not advisable. This maneuver is analogous to dialing a mobile phone while driving one's vehicle on a California Interstate during rush hour. Trying to unwrap a Palmer bunny while driving should no doubt be a criminal offense, but I have found that it is virtually impossible to resist eating at least one bunny long before ever arriving home. Temptation is too great. Of course, the inevitable epic sugar rush is also a dangerous side-effect of flagrant bunny consumption, so caution is advised here as well. Amateur chocolate consumers are advised against mixing copious amounts of Easter confections with driving. I suggest finding a diabetic as designated driver.

Yet, to satisfy my felonious lust for a Palmer bunny or two while still remaining relatively safe in my moving vehicle I have devised what I have come to call the Palmer Method. (This is not to be confused with the original Palmer Method of penmanship, now sadly long abandoned, by which young children were taught to write legibly.) My Palmer method, by the way, also works while sitting in a revolving desk chair in front of a computer screen, or sneaking bits of bunny while on the run between classes, or surreptitiously consuming copious bunny parts before others discover chocolate is nearby. But the focus of this discussion remains on safely consuming while driving.

The most difficult part of the process, as I have previously suggested, is accessing the confection in the first place. Palmer does not make this easy for consumers, whether they are moving or remaining stationary. Extricating the foil-wrapped rabbit from its hermetic captivity is much like successfully negotiating a breech birth. It takes a gentle and patient hand to release the bunny from the confines of its cardboard bondage without damaging an ear or caving in a rib. While maintaining the integrity of the bunny is not necessarily requisite to its enjoyment, if one is to avoid losing any fragment or shard of chocolate while driving distractedly, one should endeavor to keep the bunny's body intact as long as physically possible. One should especially strive for this while driving as it is difficult to fish for lost crumbs of chocolate from beneath one's bucket seat or from between one's legs while still maintaining reasonable control of the car and avoiding being gawked at by fellow drivers, as others on the road are wont to draw unusual and often lewd conclusions if they see a driver's hand frequently disappearing into his lap, regardless the reason.

The first thing one must do to release the foil-clad bunny is to puncture the plastic shrink wrap. This can be accomplished without much difficulty with a pen, pencil, hairpin or other sharp object one may find in one's car. Unhappily, old drinking straws found in the neighboring seat are of little value. Tire pressure gauges are also seldom effective and are often rendered useless in the process. Sporks, those tine-spined plastic spoons one gets at fast food drive-throughs, are also relatively ineffective, as they tend to break before the wrapping does. Nor is stabbing the plastic repeatedly with the blunt end of one's finger efficacious. However, it is here where women generally have the advantage over men, as they often sport long fingernails and these domestic weapons are perfect for tearing the tenacious wrap into shreds. Even so, ladies be warned. Lee Press-On Nails have often been lost forever, ricocheting off the unforgiving plastic like so many tiddly winks, only to be buried evermore in back seat upholstery. Then again, some of these nails, when applied at just the wrong angle, have been known to move so swiftly through the plastic that they become deeply imbedded in the bunny's chocolate and foil flesh, there to protruded like the spines of a hedgehog until they can be pulled from the carcass at the next red light. So caution is advised, whatever manner is used to render the plastic gone.

With the plastic punctured, it is relatively easy to remove and can be done so if one is even remotely good at driving with one hand. The other hand can thus be employed to wrestle off the plastic wrap. If a particular wrapping proves peculiarly contrary and unyielding, one can also, as a last resort, engage one's teeth in the process, being mindful both of one's dental work and of obscuring one's view of the road by inadvertently placing the box in front of one's eyes. Caution and good judgment are advised.

With the plastic wrap now gone, it is time to extract the bunny from its cardboard host. This can also be done with one hand. Slight pressure against the cardboard, right where it grips the bunny's ears, will generally free the candy coney from bondage. Care, however, should be taken to apply pressure to the cardboard rather than the ears of the bunny itself. While the ears are the most substantial part of the entire chocolate body, they can still nevertheless be broken. And while the foil cover keeps the ears from disappearing onto the floorboards should this happen, one must consider that, immediately upon unwrapping the foil, the broken ears are at large and must be consumed altogether immediately or lost. Too, one must understand that the ears, being the most sizeable part of the confection's design, are difficult to stuff in one's mouth whole. Again, one's driving neighbors should be considered when attempting this, as it is unseemly to view another driver engaged in any sort of mouth stuffing. Good taste should always prevail when one finds oneself engaged in eating while driving. Causing neighboring drivers to gag in sympathetic reaction is not sporting.

