Rain, Rain Go Away

I am writing this morning from northern Wisconsin. Since both of my readers know that I live in Southern California, they want to know why the hell I would be on the frozen tundra behind the cheddar curtain at the beginning of February. Could I have lost my mind? My wife might agree with you since I dragged her along. I’m here to spend some time with my oldest son and, if I am honest, get a little taste of winter again. I do miss it, to a point.

I’m a Midwest boy and grew up where there were four seasons. Instead of hiding inside all winter, my brothers and I made the most of it and enjoyed participating in multiple winter sports. I loved ice skating, sledding, hockey, and skiing. If you have ever seen the original opening of “Wide World of Sports,” my skiing was like that guy who went tumbling off the ski jump ramp as the narrator said, “…and the agony of defeat.” Ouch!

I do love my California home. There’s nothing like golfing in January with your friends. The one downside is that when you hit a ball into the pond, it’s lost. In the Midwest, the ball would bounce off the frozen surface, and you save a stroke for a lost ball. Another advantage of golfing in the winter in Wisconsin is that the courses are empty, and you’ll finish your round sooner and possibly avoid frostbite.

Thanks to global warming, the temperatures here in the “frozen” north are not as bad as when I was a kid. As Christmas approached, the temperatures would take a nose dive and usually stay below freezing until late February. These streaks of chilling temps would be punctuated by regular snowfall and occasional polar expresses that would force the thermometer to well below zero. Since I have been back here, the only time the temperature drops below freezing is at night. It has been in the 30s and 40s during the day. My son has informed me that his area has had only two snowfalls. It’s disappointing for the guy who wants to make a few snow angels while I’m here. Not so much for my son, who has to shovel it when it does fall. He’s currently walking around in a t-shirt and enjoying the balmy 39-degree temperatures. He wanted to know if I wanted to shoot some hoops. 

I may have made a wise decision to leave sunny southern California at this time. Just before we left, an “atmospheric river” was attacking our area. Just two days before we flew out, we were pounded with 6-8 inches of rain and hurricane-force winds. The conditions were the same as our plane took off from Burbank airport and literally (…and I know the proper definition of “literally,” and it is the correct adverb to describe our flight) bounced our way out of California. The pilot came on the intercom to announce he had to suspend drink service due to the excessive turbulence. How would I drink myself into oblivion (again, literally) to handle our rough flight? Yes, I am the guy who yells, “We’re all going to die,” in similar situations. I haven’t seen weather this bad since…let’s see…yeah…when the hurricane hit Southern California last summer. Would you agree there’s something weird going on?

This presents another contrast from Southern California to the Midwest. Most of the year, except for the last few days, the only things in our riverbeds are kindling for brush fires and the homeless. Out here in the center of the country, their rivers are filled with water, and they are everywhere. Where does all this water go? Is it running somewhere? Is there a way to divert it to the water-starved southwest? We need someone to figure out how to run water up one side of the Rocky Mountains and down the other. If we can accomplish that, all those folks who drive out to the Colorado River to enjoy their jet skis and boats would only have to drive to the nearest L.A. or Santa Ana River branch to have some aquatic fun. Water in the L.A. River would end Hollywood filming car chases down the dry concrete riverbed. They could change that to power boat chases, like they used to have on Miami Vice back in the day.

The one thing that is most difficult to get used to is that I am in the middle of Green Packer territory. Lambeau Field is just a few miles north of my location, and the prominent colors around here are Green and Yellow. Being a dyed-in-the-wool Bears fan, I have not shied away from wearing my favorite team’s gear. I told my son that shows that I am a true Bear fan. He told me I was more of a target. All these Packer fans are hunters and have high-powered rifles. Today, I switched to Cub’s gear for my safety. These guys are not as dedicated to the Brewers as they are to the Pack.

We only have a few days left, and we are driving around and enjoying the gray, overcast, barren tree scenery—a real spirit lifter. While everyone is moping around here waiting for spring, I’ll be waiting for my flight back home in a couple of days. I hope our flight home is a lot smoother. I don’t want to literally throw up on the way home (and that is another proper use of the adverb).

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