DEEP FREEZE - Segment 4 (Scroll down for previous segments)     

     
     After a little more chatter, we all sat down to eat.  Dinner was filled with reminiscing and laughter.  While eating, Ginger noticed one of our windows.  “Oh, Connie, I love what you’ve done to your windows,” she said.  “Those ornate etchings are simply beautiful.  How did you do it?”

     “I didn’t,” answered Connie.  “It’s frost.”

    “Inside?” quizzed Ginger.

    “Why do you think Connie told us to finish eating before the food freezes,” said Butch in amusement. 

    

     After dinner, we spent more time visiting around the woodstove.  “I can see why this woodstove is such a great gathering place,” said Butch.  “I can feel the ice flow in my veins starting to break up.” 

     As we warmed, we continued talking into the late evening until it was time for bed.  

 

    “Go ahead and take our room,” Connie told Ginger.  “It has a warm waterbed.”  There was no argument.

    “I was prepared to offer anything, even our children, just for a warm blanket,” said Butch.

     Everyone laughed as we reluctantly left our spot near the woodstove.  

    

     It wasn’t long before we heard the voice of Butch.  “I know this sounds silly,” he said, “but why is a deer hanging in the utility?” 

     “We kept running into him in the living room,” I answered.    “Besides, he didn’t go with the furniture.” 

     “That’s too bad,” said Butch.  “He would have been a nice conversation piece.”

     “My good friend, Fred got him while hunting a couple weeks ago.   He said the temperature inside the house was the ideal temperature for hanging a deer.  So I told him to dress it out, and he could hang it here.” 

     “I like the way he dressed it out,” said Butch.  “The pull-over sweater and khaki pants go very well together.  I think it’s the first time I’ve seen khaki pants with four legs.  

  

     “My wife did that,” I said.  “She thought the deer would look better if it were fully dressed.  I think she’s going to decorate it with Christmas lights and hang it by the front window if Fred doesn’t pick it up soon.” 

    “I don’t mind the deer,” said Butch.  “But if I see his breath, I’m going hunting.”

     After a final laugh, we turned out the lights and went to sleep. 

     During the night... 

   


   

DEEP FREEZE - Segment 3 (Scroll down for earlier segments)


    I tried to explain to her, “People don’t want to hear how comfortable you are; they want to hear about your miserable, wretched life, as you struggle against the elements.  They want to hear about rugged individualism; surviving a winter in an old farmhouse with barely enough heat to melt the frost on the sofa.  So stomp out that fire you started on the carpet, and hand me my gloves so I can start writing.  On second thought, I guess I need to go to the library to write.”

     “Why can’t you write here?” she insisted.

    “Ink freezes at this temperature,” I answered.

    When I returned home, Connie was busy filling out papers.  “What are those?” I asked.

     “Adoption papers,” she answered.

     “I don’t think we can afford more children,” I informed her. 

     “I’m not trying to adopt,” she went on.  “I’m putting US up for adoption.  Hopefully there is someone out there who will take in a family of four, with one request; that we be placed with a family that has heat in every room.  And it would be nice if I didn’t have to brush my teeth with de-icer.” 

     “Look at the positive side,” I said.  “The cold has killed all the bugs; the mice have gone south with the cat and the vultures have been grounded because of ice buildup on their wings.  Besides, cold is a great preservative.  It prevents aging.” 

     “That’s because nothing is moving.  I’d rather see some moving parts, preferably on a warm, sandy beach in Hawaii.”

 

     As the deep freeze continued, we had friends visit.  They were apparently hoping for the same rich experiences our kids had enjoyed before they left to live with friends.  A cold north wind was blowing when Butch and Ginger arrived

     “Welcome to the old farmhouse,” said Connie.   Our warm woodstove acted like a magnet, pulling Butch and Ginger through the door and to its side.   “Wow!” exclaimed Butch.  “That’s the first time I’ve ever been pulled through a door by a woodstove.  But, I must say, I’m extremely grateful.  After reading about the farmhouse in Wake’s Christmas letter, I thought he was exaggerating about the cold.  But now I think he was lying; it’s much colder.” 