With the bunny now safely removed intact from the cardboard, the final process of removing the foil begins. There are two schools of approach to this. One encourages careful removal of the foil design for later entertainment. These foil dressings can be saved and later made into all sorts of artistic oddments: Origami animals, garish aluminum ornaments and cheap cat toys are but a few examples. However, most consumers simply tear off the foil, throw it into the back seat and attack the chocolate bunny with rabid fervor. I generally employ the latter approach as I have found it even more difficult to create Origami swans while driving than accessing Palmer packages.

Finally, while there are any number of individual approaches to finally enjoying one's chocolate bunny, there are two generally accepted techniques used to consume the coveted prized confection: the anterior method and the posterior method. The anterior method was alluded to earlier. In this method, one eats the ears first. One can consume the entire ear mass in one bite or one can carefully nip small, delicious bits of ear at one's leisure. Either technique is acceptable. Many people employ this ear-eating method claiming that, since the rabbit can no longer hear, this method is more humane as the bunny never hears the next bite. The other, posterior method involves eating the feet, fanny and tail of the confection first. By consuming the feet first, gastronomes claim the bunny cannot escape and a leisurely repast can be enjoyed. Of course, there are those kinky mavericks who insist on crushing the bunny into small bite sized fragments or eating from the middle outwards, but, while these techniques might be fine at home, they are inadvisable while driving. For example, small bits of chocolate can be seemingly lost, only to turn up later melted to a compromising region of the seat of one's pants. So too, eating a chocolate bunny from the middle out can leave melted chocolate on one's chin and nose. While many in our culture are recognized with these distinct markings, they are not generally from chocolate nor largely considered socially appropriate. The term brown nose is seldom if ever associated with chocolate bunny eaters. So, this approach to confection consumption, with its attendant countenance, is to be avoided lest people get the wrong impression.

Chocolate Easter bunnies are a joy to eat and certainly, to me, the most festive part of the whole Easter season. While others enjoy jelly beans and creme eggs as they ponder the season of death and rebirth, I prefer resurrecting hollow Palmer bunnies from their cardboard warrens. The struggle of the hunt and the sensuous unwrapping of each little body makes the holiday a cheerful time for me; a time to reflect on just what the holiday has come to mean ... chocolate.

Snow

A little bit of snow goes a long way here in Middle Tennessee. My friends back home in Western New York laugh when I tell them the whole state comes to a grinding halt when we have 3 inches of snow, but then, I think the whole of Tennessee has only has one snow plow, and it never shows up here.

The problem here (besides the no-show snowplow) is that the terrain in much of the eastern part of the state, and even here in Middle Tennessee, is steep and treacherous, so even when the main highways are marginally passable, the outlying roads are impossible. And forget driveways. Merely getting our cars to move a few inches was a monumental feat until I remembered an old trick and emptied half a bag of kitty litter under the wheels. Sorry Kitty, you’ll have to crap under the tires for a while.

We have an unusual kind of snow here. Not the nice powdery stuff skiers like; not even the normal snow typical of most snowy states. We have soggy snow, unusually big blobbing globs of it that plop gracelessly from the heavens, often followed by pellets of frozen rain that freeze to everything and take down huge tree limbs that snap and crack in the dead of night — the kind of splintering limbs that echo in the dark while you strain to hear if they’ve landed on anything important — like the car or the barn. And the mix of snow and frozen rain traps even the most innocent. Dog toys, forgotten on the lawn and left to fend for themselves, remain trapped in agonized contortions, alone until they thaw in the weak winter sun.

Now snow in Western New York is generally a lot different and we’re used to it. Most of the time it falls in huge, powdery flakes or delicate crystals. We don’t even stop when a foot of snow falls over night. We have all kinds of snow shovels and snow blowers, and we don our winter gear (very similar to the clothes our mothers stuffed us in as kids), pull on our buckled boots, and trudge out looking like Michelin Men. And we pride ourselves on our ability to build snow forts that last well into April.

I remember when I was in my late 20s and living in the small cottage my family owns right on Lake Erie. That was back when everyone had a cottage and no one had yet gone ego-maniacal, thinking bigger was better, building up and out so thoroughly and thoughtlessly that quaint homes grew into monolithic eyesores only someone with more money than brains could appreciate – or want.

