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Published on 6 Comments on Warmth, Glorious Warmth

January 2001 was our third winter in the Great White North that is Minnesota. By then we had adjusted somewhat to the infamous Minnesota winters, mainly due to two things: an excellent road-clearing infrastructure, and the extreme weather clothing industry.

We lived in Minnesota for eight years, and I kid you not - we had TWO snow days. In eight years. Think about that for a minute. We had two snow days the first six months after we moved to South Carolina. That doesn't mean it didn't snow all those years in MN. Oh no. It snowed. Not inches. FEET. All those pretty little white flakes contributing to the PSC - the Permanent Snow Cover - from about December to March.  But the snowplows were out there like banshees. Roads plowed pretty as you please in plenty of time for the school buses to come chugging along. Man, my kids were ticked off.


Mine wasn't this shaggy

I had so many different types of coats when I lived there. Along with all the windbreakers and hoodies and sweaters and parkas, I had two super heavy, beastly thick coats. We're talkin' Jeremiah Johnson here. One was a sheepskin-type coat, buff color suede on the outside and the woolly business on the inside. But as a brunette (a 'Winter' for you gals who know your season colors) that buff color never looked particularly good on me (dead giveaway - people always asking me if I felt okay when I wore it), so when I found a similar style coat in a gorgeous dark chocolate brown for a sweet deal at a consignment store in St. Paul, I snagged it. You look at this coat and your first thought is 'buffalo hide'. A really stylish, well-tailored buffalo hide. Talk about warm! It was like walking around in a toaster oven. They were some of the first things I gave away when we got word we were transferred to South Carolina. Absolute rock-solid guaranteed lock I was never, ever going to need those coats south of the Mason-Dixon line.*

And then there was the temperature-rated footwear. I was not aware such things existed until I moved to Minnesota, and boy was I glad they did. Let's not forget the special socks, underwear, hats, gloves for wind, snow, ice, sleet, fog, and all the various combinations. Minnesota is a very clothing-intensive place. If you go there in any month other than July, you will need to pack lots and lots of extra items. Layer!! If you move there, buy a house with lots of closets and storage space - you will need it.

But I digress.

Snowplows and cold weather gear notwithstanding, I was born and raised and lived most of my first 30+ years in a warm weather climate, and not just any warm weather climate. I am a Native Texan, and when I say warm, I mean HOT, and not just your garden variety hot. We're talking preheat the (electric) oven, open it up and take a deep breath, singe your nasal hairs hot. People say if you live in a warm climate, your blood is thinner. I don't know if that is true or not but I think it is true in spirit - you just never get used to cold weather. In addition, based on my informal survey aka Common Sense, there are way more people moving south or traveling south to escape cold weather than there are those going in the other direction. Just ask Ohio and Long Island how many of their former residents now have a South Carolina zip code.

It was a struggle for me, getting through some of those long, cold winters. I remember the time I got an ice cream headache walking into a headwind from the parking lot into the grocery store. I think it was 4 degrees (F) before wind chill calculation. Hey, at least it was above zero! Here's how crazy my thinking got after a few years up there: it wasn't cold as long as the temp was in double digits (above zero, of course). So as long as it was 10 or warmer, I could usually trick myself into bearing one more day of winter. It didn't take me long to get my thinking straight after we moved to South Carolina, where everyone knows anything below 50F is cold. That reminds me of the time my folks (also Native Texans) were visiting and my mom kept asking me why the children we passed playing happily outside weren't wearing coats. It was probably about 50 outside, and to a Minnesotan, that's downright balmy!

Minnesota is a gorgeous place and I love my Minnesota friends. But after eight years there, I am convinced hell is not a place of fire and flame. Nope. It is icy and cold, dreary and overcast. The wind is always in your face, you are always one layer short, you've lost your only hat, and you are out of lip balm.

* Extra points if you actually know where the Mason-Dixon line is. Google if you must.

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Published on Leave a comment on Watch Your Step

Spring in Minnesota is much anticipated for obvious reasons. Lawnmowers and fertilizer spreaders replace of snow shovels. Migrating birds return to their favorite backyard feeders. And if you are really lucky, on a warm sunny day, you can witness the emergence of the snakes. Yep, any day where the temperature is 50°F or more, watch your step. See that black caulk between the lines in your sidewalk? That's a snake. How about that broken branch lying in your garden mulch? Nope, snake. The kids left a flat bike tube out in the yard? Guess again. That's the way it is at my house, anyway.

Little did we realize our new home was aka Snake Mecca

I’m originally from Texas, where rattlesnake hunts are as common as ticks on a whitetail. But I had never seen so many snakes in close proximity to human habitation until we moved to Minnesota. They're  'completely harmless', according to my neighbors. Maybe so, but they are as deadly as a pit viper if you are likely, as I am, to have The Big One and keel over every time you see one. Our first spring here, one of our legless friends made himself comfortable in the flower beds near our front porch. We would see him occasionally, basking himself in the spring sun. He was always more or less in the same spot, and pretty shy, so we got used to him and he to us. This is good, I thought. I can handle this.

Until some of his pals started turning up in unexpected places. One afternoon my teenager was mowing the lawn. I heard the mower stop, then the screen door slammed. "Mom,” she called upstairs,  “there's a snake."

Ordinarily I would say, “That’s nice, dear,” and wait until my husband came home to deal with the little fellow. But it was one of those gorgeous Minnesota days and I was feeling up to the challenge.  Most of the lawn was shorn down to fairway level, except for a small rectangle in the center. The culprit held his ground there.

"Just make lots of noise," I said, recalling various programs I had seen on the Animal Planet channel. "They will feel the noise vibrations in the ground and clear out." Folks, I am here to tell you that this is an out-and-out lie. We made all the noise we could think of, not to mention the high decibel roar of the Briggs and Stratton mower motor. No effect. On to Plan B.

"Get a rake," I instructed. "We'll shoo him away.” Let's just say the rake was not a big hit with our friend. Who knew that a 'harmless' snake could rear up and hiss like a King cobra? I dropped the rake and Plan B.

What now? Aha! My neighbor's teenage son was shooting hoops in his driveway. In my shameless cowardice, I called, "Hey, Kyle! Can you help me get rid of this snake?" Now, Kyle is a brave young man. Snakes fear him. At least, I hoped they did. I proposed that he use the rake and my five gallon plastic bucket to relocate our slithering nemesis to a friendlier locale. By now, my younger son and his friend had heard the commotion and joined the fray. The flesh crawling on the back of my neck became unbearable, and I retreated to the safety of the indoors, barricading myself inside. That I had left my precious children and their friends outside to battle the beast mattered not.

Did I mention that I hate snakes?

Eventually my son came in to report success. We exchanged high-fives and my daughter was able to resume mowing. Of course that wasn’t the end of the snakes, not by a long shot. I wonder if the ones I see now are new snakes, or relocated snakes returning to their version of San Juan Capistrano (my front yard). I think I am going to have to come up with another plan. I am up to C now. I sure hope I don’t have to work my way to Z.

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