There’s still magic in those drifts

I wish I could feel about winter as I did when I was a boy. The thrill of those first, tenuous flakes drifting just beyond the fingerprint-smeared windows of St. Isidore Elementary School, the knowledge that soon it would be time to dig out the ice skates, time to sand the rust from the Flexible Flyer’s steel runners, time for hot cocoa with marshmallows, snowball fights, crackling puddle ice, Christmas.

Everything about winter seemed good to me then.

But the thing that seemed best, that filled me to bursting with expectancy, was the snow, that magical element comprised of simple rain, somehow transmogrified into a complex building material suitable not just for snowballs, but igloos, forts, snowmen, angels, toboggan runs and anything else our fertile imaginations could devise.

Our imaginations could devise a lot. This was before PlayStation and Wii had begun the leeching theft, from generations of children, of their childhoods. In those dark ages, we created our own fun. Snow was our currency and by mid-winter we were filthy rich with it. We were, each of us, snow tycoons, and there was nothing we could not accomplish, no manifest destiny we could not fulfill, given a shovel, a bucket and a back yard filled with frozen precipitation.

The years passed and in time, snow’s magic faded. By my teen years, it was something to drive through, to shovel, to methodically scrape from permafrosted sidewalks.

From time to time, the magic would resurface briefly, as it did in the winter of ’78, which everyone’s been talking about lately since that was the last time we saw a winter like this.

I woke one late January morning to find the entire world, or our part of it at least, completely submerged beneath a white, sparkling ocean of snow. Nothing moved, not busses, not mail, not ambulances. Snowmobilers were recruited by hospitals to handle emergency transportation.

I was married to a beautiful, kind young woman who would later become the mother of our children. She stood about 5-feet-nothin’ — in places the drifts outside our apartment towered over her like New York skyscrapers.

But since we had little food in the house and roads clear enough to drive on were still days away, we decided to walk the mile to the neighborhood grocery. Feeling like Grizzly Adams and Paul Bunyan rolled into one, I beat a path through the chest-high drifts with Linda following in my wake.

We laughed and talked as we struggled through that crazy white wasteland. It was one of the most romantic days of my life, though perhaps it doesn’t sound like it now.

That may have been the last time snow’s unique magic cast its spell on my aging soul. If it has happened since then, I no longer remember.

As I write this, I’m sitting in my kitchen, not the office; the cold I had somehow eluded all winter has found me at last and with a vengeance. Beyond the window, snow is falling on back yard drifts that haven’t felt the trod of a human foot all winter and likely never will.

Even were I feeling well, I’d only be counting the days until spring, waiting for a season that better suits my current age and temperament. But gazing out there, at those sugary drifts made up trillions upon trillions of individual flakes — no two alike, if rumor is true — I can’t help feeling there’s some magic left in this old world still, though perhaps I’m too old to see it.

I just hope that somewhere, right this moment, a nine-year-old hand, cold and soggy within a wet woolen mitten, is creating worlds within worlds, all of them white, clean, and glistening with magic.

Contact Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com or go to mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com.

Understanding Presidents’ Day, with Professor Mike

Presidents’ Day is coming up this Monday. As the sort of American who gets choked up when he sings the National Anthem at the start of a White Caps baseball game, you’d think I might have some idea what Presidents’ Day is all about.

I don’t. Do you?

Admittedly, I slept through a lot of government and social studies classes back in high school, the ones I didn’t outright skip, I mean. Still, you’d think I might have picked up a few scant facts regarding the holiday, if only through osmosis while resting my head on the textbook.

Or maybe I did and I’ve just forgotten. Either way, if some guy held a gun to my head and threatened to pull the trigger if I didn’t explain Presidents Day to him, I’d soon be meeting Lincoln and Washington in person. I’m not sure why anyone would be that desperate to learn about the holiday, but you never know. People have been shot for crazier reasons.

I seem to remember the holiday having something to do with Washington and Lincoln … is it one of those holidays where they joined a couple other holidays (like Lincoln’s and Washington’s birthdays) into a single event so more post office employees would have an excuse to take another day off?