     “Is it always this cold inside?” Ginger asked.

     “Only when it’s this cold outside,” Connie answered.

 

     After a little more chatter...

To be continued

DEEP FREEZE - Segment 2 (Scroll down for opening segment)


      To combat the deep freeze, I sought the advice of a friend, Flynn Willie, who had experience in cold weather survival training.  “You’ll never survive the deep freeze in this old farmhouse without ‘mind over matter,’” he said bluntly.  “Remember how your baseball coach would tell you a broken leg was all in your mind, even if it were pointing in three different directions?” he asked.

     “How could I forget?” I answered, resting on a crutch.

     “Well, cold is the same.  It’s a state of mind.”

     “What about toes that fall off?” I asked.  “Is that a state of mind?” 

     “Absolutely,” he answered. 

     In case he was wrong, I got a box to keep my toes in until they could be re-attached during the spring thaw.  It was beginning to look like a long winter. 

     As the deep freeze intensified, we confronted it with “mind over matter.”  We discovered that doesn’t work when matter is frozen.   

     Every morning we did penance by walking across frozen floors.  “Just once, I would love hot coals,” said my wife.

     I was glad we had a large woodstove that our family could huddle around to stay warm.   I was sad when it developed a crack and had to be replaced by a new E.P.A.-approved woodstove.      

     Our new “pollution solution” woodstove eliminated all the smoke coming out our chimney.  Now it was coming out the back of the stove.  I covered my nose and mouth with a handkerchief while I donned my goggles with fog lights so I could find the stove and put out the fire. 

     After a few adjustments, I started another fire.  The smoke stayed in the stove.  But I wondered where it was going now.  Then I went outside.  Oh! There it is, coming out our chimney.  I figured it must be cleaner now since no pollutants had transformed me into a charcoal figurine. 

     Our new woodstove would have fit nicely inside our old woodstove.  Now we would have to take turns huddling by the fire. There was barely enough room for the cat.  Fortunately, our cat had left for the winter.  The rest of us fought for thawing space.   

     One morning, after scraping enough frost off the inside of the windows to make a small snowman, Connie said, “I’m tired of the cold.”  I could sense from her comment that she was tired of the cold. 

     “Why can’t we have a new home?” she pleaded.

     “Where would we put the snowman?  I asked.  “Anyway, what would I write about; that we’re relaxing in our lovely new home, kicking back in a lounge chair, reading a book by the fire?” 

     “I could write it” she answered.

 

 

To be continued...check back soon

  

DEEP FREEZE - Opening segment (Scroll down for previous chapters)


     I braced myself against the bone-chilling cold.  It penetrated every part of my body.  I wiggled my toes and fingers to be sure they were still attached.  I should have dressed more warmly, but here I was kneeling in front of the old woodstove in my underwear, trying to start a fire.  I struck a match, then another match, but they refused to be lit.  I threatened the rest of them with a good hosing if they didn’t cooperate.  I didn’t want to be found in the spring, lying curled up by the old stove, still clutching a box of matches.  I finally got a cooperative match.  I shared its flame with the newspaper resting amongst the kindling.  Then I ran back and jumped in bed, waiting for the fire to start crackling before I added some more wood. 

     About fifteen minutes later, my wife got up to check the fire.  “You’d better come in here and threaten this newspaper,” she yelled, shivering in the cold.  “The paper didn’t stay lit.  It looks like it just received some minor smoke damage.  Do we have any hay?”  She loved to remind me of my proficiency at starting fires with hay.  I finally resorted to the blow torch and had a roaring fire within minutes, barely keeping it within the confines of the woodstove.   

     We had moved into the old 1930’s farmhouse in August.  By mid-November, we were being assaulted by heavy snow and falling temperatures.  Soon we would be in the midst of a record-setting deep freeze.  I was hoping to use the challenges of the old farmhouse for family bonding, but I now feared we might crack and shatter before we had a chance to bond.             

     With no insulation, the cold marched right in and made itself at home.  It didn’t even have the courtesy to knock first.  The cold became so comfortable, I was afraid it would never leave.  The kids complained of freezer burn.  Our family became an experiment in a giant meat locker.  

