The Election

Like most of the material on this blog, I got this idea while trying to determine What's a Delmer Look Like. Plus it has pictures. But no flirting, I'm married.

There is a polling location right a across the street from my house. It is the township hall for my unincorporated township. It's what passes for government when you live in the boondocks. I can walk there in 2 minutes but it's not where I vote because I am in a different precinct. The dividing line is the road between the Icy Estate and the Township Hall. I vote at a church that is 1.5 miles from my house and located in the same precinct. So the basic units of government go like this: Precinct -> Township -> Village or City (if applicable) -> County -> State -> USA. Any questions? Good, because that's not what I want to talk about.

The polling location (right across the street from my house) isn't really near any of the voters in the precinct so almost everyone must drive to get there. Usually, this isn't a problem because nobody goes to the township hall unless they need a permit to build a deck or they are retired and have nothing else to do but go to the monthly Township Trustees meeting. On voting day, however, the parking lot overflows into the grass, up the driveway and out onto the main road. It continues from 6 AM when the polls open until about 6:30 PM, about an hour before the polls close. This creates quite a traffic jam, but only every 4 years when we elect a President because otherwise all the voters fit in the parking lot quite nicely. The way the people act, you would think that every single one of them has a burning desire to vote that absolutely will not be denied. We always wonder where they all are when we're voting for the school levy in May.

But that's still not what I want to talk about. Four years ago, when we elected George W. to his second term, we had more excitement than usual. Being a township hall, located in the boonies, it doesn't have a brightly lit entrance with big imposing signs. It's right across the street, remember, I would have to mount a protest against light pollution. Here's a picture:



That's the entrance up on the left after the telephone pole. Not exactly well marked but there is a sign set back off the road with subtle lighting and the mailbox has reflective numbers on it. A half hour before the polls close, about 7PM, it is beginning to get dark since we have just set our clocks back one hour to save daylight. It was a nice day so Mrs. Icy and I were sitting on the front stoop and basking in our freedom to vote and then sit on a stoop. Gradually, in complete counterpoint to most of the traffic that day, a large sedan drove east, signalled a left turn and promptly turned left into the creekbed that you see on the left of the picture. The brake lights flared briefly and then the emergency flashers started. He must have called for help on a mobile phone because the ambulance beat us to the scene and the paramedics helped the guy out of his car. His family showed up a few minutes later and drove him home.

Unfortunately for him, by the time he regained his wits, the polls were closed and he could not cast his ballot. If he had, then Al Gore would have won Ohio and subsequently the Presidency. World history would have been completely different. Sorry, Delmer.

The Surface Tension of Snow

Back in the 80s, my college clique would go to the Rocky Mountains on Spring Break in order to ski and drink. We liked to stay in Summit County, Colorado, home of the highest freshwater lake in North America, Lake Dillon, and also the Dam Brewery. But this story is not about lakes and alcohol consumption but actually the puddles that result.

I was skiing on Copper Mountain with the aforementioned Nutty. It was the first run of the morning and we were slowly making our way up the mountain via a series of lifts. We finally reached the top of the mountain. Nutty wanted to ski a rather flat trail that went across the side of the mountain so as to reach some "tree skiing". Tree skiing is where you go off the nice, wide groomed trails and ski through the woods where the snow is very deep and powdery and there are obstacles, like trees, that make things a little more exciting. It's not for the faint of heart but the snow is usually untouched and you can choose certain areas that make things a little less dangerous. For example, we were skiing on this rather flat cross trail. About a quarter mile below us was a medium difficulty groomed trail. Separating trail from trail was a rather sparse copse of Aspens and evergreens of some sort. We were about 10,000 feet above sea level and just slightly below the treeline.

We reached a good spot to make a sharp left and see if we could ski down to the lower trail without a)falling down or b)hitting an immovable object. Nutty jumped off first and I followed. Now, what makes tree skiing such fun is that you have two diametrically opposed goals that you try to balance. First, you need to keep up a good bit of speed so that you can actually ski in the deep snow which makes it much more difficult to achieve the second goal: don't run into a tree. So I was somewhat surprised to see Nutty pull up short next to a 6' pine tree and stop. I stopped, too, but on a bit steeper spot and just uphill from an aspen tree so that I had something to support me. I asked Nutty why in the hell he had stopped but he did not answer just started pulling off his gloves. When I asked in a little louder and more perturbed tone, he mumbled something about having to pee.

