The Year of the Silver

Erie is the 13th snowiest city in the lower 48 averaging 88.8 in/yr,

and #4 for snowiest city with a population over 100,000.

TOP 10 ERIE SNOW SEASONS
GREATEST (I've been here for 7 of these)
1. 149.1" 2000-01
2. 145.1" 2008-09
3. 143.0" 2002-03
4. 142.8" 1977-78
5. 131.3 1993-91
6. 129.2 1995-96
7. 124.9 1985-86
8. 122.6 2004-05
9. 120.0 1970-71
10. 118.7 2007-08

LEAST (Missed everyone of these – darn global warming!)
1. 19.6 1932-33
2. 22.8 1918-19
3. 30.4 1931-32
4. 32.1 1905-06
5. 32.3 1948-49
6. 35.2 1906-07
7. 35.6 1936-37
8. 35.9 1928-29
9. 37.9 1921-22
10. 38.1 1941-42

Spring must be coming.  You can see the deer running.

On Par with Pepys

I have a confession to make. I have to write. I am driven to write. It's the critical overflow outlet for the tangential ramblings of my brain. It's more than a hobby. I could have gone with any other of a myriad of stress-relieving pastimes, ranging from needlecraft, which may have been a modified body-piercing experience, to bodybuilding, but you'd have to needle me to get off the couch. And those would have been productive outlets, but I chose writing. Actually, I suspect that it chose me.

It's not that I write well. It's not that I write anything really interesting to anyone but me. I just have to spill thoughts onto paper so I don't dirty up the floorboards of my mind. Things kind of swirl around in there, morphing into other creatures, and I have to release them at some point. Otherwise I don't have room for the arrival of the next shipment of ruminations. Not to fear, though. It's mostly innocuous. I've never labeled any writing a manifesto, diary, or "my struggle." It's not that politics are off-limits it's just that with 100 million Americans spilling political jargon there are 100 million different definitions of what those terms mean. It's the modern Tower of Babel. So I mainly avoid politics because I pretend that I'm actually writing to someone else and not at them.

Even so, I'm not really worried about offending anyone. Nobody sees my scribblings anyway. I recently backed up one of my hard drives and found almost a gigabyte and a half of writing in My Files. And that's not counting business documents, spreadsheets, pdfs, images, or any other file in a subfolder. That's just straight up Rick's Stuff writings in either WordPerfect or MS Word. From my calculations a good sized book is about 5 megabytes. So doing the math, where 1 GB is roughly 1000 MBs, and if a book is about 5 MBs, that would mean that I have about...um, well, I don't remember how to do all the theorems and proofs, but it's like a lot of books.

You would think with such an impressive voluminous tome there would be something publishable in there. Theoretically, even monkeys banging on the keyboard would produce something publishable by the 1 GB mark. Which is my segue to confession número dos – I hardly ever finish anything. I believe that every project that I've ever finished is the result of time running out. Deadlines are practically my only proof of life; that, and seven children.

This stems from three compatible character flaws. 1) I procrastinate anything procrastinatable (see note below). I've been wondering for 25 years what I want to be when I grow up. And that's counting from when I legally became an adult. Non-legally, I'm still waiting. About two years ago I'm lying in bed staring at the ceiling and I casually comment to my wife, "I think I want to be a writer." The reaction was startling. "WELL, HALLELUJAH!" she said, "You've finally decided." I think I stress out the people around me. I also stress out my hard drive. There are too many outlines and fragmented notes haunting the folders of my computer. I'm afraid that if I ever finished one of them the computer may just go into a spontaneous fireworks screensaver. A scrolling banner would read, Well Hallelujah, you've finally got one in the bag. Can we print now?

2) I constantly tinker around with any thought I put down. I'm the artist that keeps rearranging the composition. What would it look like if we did this? Should this go away and then we can add this? It's a game of sketch-creation. Eventually you have to put away the charcoal and lay the paint down on the canvas. But at that point you're kind of committed. I was a psych major – I would like to avoid being committed. Or maybe it's because I'm a guy.

And, 3) I am a closet perfectionist and never think anything is actually good enough for public appearance. But that may be the fear of rejection. Any idea is fine as long as it is still on the drawing board because there are no bad ideas in brainstorming. And as far as drafts, well, it's just a draft, I can always fix it. The perfectionist in me can't always stand to read what I've written. I used to think it was like an actor who doesn't like to see their own movies. But I think it is more like hearing your own voice on a recording. You always wonder, "Do I really sound like that? Is that as strange to people as it is to me?"