 

     With the old woodstove as our only source of heat, we had prepared for the worst.  It was far worse.  After several licks at the ice on his water bowl, our cat disappeared.  We feared his demise.  But a week after his disappearance, we received a post card with a paw print from Palm Springs.  Cats are so innovative and self-sufficient.  We saved the litter box, knowing he would return in the Spring.      

 

To combat the deep freeze, I sought the advice of a friend, Flynn Willie, who had experience in cold weather survival training. 

 

 

To be continued...check back soon

    

 

         

      

THIS OLD FARMHOUSE - Final segment (Scroll down for earlier segments)


     When I decided to remodel our bathroom, I made the mistake of telling Connie.  Of course, seeing the toilet in the living room caught her attention and caused some tension.  After she returned from a couple days and nights of binge shopping, I could see a due date flash across her mind.  Actually, she had gotten a tattoo on her forehead.  It was the due date. 

     “Very clever,” I told her.

     “Just a subtle hint,” she answered.

     Every day that she insisted I get the bathroom completed, I kept telling her I was right on schedule.  She had just failed to recognize one of the laws of nature; you have his and her due dates, and never the two shall meet.  I will admit, men must occasionally change the due date on their projects, but this is done only in extreme emergencies, such as taunting, threats, bodily harm or, worse yet, no dinner until it’s done.

     Connie mentioned she was tired of using the restroom at McDonald’s, and McDonald’s refused my request to put in a shower, so, for safety reasons, I changed my due date to match hers.

 

     I finished my project much sooner than expected, probably due to the fact I was starving.  It didn't turn out exactly like I had planned; the toilet flushed every time we turned on the shower, and the bath water started running every time we flushed the toilet, but, living in the old farmhouse, we learned to adapt.

 

     After enough time had passed to dull her memory of the bathroom, I approached Connie with my next project.  “Is there anything we need to talk about?” I asked.

    

     “Why?” she asked, beginning to tremble.

    

     “I was planning to remodel Mindy’s room, and I knew that once I started, we wouldn’t be talking for a while.”  She left immediately for the pharmacy, looking for an anti-remodeling vaccine while our son was calling the locksmith to get a deadbolt lock put on his door.

    

     I used to think remodeling would be fun and easy because I always watched programs on television like This Old House, where Bob Vila was always smiling, and the nails went in straight; and everything was done in thirty minutes.  Then I discovered remodeling off TV… the darker side of remodeling: grinding your teeth to the gums, talking to your hammer in a high-pitched voice, blowing cold air on hot swollen thumbs, and trying to explain to the hardware man why you’re returning a sack full of bent nails...”they weren’t strong enough to go in straight, and does he have others that are stronger, like spikes?”  On top of this, your project is taunting you, daring you to come back and finish what you started. 

 

     Forget the due date.  Let’s go test the fishing.  I’ll just call Bob Vila and have him stop by THIS old farmhouse, and finish my project with a smile; and it will be done before I cast my line. 

 

 

New chapter coming...check back soon      

 

 

THIS OLD FARMHOUSE - Segment 3 (Scroll down for earlier segments)



     The Great Spring Backup was definitely unsuitable for children.  Frankly, I thought it was unsuitable for anyone.  Every time I saw someone wearing a T-shirt that said “No Fear,” I knew they had never heard the sound of a gurgling toilet.  A gurgling toilet is a reason for fear, along with thoughts of panic because what’s gone down will be returning soon.  I learned to be ready.  When I heard a loud gurgling, it meant I had an angry toilet.  I immediately sent out a PDS…Plumber’s Distress Signal.  That involved dancing around the septic tank in hip waders, waving a plunger, and making a gurgling sound.  

     My wife said she didn’t know which was more distressing; a backed-up septic tank or my gurgling.

     I became known as the Plunger Warrior from the Lost Tribe of the Backed-Up Septic Tank.  Actually, the tribe wasn't lost.  They deserted me.  Without help, I took matters into my own hands.  I was fierce, even sacrificing a toilet bowl, hoping to appease the god of the drain field.  He just scoffed in mock laughter.

