Eureka! The Cure for Global Warming!

My huz grew up in Idaho. Now, I don't know if you've ever been to the Land of Potatoes and Tater Tots, but that place has one wicked history of funky weather. When I was in college I spent a summer doing theater just over the border in West Yellowstone. And let me tell you, our toes was froze for half of the summer. Like, when I arrived at the end of May, my little cabin had snow drifting up to the roof. And by the end of August? Arctic blasts pushed the last of the tourists right out of town.

Idaho is a lot like that; even down south. The first time I went up to meet my future in-laws was during the Thanksgiving holiday. We pushed through hundreds of miles of white powder to get there, and when I lept from the car I sank into snow above my knees. The next year was even crazier. When I drove down their main street to do my Christmas shopping I couldn't see the cars in the other lane because there was a wall of snow between us. My huz even tells of the time a road grader got stuck in front of their house trying to push a snow plow out of the drift it had wedged up in. Both vehicles stayed there for several weeks before they could be rescued.

Yeah. Crazypants.

Well, all of that has changed now. My huz's town is lucky if it gets six inches of snow once a season. Of course it stays all winter, never melting in the polaric winds. (Polar-ish? Polar-oid?) But still. There ain't no snow in them thar fields, and I think it's my fault. Or rather, my husband's and my fault.

You see, my father-in-law was a mail carrier. He was a small man who walked with a limp due to a bad hip and terrible arthritis. But he was faithful: nor rain, nor, sleet, nor snow, nor dark of night, nor freaking El Niño stopped the dude. He carried his mail in a one-ton bag slung over his shoulder leaving his arms and feet free to do battle with fearsome canines and terrifying residents. He was tough.

But the snow was tougher. Wayne would pick his way down icy steps to the family's driveway every other day to shovel the 50 metric tons of snow out of the way so he could get to work and the family could go about their day. He had to. If he hadn't they'd've been buried and stuck inside the whole winter. Which, you know, would have made a great story. If they survived.

Well, shortly after we were married my husband and I couldn't watch this quiet man wrestle his swollen knuckles around a shovel in the face of the psychotic Idaho elements any more. We saved, and researched, and that very Christmas presented Wayne with his very own snow blower.

Ahhh! It was a thing of beauty. Gorgeous. Red. I remember his face when we dragged it in. And his smile. This was a man who saved for the things he needed. It took him fifteen years to get enough money to buy the truck of his dreams. The snowblower was a big deal to him. Even though it broke down a few times and my huz and brother-in-law spent many afternoons lying on the floor in work clothes trying to fix the thing. But it shoveled. And was wonderful. Except…

That was the year it stopped snowing in Idaho. I'm not even kidding. It stopped flat. My father-in-law took the blower out and watched it fluff through the bits of powder that fell, but honestly, it was sort of pitiful. Never again were we to deal with white mountains in front of the garage or graders stuck by the mailbox. It was over. And it was all down to our snow blower.

Well. There you go then. Someone should call Al Gore and let him know we've figured out how to solve Global Warming. It's all down to snowblowers. Do you think we'll get some sort of prize? Pop-in-law would have approved. Right after getting legislation to start the snow again.