The Long Cold Winter
I never thought I'd wear long underwear.
A couple of Christmas past my beautiful wife bought me a couple of pair.
I threw them in a drawer, after thinking of my Grandpa Clifford, and forgot about them.
You see, my grandfather worked outside on a railroad. We stopped by one day as he was getting home from work. He was covered in dirt. He used to change in his basement. He had dirty coveralls and his long underwear hanging there.
Last week, I found the long underwear and decided to try it as I was gonna' spend a lot of time out there. The temperatures being single digits.
"I thought of Grandpa," I told my Mom.
"Yeah, poor guy," she said. "He really worked hard."
And I felt warmer out there.
Yet it becomes tiresome, doesn't it?
The driving in the snow.
The freezing.
Blowing in your hands until you get feeling back.
I've been walking very slowly as well. Every year someone falls on the ice. I went down twice last year. I can't afford to fall again. Kathy slipped on the ice and broke a finger this year already.
"How much snow you got?" my out of town buddies will ask.
2-4 inches cripples cities that aren't Buffalo, or Syracuse, or Rochester.
"Just a dusting," I'll say after anything less than half a foot.
And the dogs want no part of even heading out the door.
The big, bad pit bull will weep to come in. Slap-happy Paris runs through the snow and comes in with a face full of it.
And I really hate it, honestly.
I find myself rooting for the calendar to flip.
Bring me March Madness.
Bring me news of Spring Training.
Bring me thoughts of cook-outs and heading out wearing gym shorts.
Anything but long underwear.
But at least it brought memories of another Clifford, right?
A couple of Christmas past my beautiful wife bought me a couple of pair.
I threw them in a drawer, after thinking of my Grandpa Clifford, and forgot about them.
You see, my grandfather worked outside on a railroad. We stopped by one day as he was getting home from work. He was covered in dirt. He used to change in his basement. He had dirty coveralls and his long underwear hanging there.
Last week, I found the long underwear and decided to try it as I was gonna' spend a lot of time out there. The temperatures being single digits.
"I thought of Grandpa," I told my Mom.
"Yeah, poor guy," she said. "He really worked hard."
And I felt warmer out there.
Yet it becomes tiresome, doesn't it?
The driving in the snow.
The freezing.
Blowing in your hands until you get feeling back.
I've been walking very slowly as well. Every year someone falls on the ice. I went down twice last year. I can't afford to fall again. Kathy slipped on the ice and broke a finger this year already.
"How much snow you got?" my out of town buddies will ask.
2-4 inches cripples cities that aren't Buffalo, or Syracuse, or Rochester.
"Just a dusting," I'll say after anything less than half a foot.
And the dogs want no part of even heading out the door.
The big, bad pit bull will weep to come in. Slap-happy Paris runs through the snow and comes in with a face full of it.
And I really hate it, honestly.
I find myself rooting for the calendar to flip.
Bring me March Madness.
Bring me news of Spring Training.
Bring me thoughts of cook-outs and heading out wearing gym shorts.
Anything but long underwear.
But at least it brought memories of another Clifford, right?
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