    The late and delightful Erma Bombeck once wrote a book entitled The Grass Is Always Greener over the Septic Tank.  I agree whole-heartedly if the grass hasn’t been dug up.  I don’t think I ever saw grass over our septic tank.

    Not long after the Great Spring Backup, I had my first opportunity to expand my woodshop skills since my days as a master sander in high school.  I thought of the perfect project: remodeling the bathroom.  I had watched enough home improvement programs on renovation to mistakenly think I could renovate a bathroom.   I should have known never to take on a project of this magnitude when my wife was perfectly capable of doing it herself.  Nevertheless, I pushed ahead, completely ignoring her pleas for me to seek help.  “I know a good counselor,” she said, “who’s dealt with many husbands who have attempted bathroom remodels.”

     “This is just something I have to do,” I answered.

     “Alright,” she went on, “but don’t forget the time you tried removing a hangnail with a table saw.”    

     “That program on bathroom renovations has shown me everything I need to know about a remodel,” I said.

     “Didn’t they also say, ‘Don’t try this at home?’” she continued. 

     Ignoring logic, common sense and history, I refused to give up on my project.  I knew if I quit it would be a blow to my self-image as Mr. Fix-it.   

     Although there is no reason for remodeling a bathroom, other than strengthening the ties that bind (specifically, a rope around the neck), it did give me time to myself because the rest of the family had moved, citing the wisdom of my former woodshop teacher, who told every student to clear out if I picked up anything other than sandpaper. 

     During my remodel, I learned there is something a man should never do: NEVER tell your wife when you’re starting a project.  She will instantly set a due date in her mind, and if it’s not done by the due date, a change of address may be necessary, with no forwarding address.  Certainly you should never suggest another project, unless you have backup protection.  You see, most wives forget to take into account your time with the boys, football, hunting, fishing, and just plain laziness.  You’d think they’d be more understanding than that.    

     When I decided to remodel our bathroom, I made the mistake of telling Connie. 


To be continue...check back soon


  

THIS OLD FARMHOUSE - Segment 2 (Scroll down for opening segment)


     With anxiety building to fever pitch, the day arrived for our move into the old farmhouse.  It had no insulation, no electric heat, and single-pane windows that could have been upgraded to chicken wire.  We would enjoy the great outdoors, indoors.  It had an old wood stove that was large enough to hold a small forest.  This would allow us to cut and stack wood together; the perfect recipe for family bonding. 

     I was looking forward to the challenges of the old farmhouse.  Adversity would be stalking us every moment.  I couldn’t wait!  I didn’t have to wait.  It came immediately!     The front door wouldn’t let us in.  “With your experience in woodshop, maybe you could SAND it down,” said my wife.  I loved her sense of humor.  After jiggling a key in the lock for approximately 20 minutes and politely threatening the door with a hole in its midsection, it let us in.  Adversity was there to greet us.  As I shut the door, the doorknob on both sides fell off.  Fortunately I had a screwdriver, which I always carried with me for my encounters with missing doorknobs.  With the screwdriver, I was able to twist the lock assembly and open the door.

 

     Meanwhile, our son had been staring at the old wood stove and thinking about the small forest he would have to split and stack.  When the door opened, he tried to make a run for it.  Using my extraordinary quickness, I made a quick burst and stayed in close pursuit as he darted across the yard.  I lunged and tackled him just as he was about to reach the car.  We were already beginning to bond. 

     Adversity continued to stalk us.  I waited for it to tire.  As darkness settled in, we discovered it never tired.  As soon as I flipped on the light switch, the power went out.  “Must be wired for candles,” I said.  We quickly learned that the slightest provocation would cause the power to shut off.

     “Will the lights go out if I light a fire in the woodstove?” asked my wife.

     “Probably just cause them to flicker a bit,” I answered.

 

     While we were trying to catch our breath, Adversity appeared to have boundless energy.  It rudely awakened us one morning with a scream from our daughter.  “There’s a bird on my bedpost!” she yelled.   

     I jumped out of bed and ran upstairs.  Sure enough, perched on her bedpost was the rare yellow-breasted bedroom intruder; a rare find, indeed. 