OK, this is going to drive me crazy if I don’t check. Gimme a sec…

All right, now, this is exactly why I made that five dollar donation to Wikipedia last time they bugged me about it: Presidents’ Day got its start as “George Washington’s Birthday,” which was implemented by an act of Congress and therefore unlikely to make any sense anyway. It was held for a while on Washington’s actual birthday and then moved to the third Monday in February by yet another act of Congress. Even about something as simple as a birthday party Congress cannot reach a concensus, it seems.

Once Congress realized Washington’s Birthday was no longer being celebrated on Washington’s actual birthday, they started talking about putting together a blue ribbon committee to look into the matter. 

Congress appoints a committee whenever it has a really, really tough question it just can’t otherwise answer, like, “What color tie goes with a blue shirt?” and other pressing issues that – based on all evidence – occupy the minds of most congressmen and women at least seven out of every eight hours, which for Congress, constitutes the entire work week.

This committee of crack planners pushed for a March 4 Presidents’ Day, but the bill they put forth was shot down by the State Judiciary Committee who thought it was too close to Washington’s and Lincoln’s actual birthdays.

By this time, state politicians, jealous that the feds were throwing so many monkey wrenches into the works, threw in a few of their own. A bunch of state governors got together and – trying to appear “presidential,” just in case – decided their states would celebrate the holiday on March 4 no matter what the congressional committee said.

So there! Take that, Washington!

Not to be outdone in their efforts to spend truckloads of taxpayer money on baloney of this sort, the feds came up with the Uniform Monday Holiday Act, which – had it done anything other than fizzle like last July Fourth’s firecracker – would have officially named the holiday Presidents’ Day and put it chronologically on a Monday between the actual birthdays of Lincoln and Washington.

Both Lincoln and Washington, by this time, would no doubt have been spinning in their graves had they been alive to witness the bureaucratic bumbling and waste being perpetrated in their names. Of course, had they been alive, they would not have had graves to spin in, but we’re talking Big Government here, folks; there’s no need to make sense.

Eventually, the date was settled on and a bill, signed into law in June, 1968, firmly placed the celebration on or around Feb. 12 or whenever states decided they wanted to celebrate it. Then postal workers again figured out it would be better if the holiday fell on a Monday each year, so they could have a long weekend and not feel disgruntled, which, if you know anything about postal workers, is something to take into consideration.

Even Wikipedia is a little vague over how the third Monday thing happened.  (Actually, the topic might have been explained more clearly further on into the Wikipedia article, but I fell asleep with my head on my laptop before I got there.)

Regardless of how it came about, carpet, furniture and appliance superstores loved the idea of a Monday celebration, since it gave retailers the entire weekend to get ready for their crazy! Crazy! CRAZZZZZYYY! last chance blowout everything must go Presidents’ Day MADNESS sales!!!!

If there’s a more patriotic way to honor the father of our country and the man who ended slavery than by offering 10 percent off a Barcalounger, I do not know what it is.

And that, my friends, is Professor Mike’s history lesson for today. Um, I should point out, if you are a student reading this as part of your research for an essay on Presidents’ Day, you may want to check at least a few other sources. And forget you ever saw this one.

Next week: the origins of Valentine’s Day!

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

The key to my future: something for nothing

As regular readers of this column already know, I am always looking for ways to make an easy buck. So far, writing has proven the most lucrative means of feeding myself without actually doing anything constructive or meaningful, but sometimes — not often, but sometimes — it feels like real work.

I do not like real work.

Which is why I was so excited last week to read an article about a new business opportunity in Madison, Wisconsin: a “Snuggle House.” The Snuggle House is (and I swear I’m not making this up) a hotel that provides pajama-clad bedmates who — for a price, of course — will spend the night snuggling with you.

The difference between “cuddleries” and the world’s oldest profession is there’s no sex involved, or even foreplay. In fact, even suggestive chatter is discouraged. Basically, it’s a lot like being married to my first wife, but probably less expensive in the long run.

So far, The Snuggle House remains in the planning stages only, in part because the Madison assistant city attorney has his doubts as to whether two strangers can honestly be expected to cuddle all night without falling victim to the same temptation that has ensnared humanity since Adam and Eve were evicted from the Garden of Eden.

The Snuggle House owner, Matthew Hurtado, points to similar, thriving cuddleries in New York, Colorado and (of course) San Francisco. At present, Hurtado and the city attorney are trying to hammer out official regulations that will somehow prevent “naughtiness” on the parts of either guests or their designated snugglers.

