nature

Is It? Really? Don’t Lie To Me…

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It’s April in Upstate New York and it’s SPRINGTIME!

Wait. Be right back.

It is! Had to go look, again, because you can’t be sure about the weather around here but it does look like it’s time to put the winter clothes away. If you live in a temperate climate whose winter doesn’t challenge you, you might not appreciate Spring the way we do, here….especially if you are an “older person”*. Minus Zero temperatures do wonders for the joints, and howling winds certainly help to clear germs and viruses from exposed skin. And no bugs! Snow is a big help, too: it takes the worry out of planning your day when everything is closed or closing. Enjoy your time alone. Learn more about yourself. Look inward, grasshopper.

The worst part of winter in upstate New York, though, is the complaining. Fugddaboutit NY City people having a “bad mouth”, come to Upstate when the snow is…

Hmph. I’m complaining, aren’t I. Not directly but that other way people whine. Reboot.

Spring is here! My windows are open, and my apartment is full of fresh air and construction.** It is also full of something hard to explain. This something happens every year when Spring returns, and since it is only my third spring after being in The South for over 20 years, my mind and body feel “something” my brain and fingers aren’t helping me explain.

It may be my brain and fingers want me to do something other than this. They may want me to go outside, take my clothes off, and walk***around in the sun under the fantastically clear blue sky. Or sit on my balcony and silently respond to the shouts, orders, directions, and curses of suddenly light-hearted construction workers. Imagine how happy THEY are about Spring.

I’m out of here. No more talking about Spring in Upstate New York except to suggest you southerners, Californians, and Upstate NY Snowbirds**** come to visit or return. It’s time. Paradise is reborn.

Footnote: so far this day, every person entering my bubble of existence is as happy about Spring as I am. And thankfully, only one has reminded me of how soon winter will be back. Buttwipe.

Out, out damn gray slush-lover!

“Lay on, McDuff!”*****

“The April’s in her eyes; it is love’s spring, and these gentle showers bring it with them.”

*Good, neutral term. Old Man or Old Woman might turn the reader off, as in “Who Cares.”

**A personal bonus from the expansion of my apartment complex. Besides the normal sounds of hammering and sawing and grinding and high-powered tools, there are also some interesting words.

***Yes, as a young man I often fell victim to the desire to feel sun all over,…but at a higher speed.

****People lucky/unlucky enough to have the best of Upstate without the worst.

*****Actual quote, often mis-paraphrased.

For The Childish, The Young At Heart, And Anyone Who Wants To Be

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I’ve written about Seasonal Affective Disorder(SAD) before and it’s time to mention it again. I call it SAD because that what it is, but when it tried to grab me recently, tools to combat its kidnapping attempt were readily at hand. One tool is childishness, also known as silliness, which is not to be confused with The Ministry of Silly Walks, though if SAD keeps happening, we might need to mount an appropriate Federal response.

SAD likes to come at night and park itself between the ears before you are awake enough, to recognize its infestation and open the toll box. So it was last night, but I was on to it early. My second-floor wall of windows lets me see the world from above and as the snow fell and covered everything, the first thought was how lucky I was to face the parking lot. Other times in the year the direction I faced was irrelevant. But when it snows, I am blessed to see the beauty of the snowfall, the silent throttling of all negativity, the carpeting of the dirty, dingey world with something pure (at night only!), white, and Godlike. (Apologies for calling it God’s dandruff, in an earlier afternoon post.) From high on the…from my window then the world goes quiet, beautiful, serene…you could hear a pin drop on the soft, snowy cushions*

Then the machines come. Big, ornery machines, throwing the snow aside as if angry for the snow’s hubris. The machine march begins with one large, Transformer-like, crab-walking, black exhaust spewing noisy mother-, sorry, big freaking thing. It makes mighty sweeps through the parking lot grid as if it were PacMan high on a Power Pellet. Then, the smaller worker bees, the fine-tuners come out and scurry around the grid, snipping, here, cutting here, and leaving piles of used, white fabric in the main grid for PacMan. As if divinely designed, Pacman takes all the snow off stage left to a pile I can imagine is snow heaven. Or snow purgatory? Probably just a big pile, but you get the drift.**

As if that wasn’t enough entertainment, these little black stick figures began to move about. Most were unrecognizable with coverings of enormous bulbous-ness and fluffiness, but there was a figure in shorts. His appearance was brief. Most walked with high strides, as if practicing for Monty Python. They all walked towards mounds of snow from which lights shown, as if someone had a remote starter for their cars and they had, oh, yes, exactly like that.

Tai Chi*** has a movement called “Stroking The Birds Tail”. Every one of the stick figuers must be a Tai Chi master cause they also used “Moving The Clouds Away”, and finally, “Lotus Flower”. No one did “White Crane Spreads Its Wings”, but my neighbors’ knowledge of ancient Chinese movements was not only impressive, but surprising.

What was I talking about, again? Oh, yeah, being SAD. The malady had not completely been expelled until this thought: I can’t wait to tell “unnamed person” (UPER) about this. She (hint) will love it.” In other words, a fun time was made better by knowing there was someone to share it with, someone who would actually listen. UPER is a “high S with some I” personality so I knew when she heard the story there’d be no roll of the eyes, no wonder about what might be wrong with this person, this me, babbling on about snow. I had faith.

