So, as is often the case for Podunk, there’s good news, and then there’s bad news. The good news is, we accumulated a hefty 6+ inches of snow, a positive trend in a northern tier state desirous of precipitation; bad news is, we released our children from school at mid-day because apparently we are pussies along the lines of residents of Atlanta, Georgia. It is one thing to release the children from school at midday because we experienced a Yellowstone caldera supervolcano, an unexpected wolf derby, or heavily predicted seismic activity along a local fault line, and entirely another to “wuss out,” as they say in the lands where “w” is readily substituted for the letter “p”, because our school buildings are so old and crotchety that a few soggy snowflakes are sure to flatten our school children and faculty within hours of a good old-fashioned snow storm. It is times like these where I am hesitant, although prone, to invoke Big L’s Cold War admonition of… I hope the Russians never come. Big L, my main patriarch, primarily invoked this oath around the 1979-80 era, when apparently my 5th grade persona — and that of my peers — did nothing to reassure him that we were up to full-scale battle with the Russkies. As far as I can tell, this theory was based mostly on the fact that my childhood friend Todd Miles misplaced his good winter coat a lot.
This brings me to my main story, which is that my main story — a really excellent story about brewpubs nosing out wineries for family-friendly points in the Northwest — was subjugated by Salmon Storm-o-Rama 2014. Her Royal Highness called me tonight. “Something bad has happened,” she reported in the style reserved for CIA agents working behind enemy lines in Afghanistan. She proceeded to explain that the car that she is allowed to drive (but that is not HER car) — a Pontiac Vibe — was stuck in my sidekick Lucy’s driveway in a mix of heavy snowbank and ice.
I proceeded to remind her that she had recently set a Podunk school record for bench pressing the equivalent of the State of Rhode Island and that she most likely could clean jerk the Pontiac Vibe (approximately the size of a sophisticated goldfish aquarium) from the small snowbank it found itself in.
The good news is, Her Royal Highness did so with ease. The bad news is, I had to tell her she could. I hope the Russians never come.