On a brisk autumn afternoon, we diligently stood in small circles as the steam rose from our faces as if we were a team of sleigh horses just returning from grandmother’s house with that little spoiled bra…Oh wait that is another story. Anyway so there we were’ this hodge-podge gathering of young and old, tall and short, handsome and well…you get the point. All patiently, waiting for what I was sure only the kids figured would be a pleasurable experience.
Meanwhile I was spending the time contemplating the wisdom of my choice of headgear. I was wearing my long leather trench coat and vintage rabbit-fur-lined-ear-flapped Siberian type hat similar to the ones you might see in the latest James Bond movie (usually worn by people with gold teeth and names like Vladimir or Hans). I had, as was my custom, ignored my wife’s advice (“you’re not going to wear that are you?”), and upon exiting my truck immediately regretted it. A sudden hush replaced what had seconds earlier been a rather boisterous gathering as all eyes turned to see the stranger in the leather duster and peculiar chapeau. Subsequently my first dilemma became whether to remove the hat and play it off as if it were part of some sort of sight gag or stay the course, and act as if absolutely nothing was amiss. Complicating matters even further was the fact that it really was cold! Unusually so in fact, and as the fur on the top of my head had grown painfully thin and inadequate in recent years, there was a real need to provide protection. So there I stood the only person to show up at the party in costume.
Small children snickered not so discreetly at the goof ball in the hat. Even the host (who was a nice enough gent) greeted me with his best-attempted Slavic accent proudly announcing “Glad for yoou to shoow up, you old ruuskie comrade!” That was it. Once again, I had allowed practicality to override vanity and now I was cooked. It did not matter that the weatherman had called for even colder temperatures. It did not matter that, by golly, the hat was quite warm. I was the old man in the funny hat! But even more amusing to me was the indifference I felt about that? Sure, there were kids seeking me out for the sole purpose of a laugh. I pretended not to notice but one particular young man had even taken it upon himself to ensure that every visitor was brought up to speed on the situation. But hey, I was warm.
To my relief our host finally made his way to the tractor, and upon starting the beast proudly exclaimed “All aboard!” Which in turn elicited such a commotion as children and adults alike clamored from all direction into the wagon. As we boarded our primitive transportation I quickly noticed several inner tubes that had been placed in the middle, and which immediately became the most excellent seats for most of our party under three foot four inches tall, along with a few daring adults. Before actually starting our journey our host then informed us that he had placed leftover pumpkins from the field in the wagon and that, anyone who felt so inclined, might feel free to launch said gourds at whatever tree that happened to catch their fancy. And no, the smaller children (i.e. most of the inter-tube crowd) did not look like trees.
So off we went in the bitter cold. Being pulled by a noisy belching tractor, in a repurposed overcrowded manure hauler, as small children (being much louder than necessary) jostled for a seat with their ammunition in hand. Bobbing and rolling as if they were disjointed Webbles. The ride was slow, bumpy, and cold. As we cut, a meandering path across open field and country lane, a brisk wind blew leaves of glittering golds and reds across our path in some ancient primordial rhythm. As child after child, failing to hit their intended targets, dutifully collapsed onto the hay in fits of laughter that gradually infected our entire party. Upon depleting their arsenals the children were then doubly delighted to then learn, that our fine host had before hand also deposited reserve stashes of pumpkins along the trail. So that we would periodically pull over and allow those wishing to, to reload.
Eventually we arrived back at the old farmhouse and everyone was invited inside. And after saying grace treated to a good old thresher’s style supper. With dishes that ran the gambit from entrée and casseroles to potato chips and donuts. All served in a stimulating buffet style. As stranger and friend alike ate, visited and ate again, and the children scurried under foot. As the evening wore on there were more hayrides, followed by hot chocolate, warm cider, s’mores, and even a sing-a-long, around a mighty bonfire!
Finally fat, fed, and happy, we decided to take our leave. After saying our goodbye’s we headed for home with most of my family quickly slipping into a gentle traveling slumber. As I drove along picturesque rural fields with yellowed corn stalks broken only by the occasional crossroad or stream and woods, under what seemed a particularly luminous harvest moon. It slowly dawned on me what a thoroughly enjoyable and distinctly non-temperate experience this had been. I have, as I suppose most northerners do fantasized about the sun and fun of our brethren to the south. Slightly envious of people living in perpetual paradise with exotic palms and fruit trees growing in their back yards, Indifferent to such mundane and even frustrating things as starting your car in late January, usually after first having to dig it out from under several feet of snow. Or chipping ice from a walkway because your bones and even your balance are not what they used to be. However, as with most things in life there are trade-offs.
Maybe its old age, or maybe just a frozen brain. But there is something reassuring in the changing of the seasons, something to be said, for hayrides and hot cocoas. Even what most times to me is a four-letter word (snow) has its moments. The innocent fun of sledding, or the rush of riding snowmobiles, are perhaps the north’s version of paradise. And I would seriously question the soundness of anyone who could truthfully say that they have not, or would not, enjoy a good old-fashioned snowball fight.
So, as we Yankees struggle through what promises to be yet another blustery holiday season. We can sit content in our long johns while sipping our hot toddies in front of our roaring fireplaces content in the knowledge that as sure as day follows night spring is not far away and not too long after spring comes summer, which just might find us lying on our own beaches enjoying our own tropical breezes and sunshine? But until then all I can say to my brethren to the south is…eat your hearts out! But then again what do I know I’m just a schmuck?
