Trivial pursuits

If you’ve been reading Minnesota Transplant long enough, you know that some days I really don’t have anything to say.

But I write a post anyway.

Today is one of those days.

I write for practice. I’ve come up with something interesting or inane to say about 26 times a month on average over the past five years. (I don’t obsess with my stats much, no, though astute readers might have noticed I recently surpassed 1,000 followers. If you’re reading me on your iPad, that is. On my PC, I supposedly have 643 followers. Who can account for the vagaries of WordPress stat crunchers? Who pays attention to such minutia anyway?)

In any case, today was one of those rare days in May. I ran 3.53 miles this morning (again, who’s counting?) as the glorious sun was rising. Not too hot, not too cold, it was Goldilocks “just right.” When I walked the dog briefly this evening, it was “just right” again.

Today’s meals? Not worth mentioning, except to say pesto mayo is awesome on a bacon-and-egg sandwiches.

Didn’t do anything worth writing home about either, except one thing: I wrote 877 words on my work-in-progress. Click here for today’s taste of the memories of the year I turned 15.

That’s about it. Oh, I slept well last night, too. Hoping for the same tonight. Here’s wishing you sweet dreams.

Old Man Winter has overstayed his welcome in Central Minnesota

Minnesota, the state where the water is still frozen solid on April 6, and I’m not talking about the frozen margaritas.

I took this shot of the Mississippi River in Little Falls this afternoon. My father tells me other parts of the river not behind a dam are open, and in fact, he’s planning to do some open water fishing next week (equipped with mittens, no doubt).

Here’s a look at my parents’ yard at dusk tonight (at least dusk lasts until 8 p.m. this time of year). Dad, who’s lived in Minnesota all his life and turned 70 last month, says he’s never seen this much snow on the ground on April 6.

I admire the endurance of Minnesotans who not only persevere through this kind of winter but actually enjoy it.

But I’m so glad I’m no longer among them.

First day of spring, my a-

I want blossoms, not bluster.

The weather here in northern Illinois is, excuse my crass lack of eloquent description, bullshit.

It’s 19 degrees as I write this in the afternoon. According to the talking heads on the morning news, the wind chill this morning made it feel like 4 degrees below — below! — zero (it’s much worse at my parents house in Wadena, Minn. — the air temperature was below zero by itself this morning, forget how much colder the wind made it feel).

My precious little 8-pound schnauzer who lack body fat and wanders around in bare paws is still having to contend with snow in the back yard. Poor thing.

It’s the first day of spring! I just want to grab Mother Nature by her fur-lined lapel and shake some sense into her! Where the heck is that glorious spring weather we experienced last year at this time (my Beloved was mowing the lawn a year ago!)? Is this payback?

The atrocious weather sent me seeking a prayer, and I found this one titled, “Spring” in “Graces: Prayers & Poems for Everyday Meals and Special Occasions” by June Cotner:

We give you everlasting thanks, O God,
For the marvels of your great creation.

As the flowers blossom and bloom around us
We lift our hearts in joy and celebration.
Amen.

Nice prayer? Indeed. Beautiful. But I think we need something more along the lines of a rain dance right now. I am not Native American, but here’s how a Germanic Swede born in Minnesota might perform a “spring dance”:

• Wear orange, the color of the sun. But not so much as to call attention to oneself.  An orange hair thingy is appropriate; an orange coat would be going too far. Face paint might include green eyeshadow or bronzer (again, we Minnesotans think Lady Gaga is a little “out there”).
• Stand, shifting weight from one leg to the other. Weave hands back and forth like a snake charmer as if to impose one’s will on another.
• Hum the tune from Bob Dylan’s “Blowing in the Wind or “The Times They Are a-Changin’” (Dylan was born in Duluth, Minn., dontcha know). Finish dance with a fist pump and bark, “You betcha!”

If that doesn’t scare away winter, I don’t know what will.

Sifting through the flakes

Snow means different things to different people.

You’ve probably heard the saying that Eskimos have a thousand words for snow; if you Google it, you’ll discover there’s some controversy to this old trope, but even among us Midwesterners, there’s plenty of meaning in those falling white flakes.

“Snowstorm” means school’s out for some of us. It might mean outdoor fun, cocoa or a snowball fight.

“Accumulation” could mean cardio (or heart attack if you’re wielding a shovel and love handles), work (it’s still work, even if you have a snowblower) or money (if you’re a snow plower).