Now, I’ve been married repeatedly, so I’m familiar with the notion of a whoopie-free boudoir. Frankly, it’s not something I would pay good money to experience again.

But that’s just me; according to Hurtado, these places turn big bucks in the cities in which they currently operate. People, as Jim Morrison once noted, are strange.

Of course, folks are a little more conservative around these parts and any attempt to open a cuddlery of my own would no doubt be met with stiff resistance. But I’m hoping the basic concept behind it (essentially, charging people big bucks for nothing) might translate to other areas.

With that in mind, I’d like to announce the grand opening of Mike Taylor’s new “Eatlery.” For the price of a steak dinner at a regular, old-fashioned restaurant, The Eatlery’s maître d’ will seat you in our luxury, private non-dining room. The wine steward will bring you a glass of our finest house cabernet, which you will be permitted to look at, but not drink. A seven course meal will follow; you will be allowed to smell each course, but eat nothing.

Sure, you’ll be tempted, but should you succumb, you’ll find all the cutlery has been SuperGlue’d to the table top and the food itself is nothing but realistic, plaster models salvaged from an out-of-business real estate company.

If my Eatlery works out the way I assume it will, I also plan to open The Shoelery (where you get to try on and pay for new shoes, but not take them home with you) and The Hairlery (where we tousle your hair but do not cut it).

Of course, all this is leading up my chain of financial institutions — The Banklery International. You’ll be able to make all the deposits you like, but no withdrawals.

For my money (and your money, which soon will be mine) all of these ideas make just as much sense as The Snuggle House. I’m currently seeking investors; if you want to get in on the ground floor, just send a check or money order to me, care of this newspaper.

I’ll be in touch. Honest.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com (616) 548-8273

The rich figure prominently in my plans to become that way myself

I think it’s possible I’ve finally found my calling. This writing thing is OK, but it doesn’t really provide for me the life of luxury to which I would dearly love to become accustomed.

In short: I need more money.

Fortunately, there are people in the world who have too much of it; my plan is to take theirs. Not all of it, just enough to make me (and them) happy.

How can taking other people’s money make them happy? I have no idea, but according to an article I read a few days ago, it would.

The article — which was either from a reputable scientific journal or just something somebody made up on Facebook; I don’t remember — said that people who have just enough money to live comfortably are actually happier than are folks who have too much. Now, personally, I would have thought it impossible to have “too much” money, but then again, I’ve never really had “nearly enough,” so what do I know?

On this matter, I’ve decided to trust the experts (or the guy who may or may not have made the whole thing up on Facebook, whichever). I guess I should stick with the “experts” story, since this notion will form the basis of my business plan.

It’ll work like this: If you’re one of the unfortunate few who can’t sit comfortably because all your pockets are stuffed with hundred dollar bills; if it has been years since you really enjoyed rolling around like Scrooge McDuck in the piles of cash you keep in your vault; if the thrill of crashing your brand new Rolls and not caring has worn off; then here’s my card, buddy. I’ll take it from here.

For a small fee, my team of crack accountants — or my Uncle Al, depending on who’s available — will carefully go over your finances. Any money you have that we determine to be “too much” will be transferred to a safe offshore account (of mine) in the Cayman Islands. What’s left will be just enough to make you happy. If it’s not, I’ll return your money at the rate of five bucks per week until you’re happy again. It could take a while, but according to my old man, this sort of thing builds character.

I’ll be taking out ads in Forbes and the Wall Street Journal. I suspect my first clients will be people like Paris Hilton and those Kardashian clowns, since they seem to have exactly what I’m looking for: lots and lots of money, coupled with a marked lack of intelligence. But once my idea catches on, the sky’s the limit!

Sure, Bill Gates is probably too smart to fall for … I mean, take advantage of my fabulous offer, but I’ll bet there are plenty of “old money” suckers … I mean, potential clients out there looking for new and exciting ways to deplete their riches.

Some cynics might call my service a scam, but it’s not! I’m not in this for the easy money folks, honest. It’s just that it breaks my heart to think of all those filthy rich country-clubbers going through life less happy than they deserve to be. In fact, when you think about it, I’m performing a public service here. It’s a humanitarian relief effort, in a way.

Maybe I can register as a charitable organization.

More Reality Check online at mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.