My greatest angst has been the number of books that have come out lately with ideas that I have been working on. The premises aren't always exactly the same, but they are close enough for government work. This last year Deseret Book released 21 Days Closer to Christ. Erie friends will recall my 2005-2006 opus 40 Days Closer to Christ, as well as its sequel 40 Days Closer to Christ: The Names of the Lord. I've also got a book in the computer called the Christmas Thief. It's a mock Seussian pictorial book about a little imp who unsuccessfully keeps trying to suppress the celebration of Christmas throughout the past 2000 years. Carol Lynn Pearson just released her novel by that name. There are others I could list, but I'm just whining now.

Just this past weekend, I found another parallel release. And this is one that really gets me; one that hurts. It's not really even a book. It's a new movie called "One Man's Treasure." It's about missionaries in Philadelphia seeking out a hidden mob treasure. I wanted that concept. While I was in Brazil my companion and I met a family who were very excited to meet and talk to Americans, especially me. I introduced myself as from Pennsylvania and their eyes just lit up. Their grandfather had been from Philadelphia. According to them, he had worked for the mafia as an accountant. He had fled to Brazil when it was discovered that he had hidden all this dirty money that he had embezzled from them. This Brazilian family had an old letter, written in grandpa's hand, giving clues as to the whereabouts of the money in the City of Brotherly Love. The family wanted us to help them. We weren't in a position to either help or verify their claim. But I've wondered about it.

That idea has been percolating in my head and notes for years. I've written a similar scenario where two missionary companions have this same experience and then have a less than amicable parting. Ten years later at a mission reunion, the hero discovers that his former companion is missing. The last anyone knew was that he was headed to Philadelphia to "research" something. The hero suspects what that something is and reluctantly goes to find out what happened to his old friend.

If you've read my little note this far I'm impressed. I lost interest awhile ago and I wrote it. So why have I put all of this down? It is so I can ask this question: By definition writers have to write, but do they also have to publish? If all my compositions sit alone in the dark binary world of bits and bytes can I say I'm a writer? Are my three character flaws simply a disguise for fear - the fear to try, the fear of failing, or the most insidiously insane fear of all, that of actually succeeding? To Loved Ones who encourage and patiently wait for me to get my act together, I'm working on it. I've chosen who I want to be. I'm a husband, I'm a father, and I'm a writer. The first two are the most important. And as to the third, hopefully I can get a move on and add something unique to the literary world before all my ideas are used up.

* note – the great thing about writing is you can makeup words that should be words but aren't in any dictionary. English is base words, prefixes and suffixes. You should be able to swap them out anyway you want to communicate your ideas. The Ferrell Bushism of "Strategery" makes total sense to me. I get the meaning. It should be a word. By contrast, Obama uses lots of words that are in the dictionary but I don't always understand what he means by them.

Frozen H2Oh Boy

My second job – the one that makes the ends meet – is transporting the Wall Street Journal from the West Middlesex PA print site up to Erie PA. Technically, I manage the transportation. Practically, I just do it myself and keep the money instead of subcontracting it out. It also lets me keep my cool and just plan to do it instead of having people call off at the last minute. I really don't mind the time alone driving the 180 mile round trip. I listen to Podcasts, audio books, talk radio, etc. I have time to think, ponder, and ruminate over the world's ills. I can sing at the top of my lungs and scream at other drivers without my wife punching me in the arm. It's great. The answer to keeping your sanity with a home filled with 7 children – leave for 4 hours every night.

There have been travels that I will always remember. One happened on the night of a bad ice storm. Or I should say, the night of a freezing rain that coated all it touched and made the surfaces bright. Everything was shiny and sparkly. My wipers had two inches of ice encasing them so they were useless. I'd tried to break the ice off of them by reaching around out the window and banging them against the windshield. But that didn't work out very well. I just got an ice encrusted arm out of it. At the rest-stop before Edinboro I got out and tried to clear the wipers and scrape the windows. My first step out of the vehicle onto the pavement should have been narrated by Bob Saget. There may have been a split second when no part of my body was actually touching the ground. But quickly enough I was reacquainted with terra firma. Ouch. If it wasn't so wet I might have just laid there for a bit while my bones reset themselves. I stood up and gracefully tried to compose myself. I hand-squeegeed the water off my backside and knees and looked around to see if anyone was watching. There were several faces staring at me out of a minivan several spaces down. The lady just gave me a little wave. The kids started cracking up in the back. Nice.