    “Wow!” I exclaimed.  “These birds are usually found outdoors.” 

     I was hoping the Audubon Society wouldn’t find out.  I feared they might try to get her room designated as a bird sanctuary.  Then we’d have to worry about “birders” hiding in her closet, waiting for another sighting of the rare bedroom intruder.   

     I would have to coax the bird out of the house before there was a knock at our door from the Audubon Society.  I knew from a previous encounter with the living room chickadee that extreme calm was necessary in negotiating an exit.  Do not send your cat to do the negotiating. This can result in a large cleaning bill.  You must talk the bird out slowly and deliberately.  Be sure to have all the doors and windows open.  You can always wrap up in a blanket if it is sub-freezing, and you have to wait several days for the bird to make his travel plans.  He may be waiting for the cat to freeze to death.  Then he can strut out the front door and fly away.

     Thankfully, we didn’t endure a long wait.  Our yellow-breasted intruder realized there would be far more air space outdoors.  So he flew out an open window.  I love a smart, quick-thinking bird.      

 

     Each new day brought more drama than the day before. 

 

 

To be continued...check back soon

 

      

THIS OLD FARMHOUSE - Opening segment (Scroll down for previous chapters)


     Parking the car, I got out and scanned our new home.  The old Cape Cod style farmhouse was a local landmark.  It was considered a collector by those who collect old farmhouses.

    Once a bustling dairy farm, it now sat empty, surrounded by tall grass and wild blackberry bushes winding their way through the trees in an old orchard, next to the house.     

     Some said the house was haunted, but it was really just a farmhouse that needed a little TLC.  Okay, a lot of TLC.  Like most men, I loved the idea of trying my skills as Mr. Fix It.  Like most women, my wife loved things already fixed.  In between was tension.

     “This old farmhouse will give me the perfect opportunity to work with my hands,” I told her.

    “If you want to work with your hands, you should consider sign language,” she said.  “I’m certain there would be less tension.”         

     While Connie and the kids sat nervously in the car, I continued eyeing the old farmhouse, thinking of the opportunities it would provide for family bonding.  Apart from attack roosters, burning barns, and charging bulls, I had fond memories of life on Gramps’ ranch.  

     “I want you kids to enjoy the same rich experiences of life on the farm that I had growing up,” I told them.

     “Are those the same rich experiences that almost maimed you for life?” our son asked.

     “Look, the scars are hardly noticeable.  Besides, you’ll love this old farmhouse.  I think we even have enough room for a bull and a rooster.”

     “…and a barn full of hay?” our son asked.   

     “What would we do with a barn full of hay?”         

     “Build a campfire,” answered our son. 

     “Trust me; you never want to build a campfire in a barn full of hay.”    

     Our daughter interrupted.  “Dad, I think Justin and I would rather endure the experiences of our friends.” 

     “Great! Then we all agree!  This is going to be our new home.” 

      I’ve continued to leave the lines of communication open, in case they want to talk someday.

 

    
To be continued...check back soon 

WHO'S NOT OF CAMPING? - Final Segment (Scroll down for earlier segments)


     After several more years had elapsed for sufficient memory loss, I suggested our next family adventure.  “On our next ten day vacation, let’s divide our time between camping and hotels.”

     “Divide it right down the middle,” Connie answered, “Nine nights, hotel; one night, camping; unless that’s too much camping.”

     We let the kids choose our destination since we thought it might be our last family trip together; although we thought that after every vacation.

     They chose the Canadian Rockies. 

     As we made our way toward the mountains, no one mentioned the “B” word, but we were heading into prime bear territory.

     The second day out we noticed an ominous-looking sign along the highway; “BEAR WARNING—DANGEROUS--if you see a bear, remain in your car at all times.”  Next to the sign, they had a picture of a bear for those who might have trouble identifying one.  Fortunately, I already had a picture of a bear in my billfold.

     Not long after passing the sign, we noticed a long line of cars pulled off on the side of the road, a sure sign of bears nearby.  As my wife was reminding us about the “bear warning” sign, I pulled off the road, behind the last car.  Then the kids and I did what everyone else had done; we grabbed our cameras, threw open the doors, and sprinted, to get in position for the best bear picture of the year; one we could send to National Geographic.