“Snow” means cold temperatures, long winter and misery for some of us. I don’t know if living in Minnesota for nearly four decades inspired these feelings in me or if simply one season of repeated visits from Jack Frost would have done it, but I’m squarely in the club of snow haters.

And in the corner opposite of merry diversion, “falling snow” means four-wheel drive, slippery roads and white-out conditions for people who have to drive in a wintry environment. I can’t escape applying some ominous meaning, however irrational or unconscious, to every significant snowfall since my brother died in a winter weather-related car accident.

Attitude is everything, as it is said, so this March 5th morning, I engaged with the latest deluge of white stuff. Having escaped 17-odd inches of it while in Texas the past two months, I bundled up and enlisted a mindful approach: No judgment, simply observation. Rather than a “bah, humbug” frame of mind, I brandished a camera.

Except for a few passing vehicles, I encountered only two beings at 7 a.m.: A barking dog (I’d be ill-tempered, too, if I had to pee outside in bare feet when it was 30 degrees) and this intrepid soul:

“Ooh-whee, bring it on.”

Up through the atmosphere

Dad flying a kite on the beach on South Padre Island.

Oh, oh, oh!
Let’s go fly a kite
Up to the highest height!
Let’s go fly a kite and send it soaring
Up through the atmosphere
Up where the air is clear
Oh, let’s go fly a kite!

~ Mary Poppins Soundtrack

How to warm up a cold reception (hint: it’s not raisins)

A chill is in the air, that crisp frosty feeling that inevitably comes this time of year.

It is Nov. 2, after all.

It was 29 degrees outside this morning, but I hadn’t been in town for 10 days so I caught up with the neighborhood by running around it. It took a mile before my ungloved hands were comfortably warm.

Though one stuffed scarecrow awaiting execution guarded a driveway, everyone else’s Halloween decorations were already down. The funniest thing I saw was a mini box of raisins, crushed on the sidewalk. I imagined some irate kid saying to himself, “Raisins! Who likes raisins?! Not me!” as he threw them out of his candy bucket two days ago.

The surest sign that winter is coming, though, is that I put the heated mattress pad on the bed today. Regular readers may recall this mattress pad injected electricity into our bedroom earlier this year (read more about that here).

Take that, Jack Frost!

Is there a bright side to Sandy?

“Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray.”

~ Lord Byron

Horsing around

Arlington Raceway, Arlington, Ill.

This pastoral scene, skewed a bit for an artsy perspective, filled my afternoon view at the race track.

The weather was wonderful, and big puffy clouds drifted through the blue sky on our annual visit to the horse races. It’s a fun place to visit if ever you’re looking for an activity to occupy your time on a summer afternoon in Chicagoland. The horses, as usual, were beautiful athletes; it’s almost startling to see how fast they go on those delicate little ankles.

My bets were less than wonderful (I lost every $2 bet plus one super-longshot $12 superfecta box bet mistakenly placed for me by my Beloved), but that didn’t dampen my fun. My seatmates had much better luck — good enough luck, in fact, to spring for Lou Malnati’s pizza for dinner, so my bets were simply what they were intended to be — entertaining.

A lazy Sunday afternoon punctuated every 20 minutes with a pulse-pounding race to the finish: The ideal prescription for the dog days of summer.

Blip on the weather radar

Finally, it rained today, the sort of soaking rain that actually makes a difference and cools the landscape, however briefly. The evening was pleasant enough to start a fire.

Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby.

 ~ Langston Hughes

An arresting refrigeration development

As it turns out, our refrigerator is living in a different legal zone — instead of abiding by the law of thermodynamics, it follows Murphy’s law.

And next to an air conditioner going on the fritz on a near record hot day, what’s the worst thing that can happen?

The freezer quits.

Better yet, said freezer’s owners are two states away for the abdication.

Can you imagine the olfactory horror of returning to a freezer full of veggie crumbles, broccoli spears and assorted leftovers that have been  percolating inside a non-operational freezer during a week of tropical temperatures?

Fortunately, I only have to imagine it. An angel looking out for us noticed the gathering puddle in our kitchen and alerted us to the unfolding abomination. The mushy food and liquid ice cream have been discarded and my plastic storage containers separated from the inedible leftovers. Thank you, Angel.

Now all we have to do is find a new refrigerator. We’ll be checking its legal references. No Murphy’s followers allowed.