Snowman's Land

In South Carolina this week the snow fell up to our shoetops. That’s counting our high-top sneakers and the weather-proof hiking boots we bought to wear wading in the puddles last spring.

Rare occurrences such as snow that doesn’t melt on impact or a decent bullpen for the Braves make the news in the South. We don’t interrupt Wheel of Fortune every time a tornado sucks up a trailer, but in a section of the country where people remember snowfalls by how many children they had at the time, that means only one thing.

Everybody stops to take part in the miracle.

The miracle of how to keep feet dry that skip out to play in the snow 72 times in one day with changes of gear in between. (Turns out kids’ tootsies need extra looking after as well as Captains and dogs.)

The miracle of the Replenishing Cup of Hot Chocolate. No matter how many sets of cold fingers come through the back door, there is always a steaming cup of hot chocolate for them to wrap around.

The miracle of the birds and the. . .other birds. At the Mullis birdfeeder buffet, the larger birds sling enough food off their plates that the smaller birds on the ground have plenty to eat. On Wednesdays chickadees eat free.

The miracle of how to keep the dogs from eating the snowman’s eyes. Although the snowman at our house boasts walnuts for eyes, rendering him slightly nearsighted and unable to react quickly to danger, this has not been an impossible miracle to experience. Dalmador Labmations like to lick walnuts, not eat them. This also results in an admirably smooth complexion for the snowman.

The miracle of finding the Dachshund in the snow drift before she becomes an ice statue. This miracle is documented on digital media, although the expression on the Dachshund’s face does not lend to flashing such evidence around as if it were clever baby pictures.

The miracle of an entire county buying enough bread to keep America’s Breadbasket in business. I am two peanut butter sandwiches away from financing secondary education for every person in Kansas.

And the miracle of how to make one roll of toilet paper last a week. (Even though I personally witnessed a Wal-Mart shopper hurrying toward the register with a 72 pack. I don’t know what other provisions he stocked, but I do NOT want to be snowed in at his house.)

In a few days, the snow will fade away and our lives will be filled once again with red mud and kudzu. Until then, we believe in miracles.

And even after. Because the Dachshund will never let us forget.

Seek and You Shall Fail

"Before beginning a hunt, it is wise to ask someone what you are looking for before you begin looking for it." -- Winnie the Pooh

I appreciate the earnest wisdom of Winnie the Pooh as much as the next bear of very little brain, but in all deference, what I could use is a little bit of insider information on the location of the thing I’m looking for. Here we are teetering right on top of the time of year when well-honed finding skills are of utmost importance and I couldn’t track down an Easter egg with an Indian scout and a dedicated Coonhound trained on pastels. What I need is for Microsoft to create a search function that works in my back yard.

Since the seek-fail gene is not the sort of genealogical wonder that skips a generation, my sons Ca$h and Wrongway have this happy talent splashed all over their DNA like egg dye.

My older son is 20 and, while he has no use for hen’s eggs died to match the purples and polka dots found in nature, he has a keen interest in plastic Easter eggs which are known to harbor money or crispy chocolaty goodies in their recesses. But since he is not able to get in touch with his inner GPS, this year he requested that the Easter Bunny hide his eggs in a row on the kitchen table, marked with his name and initialed by quality control. He’d have no problems if the Easter Bunny simply left a check.

You’d think this would take some of the spirit out of the Easter morning egg hunt, but it’s actually a lot less painful than squiring a twenty year old to and fro past the back gate squealing, “Look! What's that behind the third tulip from the left? No, the other left.” Meanwhile, woodland creatures are gathering behind the bushes to place bets on how many eggs stay in the yard for another year.

He did find a group of colored eggs one year. Our Golden Retriever, who never met a food based item he didn’t like, rolled all the dyed eggs into the middle of the yard and licked the Crisco off. I thought the Crisco was to make them shiny, not lend them dog appeal. That's like rubbing meat tenderizer on the cat. Son One got up Easter morning, collected eggs like a hayseed in a henhouse and went back to bed.

My other son is an ace with Easter eggs. He has a multi-sensored tracking device embedded in his brain that can secure the enemy egg’s location in a nanosecond. It’s our house that he can’t seem to locate without help. In his defense, he hasn’t had his driver’s license long enough for the plastic smell to wear off. On his way home from the mall one day, he discovered a new school. In a different county. My cell phone rang that evening and an eerily familiar voice said, “Mom, I don’t think I’m in Kansas anymore.” "Honey," I answered, calmly twisting the telephone wire into accordian pleats, "We live in South Carolina." So I can count on him to come up with the goods on the annual egg hunt. If he can find our yard.

I don’t understand it, though. I’ve seen these guys play video games. Either one can pick out a sniper across three continents hiding in the broom closet in the basement of a fourteen story building made of concrete slab with no windows. If the sniper is crouched under an overturned mop bucket wearing an invisibility cloak, all the better. The only decision is weather to sneak across a landbridge with a simple shotgun or a fall back on a weapon with a little more finesse, say a flame thrower.

But for now, our Easter eggs are safe. Unless he drops them in an underwater volcano somewhere in the mid Pacific. Personally, I hope he hides them on a certain ship or two located off the coast of Somalia.

Those stinkin' pirates wouldn't stand a chance.