     At the same time, we heard Connie yelling, “Get back here and shut all the doors, in case the bear circles back!”

     After getting some terrific pictures of the backs of other people taking pictures, we continued down the road.

     That evening we camped in the mountains.  We arrived after dark, when all the other campers were asleep as I was just too tired to entertain.  While I tried to quell my own family’s laughter, I worked to erect the tent.  By now, I was able to do it in an hour and a half.

     While I was putting up the tent, our daughter noticed there were locks on all the garbage cans.  She became concerned.  “I know PEOPLE aren’t getting into the garbage,” she said.

     I was also concerned, because I’m extremely sensitive to marauding bears, especially those marauding at my campsite; a little hokey-pokey, maybe; but marauding, no.

     As soon as we bedded down, I began wishing for my own garbage can with a locked lid over my head.  Lying nestled in my sleeping bag, I felt like a Philly cheesesteak.  I was just hoping bears didn’t like cheesesteaks. 

     “Aren’t we supposed to hang food in a tree, away from bears?” Connie asked.

     “There wasn’t enough rope for all of us,” I answered.  “Besides, I can’t sleep hanging in a tree.”

     I remembered the admonition to remain in my car if I saw a bear.  “What happens if I see a bear while curled up in my sleeping bag?"  I wondered.  Would he let me go sit in the car to watch the hokey-pokey?  I knew if there was any marauding, I wanted to watch it in my rear view mirror.  

     The next day I was exhausted.  I had to drive with one eye because the other eye had stayed open all night, watching for bears. I was thankful none of the animals I had seen that night matched the picture in my billfold.

      About mid-day, we stopped at a nice hotel.  I had to rest the eye I had been using to drive.  As I was falling into a deep slumber, I finally realized we would never make it into the “Who’s Who of Camping, but I was certain we qualified for the “Who’s Not of Camping.” 


New chapter coming...check back soon

     

WHO'S NOT OF CAMPING? - Segment 5 (Scroll down for previous segments)


      After returning to our campsite, I thought I would light our lantern and relax with a good book.   

      I had borrowed the lantern from my uncle.  He had explained in detail how to light it.  Then he said, “It’s really very simple; a six year old could do it.”  So I skipped the details, and struck a match to light the wick.  It wouldn’t light.  I tried another match; nothing; another; nothing.  I looked for a six year old, but there were none around.  I pushed, twisted, and prodded anything that could be pushed, twisted, and prodded.

     With the futile strike of every match, I started talking to the lantern.  The lantern remained silent.  I struck another match… nothing.  I turned up the volume.  My son thought this was possibly better than my tree talk routine.  Then I looked up and saw other campers, along with several marmots, starting to move in for a look. I could sense I was, once again, becoming the entertainment.  Connie and the kids had taken shelter in the van.  They were peering out the windows, hoping the people wouldn’t think we were related.

     After a book of matches, I finally succeeded in lighting the lantern.  It was lighting overkill.  The entire lantern was engulfed in flames.  I shouldn’t have been surprised.  Most of my fires exhibit a complete lack of control---possibly the reason my wife doesn’t trust them.  Fearing the fire would jump a nearby creek and torch several thousand acres, thereby landing me as the feature story on the national news, I sprang into action.  I sprang onto the table and “danced with flames.”   

     With quick action, I managed to stomp out the fire before it burned the picnic table to the ground and spread through the campground, looking for the nearby creek.  Once again, I had given everyone an entertaining evening with my camp routines.

     As the ovation died down, I gave a few guttural sounds and resigned myself to a night without reading by the lantern.

     We eventually worked our way home, and waited for a call from the President, inviting us to the White House.

     We had now done tent camping and van camping.  Surely, we were getting closer to being enshrined in Who’s Who of Camping.

 

      After several more years had elapsed for sufficient memory loss, I suggested our next family adventure.  “On our next ten day vacation, let’s divide our time between camping and hotels.”

    

     “Divide it right down the middle,” Connie answered, “Nine nights, hotel; one night, camping; unless that’s too much camping.”

 

 

To be continued...check back soon