Back then, in the 70s, all the cottages were single story. And because there were very few people who lived on the lake during the winter, most of the houses remained totally engulfed in snow – the only things peaking out were chimneys. When the winds would blow the snow off the lake, which they did with amazing ferocity, the drifts would be so high one could literally walk from rooftop to rooftop. And I often did. Like I said, I was in my 20s. Foolish. And a lightweight.

I was there in that cold little cottage during the blizzard of 1977 and remember listening to the weather reports all morning, warning of the impending storm. I took off for the grocery store in my little hatch-backed Mustang with the studded tires to stock up on supplies. By the time I got back from my short trip downtown, the blizzard had followed on my heels and I vividly remember pulling into the driveway, itself fastly filling with snow, and looking out my car window as the mail box, less than 15 feet away, disappeared. I had witnessed whiteouts before, but never had I seen snow fall at such an alarming rate.

I slid my way into the house, groceries in tow, and turned on the TV. Buffalo was getting pounded , the thruway had been shut down from Erie, PA to past Syracuse, NY, and people were trapped in their cars. I had made it home just in time before they closed Routes 5 and 20, the main highway from town to the Bay. Realizing the severity of the situation, I grabbed the shovel and brought it inside. I would be glad I did.

This was bloody exciting! I watched out the window as the snow continued for hours, unabated. When I finally turned on the CB radio, I heard truckers trapped on the highways. Now it was getting serious. By the end of the day, the highway patrol had rescued dozens of stranded motorists. And still the snow kept falling. By the end of the storm 9 bodies were found frozen to death, having been trapped in and suffocated as the snow engulfed their cars.

In the coming days I was glad for that shovel because I had to dig my way out of the cottage on several occasions. The CB was my one link to the outside world for many days after that. I talked to truckers, motorists, townspeople, and cops. The one neighbor down my road who lived full time with his family on the Lake was the only person making it in and out of the Bay. I think the only reason the snowplow came down our road was because he was a physician and the town needed him. He too had a CB, and we’d talk as he made his way through the weather. Even with a range of only a few miles, it was still an effective way to communicate and made everyone feel a little less isolated.

It was a thrilling and deadly storm, but New Yorkers took it in stride.

Now we have The Weather Channel, and they hype up the damnedest things. Buffalo gets 10 inches and you’d think the world was ending. Columbia, Tennessee has three flakes circling the town and the whole place comes to a screeching halt. Because they believe the hype from the weather gurus, they salt the roads before the snow comes, and when it rains instead, all the salt is washed away, leaving people spinning their wheels on black ice when the freeze finally hits.

Black ice. I’d never heard of black ice until I moved to Texas and experienced it firsthand. In New York, even after the snow plows scrape past, there’s usually a thin coat of snow on the roads and you can get a pretty good purchase and traction. In Texas, when the rain and snow does freeze, it creates the illusion of a clear road until you try and stop. Then all hell breaks loose and you can tell the Yanks from the Southerners. The Yanks are the ones not in the snow banks. It was always fun, as a Yankee turned naturalized Southerner, to marvel at the fools in Dallas who’d slap on the chains and go spinning down Central Avenue. Hey, Stupid – metal on ice – that’s how ice skating works!

For the most part, I don’t miss Western New York winters. They were fun when I was a kid but if I tried to shovel my driveway now I’d end up dead from a heart attack. I don’t like being cold for more than a few minutes at a time, and I’m not crazy about losing trees to ice storms. I hate not knowing whether the car will start, and detest getting snow in my shoes and down my pants.

What I do miss are the clear winter nights when the snow is so cold and fresh it sparkles in the moon light and squeaks under foot. I miss hearing the snow fall in the still wintry night. I miss filling my lungs with cold air and breathing out rings of frosty breath. I miss ice skating outside until my toes are numb, and the fun of flying down a hill on an aluminum saucer at breakneck speed. I miss waking to a hoar frost on the wheat fields, and the absolute silence a blanket of snow brings.

But honestly, this past snowfall here in Middle Tennessee wasn’t so bad. Aside from losing part of the fence and some pine tree boughs, it was beautiful. The dogs loved digging for voles in the ice-frozen soil and shaking off snow in the living room. I enjoyed the extra day off my wife got when the car wouldn’t budge. And when the sun finally broke through the clouds, the ice on the trees made everything magically sparkle and twinkle, creating rainbows glinting off the branches. The fields of snow, covered in a thick sheet of ice, glistened like polished glass. And it was beautiful even as it started to melt, when the wind sent icicles falling from branches to land on the glass-like snow and ring with a musical, tinkling sound.