I tried to walk around the open truck door. The not quite frozen rain on the ice lubricated the ground just enough to conspire to teach me about physics. I started to slide away from the truck. I experienced a moment of confusion. Why was I moving without any effort at all? The brain is a wonderful thing. It took in all the data, made some split second calculations and informed me, you're on an incline, You Dolt, do something or you're going to end up halfway to Saegertown! I made a grab for the door and just managed to catch the side of the window. My fingers slipped and I could feel the nails just scrape the textured plastic. One of them bent back and broke. I leaned over and made a last ditch attempt to get the door. One hand pinched the edge and held. But my balance was off and first one leg came off the ground as I started to whirl around, then the other slipped away as I made purchase with the first. It was a kind of wild dance. But I stayed up. I just stood there catching my breath. I was almost proud of my superior dexterity. Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement. I looked over to see the van rocking back and forth. The kids were in the back rolling around on the floor, laughing. The lady had her head in her hands and I could see her shoulders shaking. Wonderful. No really…just peachy. I bet that when they stopped to ride out the weather they never imagined that it would come with a show.

Ignore them, I thought. Every contestant is booed and cheered in the ring. Everybody is a critic. At least I'm out here doing something. They're just hiding in their van until its safe and secure to move again. I'm the one out here taking chances while they remain conscious of good choices. Okay, so that really wasn't an intelligent winning argument. Let's just clear the windshield and get out of here, I thought. I was more deliberate as I planned my next action. Making my way around the door and holding onto the truck so I didn't slide away I was able to make it to the driver side wiper.

I picked up the wiper and slammed it against the windshield. Nothing. Maybe just a little shard flew off here and there. I picked up the wiper to hit it harder the next time. Just at that moment the intermittent switch kicked on and the wiper tore out of my hand. But I was holding on just hard enough for it to torque my body weight on the slippery ice and slam me against the hood of the truck. I didn't dare look at the van. I consider the decision to not look at the van a correct choice on the road of my life. If I had, the newspapers may have reported on the bodies of a traveling family passing through on a treacherous Erie night being found on a lonely stretch of I-79. A manhunt for the killer would have ensued. Some hack would dub me the Ice Storm Killer. I would go to the State Pen as "The Iceman."

Using my anger in a more productive way, I ripped up the wiper and brought it down hard on the windshield. Bang! Bang! Bang! Ice flew everywhere. I was overcome by my need to destroy the hated ice that was making me the fool! Bang! Bang! Bang! Take that, Old Man Winter! You cannot break my indomitable spirit, You Insensitive, Uncaring Windbag! Perhaps I said more than that. I don't remember. I was in combat with meteorological patterns, seasonal climatic changes and the little cloud with the cartoon face that is always blowing a fierce wind at unsuspecting travelers. Looking at the wiper, I saw that it was now clear of all the ice and frost. I had beaten Old Man Winter. I nodded in satisfied victory. I turned my gaze and looked at the passenger side wiper. I considered the thrill of traveling to the other side of the truck and taking up siege. The ram had touched the wall. Then I said, "Aw, forget that."

I made my way back around the door and I crawled back into the truck, pulling myself up into the driver seat. I noted that Mother Nature had accomplished what no hair product could; my hair was firmly cemented in place. I backed out of my spot and put the truck in gear. Slowly the tires made traction and I rolled away from the rest-stop leaving several entertained souls who were unaware that they were lucky to be alive. I gingerly touched the top of my head and felt the brittle strands of my new hair-do. Hah, is that your worst, you Billowous Blowhard? I laugh at your mousse! I turned up the heater. Five minutes later there was water running down into my face and eyes, down my neck into my shirt, dripping everywhere. My hair was melting. The wind howled, revenge is a dish not always best served cold, mortal, sometimes it needs a little heat to make it work. The driver side windshield wiper screeched as it scratched across my line of vision. It was completely re-encrusted in ice. Each pass was a new taunt; a barometric raspberry. I knew that madness was soon upon me.