On a brisk autumn afternoon, we diligently stood in small circles as the steam rose from our faces as if we were a team of sleigh horses just returning from grandmother’s house with that little spoiled bra…Oh wait, that is another story. Anyway, so there we were’ this hodge-podge gathering of young and old, tall and short, handsome and well…you get the point. All patiently, waiting for what I was sure only the kids figured would be a pleasurable experience.
Meanwhile, I was spending time contemplating the wisdom of my choice of headgear. I was wearing my long leather trench coat and vintage rabbit-fur-lined-ear-flapped Siberian type hat similar to the ones you might see in the latest James Bond movie (usually worn by people with gold teeth and names like Vladimir or Hans). I had, as was my custom, ignored my wife’s advice (“you’re not going to wear that are you?”), and upon exiting my truck immediately regretted it. A sudden hush replaced what had seconds earlier been a rather boisterous gathering as all eyes turned to see the stranger in the leather duster and peculiar chapeau. Subsequently, my first dilemma became whether to remove the hat and play it off as if it were part of some sort of sight gag or stay the course and act as if absolutely nothing was amiss. Complicating matters even further was the fact that it really was cold! Unusually so in fact, and as the fur, on the top of my head, had grown painfully thin and inadequate in recent years, there was a real need to provide protection. So there I stood the only person to show up at the party in costume.
Small children snickered not so discreetly at the goofball in the hat. Even the host (who was a nice enough gent) greeted me with his best-attempted Slavic accent proudly announcing “Glad for yoou to shoow up, you old ruuskie comrade!” That was it. Once again, I had allowed practicality to override vanity and now I was cooked. It did not matter that the weatherman had called for even colder temperatures. It did not matter that, by golly, the hat was quite warm. I was the old man in the funny hat! But even more amusing to me was the indifference I felt about that? Sure, there were kids seeking me out for the sole purpose of a laugh. I pretended not to notice but one particular young man had even taken it upon himself to ensure that every visitor was brought up to speed on the situation. But hey, I was warm.
To my relief, our host finally made his way to the tractor, and upon starting the beast proudly exclaimed “All aboard!” Which in turn elicited such a commotion as children and adults alike clamored from all directions into the wagon. As we boarded our primitive transportation I quickly noticed several inner tubes that had been placed in the middle, and which immediately became the most excellent seats for most of our party under three foot four inches tall, along with a few daring adults. Before actually starting our journey our host then informed us that he had placed leftover pumpkins from the field in the wagon and that, anyone who felt so inclined, might feel free to launch said gourds at whatever tree that happened to catch their fancy. And no, the smaller children (i.e. most of the inter-tube crowd) did not look like trees.
So off we went in the bitter cold. Being pulled by a noisy belching tractor, in a repurposed overcrowded manure hauler, as small children (being much louder than necessary) jostled for a seat with their ammunition in hand. Bobbing and rolling as if they were disjointed Webbles. The ride was slow, bumpy, and cold, as we cut a meandering path across open field and country lane a crisp breeze blew leaves of glittering golds and reds across our path in some ancient primordial rhythm. As child after child failing to hit their intended targets dutifully collapsed onto the hay, in fits of laughter that gradually infected our entire expedition. Having depleting their arsenals our munchkins were next doubly delighted to then find that our host had beforehand, also deposited reserve stashes of pumpkins along the trail. So that we could periodically pull over and allow those wishing to, to reload.
Eventually, we arrived back at the old farmhouse and everyone was invited inside. And after saying grace treated to a good old thresher’s style supper. With dishes that ran the gambit from entrée and casseroles to potato chips and donuts. All served in a stimulating buffet style. As stranger and friend alike ate, visited and ate again, and the children scurried underfoot. As the evening wore on there were more hayrides, followed by hot chocolate, warm cider, s’mores, and even a sing-a-long, around a mighty bonfire!
Finally, fat, fed, and happy, we decided to take our leave. After saying our goodbye’s we headed for home with most of my family quickly slipping into a gentle traveling slumber. As I drove along picturesque rural fields with yellowed corn stalks broken only by the occasional crossroad or stream and woods, under what seemed a particularly luminous harvest moon. It slowly dawned on me what a thoroughly enjoyable and distinctly non-temperate experience this had been. I have, as I suppose most northerners do, fantasized about the sun and fun of our brethren to the south. Slightly envious of people living in perpetual paradise with exotic palms and fruit trees growing in their back yards, Indifferent to such mundane and even frustrating things as starting your car in late January, usually after first having to dig it out from under several feet of snow. Or chipping ice from a walkway because your bones, and even your balance, are not what they used to be. However, as with most things in life, there are always trade-offs.
Maybe its old age, or maybe just a frozen brain. But there is something reassuring in the changing of the seasons, something to be said, for hayrides and hot cocoas. Even what most times to me is a four-letter word (snow) has its moments. The innocent fun of sledding, or the rush of riding snowmobiles, are perhaps the north’s version of paradise. And I would seriously question the soundness of anyone who could truthfully say that they have not, or would not, enjoy a good old-fashioned snowball fight.
So, as we Yankees struggle through what promises to be yet another blustery holiday season. We can sit content in our long johns while sipping our hot toddies in front of our roaring fireplaces content in the knowledge that as sure as day follows night spring is not far away and not too long after spring comes summer, which just might find us lying on our own beaches enjoying our own tropical breezes and sunshine? But until then all I can say to my brethren to the south is…eat your hearts out! But then again what do I know I’m just a smuck?