Fair Weather Friend

100% Chance of Warmth

I know I was critical of the stormy performance record the television weather gurus have prognosticated over the years, but they have been correct on occasions, too.

Last winter, for example, they predicted three and one-half inches of snow -- and that is exactly what we got.


We raise our many milk jugs in toast.

Snow Jobs

"There is nothing to fear but fear itself -- and no moo juice and no wipe."
--Franklin D. Roosevelt

Residing in the south, where few of us see much snow, there is an indisputable fact of life. The hint of an alleged solitary flake falling out of the sky will impel the chicken little people to enter the irrational zone. Like clockwork, they'll invade the stores, snatching every carton of milk and roll of toilet paper in captivity.

I've known folks to hoard cows and pulp mills.

Snowstorms mean big broadcast ratings, if the media can cause a panic to keep terrified audiences tuned in to watch their talking heads and fluffy hairs.

The exploitive, wall-to-wall, rain-to-sleet, TV weather spectaculars usually fail to deliver the actual grim precipitation promised. My biggest complaint, year after year, is the programs are always the same identical telethons -- minus Norm Crosby, Charo, and marching bands with mangy hats.

Stations could run a 16mm kinescope of "The Freeze of '54" and we wouldn't recognize the difference from their last weather emergency telecast. That is, if the footage hadn't exposed black-and-white and armpit-high pleated slacks.

The only new elements in the coverage are the hyperbolic program titles each channel flaunts at any opportunity. Their promotional graphics incite our attention, especially when there's no glacial mass to report.


My bride overnighted with her mother during the tempest in the teevee. The ladies missed out on snow entirely. Nothing plopped from the atmosphere, except bad local news predictions.

Nevertheless, I was consumed with dread and nervousness until I learned of the plight of my loved ones. I fired off this imperative email at dawn.

"Did you survive? How about the toilet paper? Did the toilet paper survive? Oh, the humanity!"

The answers were affirmative. My prayers were answered, but thanks to the unnecessary, escalating hysteria of the weather professionals, the tissue and me nearly cracked.

The Cat in the Heat

I asked Morty if he wanted to walk with me through the fresh snow, but he declined.


Morty prefers to observe snow from a window.


Besides, he was watching a movie -- windowboxed, of course.

House of Many Steps

The Durrett Lair and Dollar Store Museum

That's my silhouette in the bedroom window, pushing Mother Bates in her rocker.

This wide-angle photo is courtesy of neighbors Jim and Sally, who, I'm told, refer to our place as "House of Many Steps."

The nickname sounds a bit Oriental to me. There is a very long flight of stairs, although largely hidden by trees in the snapshot. The rungs descend to the creek shore from the cabin. I assume that's where "House of Many Steps" is derived, owing nothing to my skeltered roamings in the kimono or the ritual bows I direct at chipmunks.

Years ago, my friend Jeb counted the steps. His grand total was 88, causing him to suggest I paint the boards black and white in the alternating pattern of piano keys.

So far, that hasn't happened. Neither me nor the hill is musically inclined.


^{Photo ©2007 Jim & Sally Smelcer}

100 Things About Me #91

This Is My Country

Here are two photographs from Snow Day 2007, capturing the view from our porch. They're as good as any to illustrate why we moved to our own private Mayberry.


I plodded onto the landing at the top of those stairs one February afternoon in 1999.

A few hours earlier:

"My, God, it's freakin' Jurassic Park!" I exclaimed, as we turned down the overgrown dirt road leading to our formerly cosmopolitan friends' new home in the countryside forest. "What are they thinking? There's no Starbucks! The nearest laundromat is a rock. I'm turning this car around at the first Gomer."

Later, having imbibed the serenity and natural beauty of the rural surroundings, I wondered aloud if there were any other lots nearby. At that very instant, I saw the "House for Sale" sign with an arrow pointed up the trail.

I waited for underscoring by Vic Mizzy, but it didn't happen. We set out on foot.


My spiritual transformation, as the unexpected creek appeared below the bluff, must have been like Christopher Columbus setting eyes on the new world for the first time. I knew within five seconds. I had to have that.

I turned to my buddy, Scott, and said, "I'm in!"

Three months later, we were. We bought the place and moved into the cabin.

Um, not Scott, but Donna moved with me. We were long married and we had the cats and dishes and the toaster oven with commingled bubbled cheese residues. It made sense.

Scott had no dowry, so bye, drive safely.

The poor guy is still in shock about our relocation. I'm beginning to think Scott never pictured lifelong suburbanite me as a mountain man. He's back in the big city, 70 miles south, sipping juice boxes in his blankie, mumbling to evaporated milk, and striping oranges to look like Charlie Brown's shirt.

That whole split-second turn of events and upheaval of lifestyles was unlike me. I'm not one for snap decisions. I'm still waffling on who shot J.R.

Meanwhile, I've been quite splendid as a mountain man. Oh, there was a learning curve, especially with the locals. I have to be careful who I say the word "splendid" to and I make every effort to hide my splendid smile -- and my Splenda®.

The fake limp gets me the over-40 demographics, but I had to drop the occasional "We-e-e-ll doggies!" to ward off the ghost of Irene Ryan.

I'm actually adored. My "free flapjacks for the chillun" policy does the trick.

100 Things: #1 | Previous | Next

Snow Business

A blanket of snow and, perhaps, a pillowcase of sleet, and a grandma's hanky of slush greeted me yesterday morning.


We had been doomed and summoned to the bowels of Hell by the media weather sorcerers for days, but only about an inch accumulation accumulated, out of their predicted four and nuclear winter.

The conditions didn't get bad enough for the roads to ice, although I did see one of the flying squirrels living inside our walls denied clearance on the launch pad. He turned around and ambled back into the attic to safety, gnawing on our electrical wires.

What The Weather Channel called a "wintry mix" was enough to cover the ground all nice nice. So, while humming Leroy Anderson's "Sleigh Ride" and John Tesh's "Angels in the Snow," my wintry mix (James Brown's "Cold Sweat" not available), I snapped a few photographs.

That's my woodpile and my pickax chopping stump.

Rigorous.

Strenuous.

Lusty.

It's a prop.

I bought those logs in 1999.

Make Your Own Jokes #3

Blow Pop

Rejoice! Terrorize! Tweeze!

It's National Gorilla Suit Day!

I'm puttin' on my ape head,
Knucklin' on the pavement,
Brushin' off my tail.

^{Apologies, but no bananas, to Irving Berlin ("Top Hat, White Tie and Tails").}