I heard the unmistakable click of ski bindings coming undone and just had time to scream "DON'T" when Nutty stepped off of his skis and disappeared. When you are standing on 5 feet of ski, it is easy to forget that the surface tension of snow is rather low and may not support you when you are standing on 12" of ski boot. Especially if you have been stepping off of your skis onto groomed and packed snow all week with no ill effects. Unfortunately, Nutty had just stepped off his skis into approximately 15 feet of powdery snowy goodness. And fallen straight down. I couldn't even see the top of his head. I began to chuckle as Nutty's notoriously shy bladder had now got him into a world of hurt on top of a mountain. I was also wondering, if he couldn't pee standing on his skis, how he was going to manage at the bottom of a snow hole. It was also going to be quite impossible for me to assist, since there was no chance in hell that I could make a turn in snow this deep and manage to come up next to this snow hole without falling in as well.

"It appears that the snow is deeper than it looks!" I yelled at Nutty. "No shit, Sherlock," came the reply, "Come down here and help me." "Not a chance," said I, "you dug yourself into that hole, now dig yourself out." After a couple more questions from me and some harsh language eminating from the snow hole, I also determined that Nutty no longer felt the urge to empty his bladder. "What the hell am I supposed to do?" Nutty wondered. I suggested that he use the not 6 foot but actually more like 20 foot pine tree and climb out of the hole. Which I suppose is quite easily said from your perch atop skis 20 feet uphill but more difficult in practice when one is at the bottom of a snow hole and wearing ski boots. Now that I mention it, I don't think I have ever climbed a tree in ski boots. It seems that would be almost impossible but after about 30 minutes Nutty managed to accomplish the task.

When Nutty had managed to climb to the top of the tree, I began to laugh uproariously as the tree began to bend over and look for all the world as if it would deposit Nutty right back into the snow hole. Fortunately, the surface tension of snow is great enough to support a Nutty if he has the spreading boughs of an evergreen under him. Also, he had managed to come to a stop within reaching distance of his skis and poles. After another 30 minutes of mucking about at the top of a pine tree in 20 foot snow, Nutty managed to reattach himself to his kit and off we went.

More valuable lessons learned from the Nutty clan: think before you step and as Mom always said, "Everybody pee before we go!"

P.S. Midnight to 8:3o AM sleepfest!!!

The Natural Order

My lovely wife and I met at a beautiful beachside campground in Michigan in 1987. My family had been going to this campground every year since 1971. I have camped there every August since. My boys have both been camping there a number of times equal to their age plus one. But all that is not important right now. Warren Dunes State Park contains quite a bit of nature and one night we had a Close Call.

Mrs. Icy and I were sleeping together in a tent on my parents' campsite. This was some time in the early '90s as we were both legally married and driving the Fabulous 1989 Ford Thunderbird (black). The tent in question was a cube about 10 feet on each side. It had come standard with a 1971 VW Campmobile that my parents purchased new. The front door of this tent was an inverted T with zipper closure. For some reason, I came awake in the middle of the night. As I lay there listening to nature sing, I heard another noise in jarring contrast. Plinksh. I listened some more. Plinksh. I had almost fallen back asleep when I heard the sound again and sat straight up on the air mattress. "My God," I thought, "that's my car keys being dropped!"

I know what you're thinking: "How does he know what his car keys sound like when they're dropped? Don't they all make the same jingling noise?" No. This key ring had a special commemorative fob made of the aluminum out of a first-off-the-line Honda and also contained a remote entry fob along with the usual set of metal keys. When it hit the ground, it made a special "plinksh" noise that was unmistakable. At this point, the special plinksh noise was coming from somewhere in the woods outside my tent and not from its more familiar position about 12 inches from my foot and halfway between me and the Fabulous 1989 Ford Thunderbird (black). "This just cannot be," I thought. "It is not part of the natural order."