Fun, friendship, and Faith…was that the point of today’s post?

Oh, right SAD. Let’s not waste anymore time on that stupid subject.

*Apologies for really mangling that metaphor. Pin? Snowy cushions?

**I am so proud of that pun. Wait, how many knew it was a pun?

It Was A Dark and Stormy Night

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Yeah, it is. Was. And will be for at least two more days. Happy Feckin’ New Year.

There is no way to describe the feeling of an upstate New York Lake Effect Snow Bomb(NYLESB*). No way. But I have to try, it is the only thing to do to save sanity. I’ve videod NYLESB every mid-night because it is beautiful as the flakes dance and drift and fly over the parking lots and the cars, often sideways in the biting, cold wind. Then, I noticed every night has been the same for…a month, a year, forever? And how gray is gray, anyway? Each day is a pulsating, electric rainbow of gray, light gray, dark gray, medium gray. It’s making my hair gray, driving me to not care a f#$% about punctuation and spelling. Oh, nooooo.

A weather person on a local station did an outdoor report on the amount of snow falling during this latest assault. She was covered head to toe with fabric but her exposed cheeks were bright red. The male news anchor inside the studio said this when the outdoor reporter finished her report: “Thanks for that report, Hannah and remember, stuff like this builds character.” Mic drop.

I lived in upstate NY for my first 30 years and it was never like this. Or was it? Maybe this is just another way age effects and affects us? As a 30-year old, did character building influence my opinion and recording of past snow events? Was there ever a time when new snow meant get outside and play, or at least shovel the driveway? We used to burrow snow forts into the two-tiered snowbanks caused by the snowplows with the wings. Later in life there was a news story about kids getting killed when another passing snowplow buried them. So it goes, as a famous person said more than once.

Yeah, that makes sense: we can build character with any event if we are ignorant enough. Or naïve enough? Inexperienced? Stupid?

In looking at this through the distortion of a half-full glass, it is a great way to get an idea of how Arctic and Antarctic researchers must feel when they purposefully place themselves in either of this Earth’s frigid, frozen poles. Hey, more good news. Thanks to climate change they may not be frozen much longer…all that ice and snow is migrating to Upstate New York.

What’s the big deal? At least we’re alive, right?

As the whining continues, it should be pointed out I am nice and warm inside a swanky apartment building with heat, light, and a fitness center on the first floor. My front wall of windows allows me to turn The Chair to sit and watch the dropping of NYLESB’s snowflakus gigantis, levitating from The Chair only when I really, really want to, or when nature calls for a warmer activity in the throne room. There are some who may not be as lucky. It is a time to ponder the homeless, or the poor who cannot afford heat, or the cat who runs under cars in the parking lot. What happens to them? Can anything be done?

And there it is, dammit, character. Do I get credit for it or does Mother Nature? God? Is my character-building the result of free will, and would it have happened without the warm apartment?

No one gets credit until something gets done. Thinking of good character is not being a good character. When that snow stops, watch out, world, you’re gonna get fixed. (Yes, I was going to type something else.)

But right now, back to bed.

This piece is riddled with red and blue lines, warning the grammar and spelling police are awakening and preparing my arrest. Am I worried? If you don’t hear from me look under the big snowbank to the left of the building.

*This sounds a little “rainbowish”? Anyone offended?

Pets and Grief…maybe

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I can sunbathe from my second-floor balcony. I have not had a pet in over 14 months.

You may take a few minutes to try in–your own mind–to make a nice, human story from those two statements.

Okay. Times up. When sunbathing, I am not afraid to show my aging body but aware there may be some weak stomachs if too much skin is made available for public viewing. Fortunately, the sun shines into my apartment from the balcony at certain times of the day so there is a way to be secretly nudish (sic), appreciate the sun, and ensure innocent eyes don’t suffer retinal damage: keeping my balcony door open.

Sidebar: For the thirteen months I’ve inhabited a second-floor loft in Rome, NY, not one bug has been noticed at, near, or in my apartment. They do not even bang against the large windows or get caught in the screens, even when the windows are open and allow a beautifully breezy flow of clear, clean, upstate NY air. It is welcome relief from the south where bugs are frequently co-habitants and often big enough to be paying rent. An open window in the south is an invitation for a collection of creatures wondering if they can enter, and they often do, somehow. And in shifts with night-time arthropods arriving after the daytime hexapods retire after a long day. The arachnids (spiders) were welcomed, however, and their full webs were applauded each morning, until one decided–without invitation–to be a house pet. And one morning there was a praying mantis trying to unlock my car door, True story, he/she was huge.

So. One beautiful, unexpected spring day while sunbathing with the balcony door open and my physical form hidden from prying eyes (you know who you are!), it was with little fanfare and–certainly no invitation–that a big, fat fly buzzed into the apartment, zooming right over my astonished head and off into the very bowels of the previously insect free living space. You all know how they buzz, letting you know they are there, somewhere you can’t find them. Somewhere they are secretly doing what they do. Flies. Annoying little basta%$#s.