15 miles to go; it seemed an eternity. And I'm almost back to Erie. It had been one of those white-knuckle rides and I'm starting to breathe just a little easier thinking that I will actually survive the night. My hair, though still wet, was no longer dripping. I was coming up on the McKean exit. Just "2 miles" the sign informed me. But those are a very treacherous 2 miles. Northbound I-79 takes a nice right-hand dogleg down a pretty steep incline in those 2 miles. I came around the bend. Slowly, slowly, I breathed. I could feel my fingers tighten around the steering wheel. I knew that I was going to have to flex them for circulation at the bottom of the hill.

Just ahead there were yellow flashing lights. I looked and saw a tow truck on the inside breakdown. The car ahead of me started to fishtail and it slid into the next lane before it regained control. I slowed way, way down. Now I saw that there was a car in front of the tow truck. Obviously the tow truck had just it pulled out of the median. Wow, I thought, wouldn't want to be them tonight. The tow truck driver probably charged them $100 for his troubles on this slippery night; especially since he had to crawl down that steep slope in the median to hook up the chain. The car in front of the tow truck began to pull forward onto the highway. They were moving carefully. Maybe they were checking for any new noises, rattles or scrapes that would signify damage. They carefully changed lanes from the passing lane to the driving side of the road. But they were still shifting right. Then they were going into the breakdown lane. And they don't stop! They keep going right. They slip right off the road and slide down the opposite bank. The tow truck driver was standing there looking at it happen. I'm just coasting down the hill watching it happen. We passed each other just as the car disappeared from our sight. He looked at me and I looked at him. He just shrugged and got back into his truck. Out of my rearview mirror I saw the tow truck cross the road and the driver get out and go the edge of the hill and look down.

I started to count my blessings. No matter what happens to you, somebody else has it worse. The wipers screeched again as they passed. I barely noticed. The only thing which would have made my mood more grateful would be if the car which went down the bank was the van from the rest stop 11 miles behind. Oh well, I can always fantasize.

Valentine's Ramblings: or My Wife is Trying to Kill Me.

I like it when my wife laughs at my jokes. She did it all the time when we were dating. She did it when we were newlyweds. But somehow it seems she doesn't laugh as much at my jokes anymore. I'm lucky to get a smile. I know my wit is about a half step behind what it used to be as neural pathways are closing down (see last entry "So you say it's my birthday"). But I think the real problem is she isn't impressed by me anymore. It's not that familiarity breeds contempt, it's just that familiarity breeds…well, familiarity.

Or maybe it does breed contempt. I think the woman may be trying to kill me. I know, I know, you look at her sweet little facebook profile picture and you think, "Who? Her? No way!" But hear me out. I think she is intentionally leaving the cabinet door under our bathroom sink open at night. I suppose you think me mad at this point, but madmen know nothing. I am rational. Let me but explain the genius behind her modus operandi for my demise and you will see. I only ask that if there is a sudden funeral you use my Facebook page as evidence.

Michelle (our baby) still sleeps in a bassinet in our room. So if I have to get up in the middle of the night to make the long trek of about twelve feet to our bathroom, it must be done in the darkest night so as "not to wake the baby." A nightly trip, I might add, that I am having to make more and more frequently (again, see last note "So you say it's my birthday"). Okay so maybe it isn't age so much as my ability to suck down a two liter of diet pop in the evening isn't conducive to an uninterrupted night of sleep. FACT: She buys the pop. Sometimes. Well, mostly I do. BUT she knows I do.

So in pitch black as dark as the deed, I stumble into the bathroom confident of speedy business and a quick return to slumber. But it is not to be. In drowsy haste I feel along for the doorway trim, enter the convenience and run SMACK right into that cabinet door. Man, does that hurt! You should have the coroner check for contusions on my shins. FACT: The little hobbit safely tucked away in the covers she stole from me in the night often leaves the right cabinet door open. If it were the other side left open then I would simply kick it closed. But as it is the right side she leaves fully open, it stands its ground against my weight so that I trip on it. On the other side of that barricade is the toilet and the tub. The aerodynamics of a bathroom fall would land me face first in the bathtub. I have sorted out the possibility of leaving the tub filled at night. But have pretty much discarded the idea because then she might just leave the cabinet door open if she thought I needed a bath. But I digress.