I began trying to sort the universe back into proper alignment. "My car keys are in the pocket of my jeans that are laying right in front of the tent door. I shall retrieve them." Of course, this is the proper place for jeans and keys; if a rapid exit of tent and/or campground is required in the middle of the night then you are properly prepared to do so in a) trousers and b) the aforementioned Fabulous 1989 Ford Thunderbird (black). I all things camping you must be prepared or things can go in the crapper with incredible speed and magnitude. My keys were not in the pocket of my jeans. "How can this be?" I thought. I grabbed my flashlight from its proper place right inside the tent door, donned my jeans and headed out to attempt the retrieval of the number one requirement for operating the F1989TB(b): keys.

Upon shining my flashlight in the general direction of the last special plinksh noise, I discovered the location of my keys. To my horror, the were located in small teeth set slightly below a couple of shiny eyes that were mostly hidden behind a tiny robber's mask. A raccoon was attempting to commit grand theft automobile upon the F1989TB(b). Apparently, this varmint had reached through the zipper gap on the tent, rooted through my jeans and stolen my key ring. This was unacceptable because a) raccoons generally are poor drivers and b) it would leave Mrs. Icy, I and all our gear stranded in a campground.

I am a cool camping customer and a long-term student of the ways of sneaky raccoons. I did not panic (well mostly not) and made my way slowly to the trunk of the F1989TB(b) to retrieve bread and marshmallows to trade with Mr. Raccoon for my keys. Damn. Mr. Raccoon has the keys, opposable thumbs and the upper hand in this bargaining session. I sidle slowly toward the GrandIcy's camper so that I might level the playing field. Plinksh. Damn. If I scare Mr. Raccoon and he either a)drops my keys in the woods or b)runs deeper into the woods with my keys, I will be what is known in the camping jargon as "in the shit campground without a recreational vehicle". I shine my flashlight on Mr. Raccoon as he retrieves my keys from the forest floor and calmly returns them to his nasty little jaws. His eyes never leave mine. He is determined.

I toss a breadball to the edge of the campsite. Mr. Raccoon's inquisitive nature and bottomless pit of a stomach get the better of him and he slinks over to investigate. He removes the keys from his mouth with his tiny little thief’s hands, picks the bread up with his other hand and eats it. Damn. At no time did my keys leave Mr. Raccoon's possession and he is still far too close to his forest home. I toss a marshmallow about halfway between Mr. Raccoon and me. He repeats the previous procedure only this time with a marshmallow. Damn, but also Hmmmmm. Much like every egotistical villain in every action movie, Mr. Raccoon has given me the time and insight to defeat his dastardly plan. I crouch into a position of spring-loaded, key-retrieving maximum potential energy and toss a marshmallow and a breadball into the middle of my strike zone. Mr. Raccoon, over-confident in his quick reflexes and built in 360 degree escape zone, slinks into my trap. He picks up the marshmallow in one paw, picks up the breadball in the other paw and attempts to take a bite. He is foiled by the keys stuck in his gob. He ponders the snack in hands vs. the potential joyride to Chicago. Plinksh. Yarrrrghhh!!!!!

I leap, scream and the throw the flashlight all in one orgasmic festival of unleashed Icy Mt. The nasty little varmint (downgrade from Mr. Raccoon occurring simultaneously with loss of key possession) leaps and squeals. My flight continues towards my keys whilst the nasty vermin's flight towards his woodland home begins with great haste. His thoughts of joyrides and sugary delights are forgotten in the face of my superior cleverness and primal scream. Sorted. Keys retrieved, I relieve myself in the general direction of his departure and return to the tent to answer Mrs. Icy's sleepy inquisition of "Wuhthfuh?" I finish off the night reclining in the plush bucket driver’s seat of the Fabulous 1989 Thunderbird (black). I am smoking a Marlboro ignited via the dashboard lighter, listening to the Allman Brother’s Midnight Rambler on the Premium Sound System, drinking an Icy cold beer and considering who had more fun and got the better story: Icy Mt. or Mr. Raccoon.