One Last Word "BRRRR!"

Spring teases us with visions of aerobatic kite battles and promises of bagging the mighty morels. Cabin fever makes us delirious with dreams of go-cart races kicking up dust on a hot summer day. Anticipation mounts for lightning bugs and kick-the-can. Silly boys, it is March, after all, a month full of false hopes and deceptive forecasts.

Old Man Winter has one last word. That word is, “BRRRR!”

A ferocious north wind comes screaming out of Ontario. Sucking up Lake Michigan and zooming over Gary, Indiana, like it is holding its breath. Finally, it spews a winter curse from Lafayette clear down to Bloomington. Like an innocent bystander, C-Ville gets a surprising 8-inch snow dump.

With all of our springtime fantasies crushed beneath the avalanche Mikey and I headed out the back door to challenge Old Man Winter to a duel.

“May the best man win!”

First, we sculpted an effigy. No happy Frosty dork with a smile and a top hat, Old Man Winter had to be big, mean, and scary ugly. Selecting only the sharpest shards of coal, we shaped a snaggletooth shark grimace complete with blood-red ketchup stains. Don’t tell Mom.

A crooked pointy ice-cycle for a nose and brushy angry eyebrows, our abominable Old Man Winter snowman was more ferocious than a polar bear.

He was a masterpiece of terror that even Vincent Price would fear.

We were all set to burn Old-Man Winter in effigy when dad confiscated the matches and lighter fluid. He also reclaimed his pack of Lucky Strikes we appropriated from the carton atop the kitchen counter. The only thing that got burnt that day was my butt because I had stolen his smokes and played with matches. Pappy didn't buy my story about the cigarettes being for the snowman because we couldn't find a corncob pipe.

Mikey and I had to concede the victory to Old Man Winter.?

"Oh well, if you can't beat them, join them! Grab your Flexible Flyer. We are off to conquer the big hill at Milligan Park.” The winter of 1959 produced the meanest March ever. We did not mind Mr. Winter's late visit to C-Ville. "It is a snow day, no school!"

In the fall of 1966, I left the familiar safety of Crawfordsville, Indiana, to explore the mysteries of Minneapolis, Minnesota. Early Autumn in the land of sky-blue waters is deceivingly comfortable. The leaves had yet to turn colors on the trees in beautiful Elliot Park. North Central Bible College was warm and hospitable.

By Christmas break, I had settled in, and all seemed normal. As I stared out my fourth-floor dorm room window, I was a bit curious. Why were they flooding the park?

Returning from the break, it was crystal clear that this Hoosier hayseed should have packed his long johns. Holy Polar Penguins! Old Man Winter didn't just come for a visit. He had moved in to stay. Elliot Park was one big rock-hard skating rink.?

Up north, everyone skates. Minnesotans play hockey like Hoosiers play basketball. Nobody there has sense enough to come in out of the cold.

“Lace up your skates, Chuck. You’re going for a ride.”

Let me tell you. Crack-the-whip is not a Hoosier-friendly game. I looked like a cow on crutches in the middle of Elliot Park.

By January, the frozen tundra of Minnesota is so cold the snow squeaks beneath your boots. The streets are trenches with six-foot walls of snow on both sides. Electric hitching posts are in the parking lots to let you plug in your car. Forget to plug in the block heater, and subzero motor oil freezes thicker than molasses.

The sky-blue waters of summer freeze so stiff in February you can drive your car out on those ten thousand lakes. Just for sport, they shove grouchy-old men in tiny little outhouses to the middle of the frozen lakes. They make them stay there staring at a hole in the ice till they catch a walleye. Well, Sven and Ollie have an excuse. They were born and raised there. They don’t know any better.

Outsiders can visit Minnesota. But those who stay more than one winter are certifiably crazy. Well, call me certified because I remained for nine bone chiller winters. I moved away in 1975. I swore never to invite Old Man Winter to visit again. I still haven’t thawed out.

Now, if I get lonely for Old Man Winter, I visit him in places like Winter Park, but only for a week or two. Snow skiing down a mountain turns out to be easier to learn than skating across an ice rink. Who da thought?

Inner tubing down the slopes requires an entirely different skill set than skiing. A whole herd of us Midwest flatlanders stood poised at the crest of Widow Makers Peak. Competition and trash talk was mounting.?

“On you mark! Get set! Go!”

?We ran, jumped on the tubes, and scoot, scoot, scoot, NOTHING …

?“First time on a mountain? Turn the tube over!” yelled a local mountain boy as he zoomed past us.

?“Golllleee!”

We all looked like Gomer Pyle just sitting there going nowhere.

Who knew? There is an upside and a downside to an inner tube.

?

?Chuck Clore 1957