He/She/It was fat and fast, buzzing and zooming all over, but never back through the conveniently open balcony door. I chased It with a book, a broom, a towel, and eventually sat, exhausted, in the chair after an hour of high-level, video-game pursuit.

And it landed in my lap. I struck my lap hard with the palm of my hand as It flitted away, back to the kitchen area. It was during the ensuing respite from humiliation and physical exertion that I ruminated on the fact my solitary existence in the apartment was often a cause for loneliness as my dog, Charlie, and cat Maxine, were left behind in North Carolina, The Calamities making me unfit to be the animals’ parents until such time as chasing after them was a possibility. (But I could still type a long sentence.) Missed were the big, brown, loving eyes, of Charlie and the baleful stare of Maxine as she struggled with how to do away with me and still get fed. Like most pet owners, what is missed the most is talking with them. Just knowing they are there.

Long story short, I adopted the big, fat, uninvited fly as my new pet. I decided he was a male, but did not do any research to corroborate the fact. How would one do that, anyway? (google: do flies have sex.) Naming him was easy: Jeff, after Jeff Goldblum, the actor in the 1986 science fiction classic film “The Fly”. Technically, Mr. Goldblum’s first name is Jeffrey, so Jeffrey became my new pet. Not only did I talk to Jeffrey but I’m sure he talked back, in his own way. For example, he frequently joined me in the bathroom when I did my ablutions, keeping a discreet distance while resting in the tub, waiting. We played together, too, chasing each other around the apartment. Google the song “My Best Friend” by Harry Nillsson for an example of how close a man and his fly can become.

Sadly, when this story was told to local human friends, they all said the same thing: “Don’t ever tell anyone else this story.”

So here it is, in its mostly true form.

Epilogue: Our friendship lasted several warm, spring days, but when it got cooler things changed. Jeffrey was indifferent, lackadaisical and didn’t want to play anymore. One afternoon upon returning from an appointment, my opening of the apartment door revealed Jeffrey on his back on my kitchen counter, all six legs pointing to the ceiling. Even in the end he was considerate, dying in plain sight and easily brushed into the garbage. He’d given me the best of his 15-30 days on this earth. Oddly, the same friends who warned me about telling this story upbraided me for unceremoniously disposing of him. Was I supposed to give Jeffrey a funeral?

He was just a fly.

Trump, no more

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Yep, it’s true. These are the last, few sentences I’ll write about Felon47. It isn’t because he’s stopped lying, whining, and doing bad things, but everyone is starting to take notice. Finally. You’ll hear all about it in the coming months. My words aren’t needed, anymore.

So…what do we talk about, now?

My little town in upstate New York was thrust into the “Lake Effect Snowbelt” these past few weeks. It is a phenomenon unique to the states east of The Great Lakes (google them). Cold winds coming from the west, northwest flow over the still warm lakes and suck up huge amounts of water, which gets deposited over land as the wind sweeps off last lake. It doesn’t get deposited as water, but as snow. It snows so much and for so long it’s hard to believe each snowflake is different. AI says each flake is different because “each snowflake follows a different path through the air, experiencing different conditions.” I call bull$%^& and need to see some proof: they all look the same when you’re shoveling.

Historically, the Lake Effect drops snow bombs farther north of my city, dumping as much as 30 feet of snow, annually, on small towns and farms whose denizens are veterans of the flaky onslaught. They relish it. Local parking lots are not filled with cars but snowmobiles. The Tug Hill Plateau region holds the (unofficial) New York State record of 77 inches of snowfall in 24 hours. Each flake unique, beautiful, and fragile. Right. How many unique flakes in 77 inches spread over acres and acres? Bull%$#@. Imagine someone looking at each flake…

How many flakes? I finally understand the concept of “infinity”.

The last two weeks a wind shift has pushed the lake effect south…to me… and I’ve been in The Chair watching it from the warmth and comfort of my second-floor apartment. (And sharing it with my friends in the south, garnering immense pity.) Most days there has been some form of legal restriction on travel: states of emergency, weather advisories, warnings, and often things are just closed so there is no reason to venture out. But some do, with hilarious consequence. Maybe they’re checking the uniqueness of flakes? Or just like to move snow around.

As noted in an earlier “complaint” about snowfall in upstate New York, humans are the best entertainment in bad conditions. We are fun to watch.

The complex I live in has a sense of humor, too. Imagine trying to clear a parking lot full of snow when the parking lot is full of cars. And the snow never stops. Management tried to get us to move our cars in concert during the first snow blast last month. About 50 per cent of us did, which you can imagine, made it worse. So when the next management notice came about moving cars to clear an area no one moved. Now that’s progress.

It’s the end of February so the big lake effect snows may be over, but after a strange, 10 months of unusual weather highlighted by a rare summer tornado and rare lake effect snow, it can only mean I owe the lifetime residents an apology for moving here last April.

For more than that reason, I am truly sorry.

But: Spring is coming! And MAGAns are turning against…oops…almost said that name.