FACT: She is a female. She knows that 70% of accidents at home occur in the bathroom (that's a line just begging for quip). And with over 200,000 incidents a year in the United States, successful completion of her scheme would most likely be officially ruled as just another mishap in the john. Plus, I believe her feminine mind has deduced that should I trip into the bathtub the cleanup will be minimal. Unless the tub is full; then we will need lots of towels.

To date, I have, through pure innate athleticism and nimbleness, thwarted her carefully laid plans and have returned to my cool blanket-less side of the bed with throbbing leg but whole in body. And, as for her? Not an indication or sign from her side of the bed except for a slight shaking under the mound of blankets and the muffled sound of her stirring in the night. Or is that a giggle? I think she could be chuckling under there. Maybe I still make her laugh after all. But I'm thinking I'm going to have to give up the carbonated nightcaps. Comedy is more painful than it used to be. My shins can't take it.

So you say it's my birthday...

A thank you to everyone who wished me a happy birthday. Birthdays always seemed a little weird to me. It's not like I feel I did anything to deserve a celebration. Or if I did I don't remember it. But they tell me I was there. I even have a government document to prove it. And to avoid suspicion, it's from a state other than Hawaii. I have all the requirements to be president…

Birthdays are important to women. I have learned this because I live with five of them – well, the five month old doesn't really participate yet, though she is manifesting her double X chromosome status more and more. I expect hugs and kisses next birthday. Evidently birthdays are important to women because they are a celebration of you. Your birthday is special because you're special. I confess to enjoying being surrounded by women. As far as my boys, this is the conversation with my oldest son. "Birthday, Dad?" "Yep." "Cool. Well, I'm headed out for Edinboro now." He got it all in – acknowledgement, validation and detachment. That's the XY for you. My next oldest son probably thinks my birthday is next week or something – but he's in middle school. They're pretty clueless at that age. Besides, he's too young to drive to another town. If he acknowledges he'll have to celebrate with the clan females who are making a day of it.

I just can't believe that next year I'm entering a new demographic. The one that is just above decomposing when you fill out those surveys and warranty cards. The one where people never again will say, "But you're still young." Well, my father will still say it. He calls anyone born 5 minutes after him a "kid", as in, "Oh, he's just a kid." I was buying something in Wal-Mart and the warning ding went off. Is customer over 21? The register asked. The cashier didn't even look up. I asked, "Aren't you going to card me?" It was a joke. She laughed. Which was fine. It just wasn't fine as she was still laughing as I was walking out the door. It wasn't that funny, lady.

I know I'm never going to play a professional sport, that milestone was passed a couple decades ago. Now I wonder if I'm going to be able to get up to the stadium seating anymore (those are the only seats I can afford). Not only is the Everest-like ascent more difficult to the windpipes, I also need to be concerned about my feet now; my doctor told me so. I think I could summon more concern if I could actually see my feet. They're harder to find these days. I think it must be my eyes. My wife tells me I just have an obstruction – whatever that means.

And they tell me that I have to be more and more concerned about what I eat. Remember the Democratic National Convention nutrition police? To eat healthy you need colors, they said. The food police created the menu where the plates were filled with healthy bright colors, not just your greens, but yellows, reds and browns. I'm alright with that. Just give me a plate of M&Ms. Not healthy enough? Then I'll take the Skittles – they are after all fruit chews.

Well, I'm not going to whine anymore about it. I'll just enjoy my last year of "youth" and my 20 years of middle age. I understand that after that there is a new set of concerns. You worry more about what's coming out than what's going in. Either way, the journey is worth it. I sit here typing with one hand as my baby girl bounces on my knee. Behind me I can hear my youngest son play with his dinosaurs as Littlefoot and Petri run away from Sharptooth. The girls are upstairs laughing at some teenage faux pas. My wife is in the kitchen bustling into her dinner preparations. I am a blessed man. If the price of living life is the loss of youth then it is a price worth paying.

Hillary WASN'T LYING! Bosnia gunfire footage discovered...

Just in time for the inauguration...a nod to the heroic woman who would have been president if the winning campaign hadn't bused in his own Iowa caucus members.

The Year in Review

Really, there was only one event we focused on.

Michelle Elizabeth Doray b. Aug 24, 2008