Mother Nature thows an icy punch; we battle back!

Lauren and I finally make it home!

So the plan last week was to take a few days and visit the Big Apple; eat our way across Manhattan, attend a few Broadway shows, do a little shopping and enjoy some wintry weather.

We managed all the things we could control -- food, shows and shopping. But Mother Nature held on to all the white and fluffy stuff that we were hoping would turn the area into a winter wonderland. Turns out you really shouldn't fool around with Mother Nature.

She decided to follow us back to the Land of Cotton and unleash her wintry bag of tricks. It's been frigid the last few days in my little corner of the world and today all the white and fluffy stuff we were hoping to spot in New York is covering the ground here.

My neighborhood certainly looks like a winter wonderland, but a few inches of snow in the deep south causes all sorts of problems, especially when it turns to ice. The entire region is in gridlock at the moment, major highways and thoroughfares, boulevards and secondary roads filled with vehicles quickly going nowhere!

My daughter Lauren, a teacher in Cobb County, headed home when school officials called it quits in the early afternoon. The 20-minute commute took at least three hours and she ended up abandoning her car in a church parking lot about a mile from our house.

I trekked through the ice and snow -- now there's a phrase I don't use very often -- to meet Lauren on the last leg of her journey. Together we slogged through the wet and chilly stuff, working our way around slippery spots and the occasional car that had lost its battle with the elements.

In fact, just a block from our neighborhood, we came upon a sedan that was inching its way around a particularly treacherous curve in the road, its wheels spinning on a carpet of ice. Somewhat foolishly we volunteered to push the car over a slick spot in the road. It's a battle we lost. A moment later the car and its driver were in a nearby ditch. 

I'm pretty sure there are hundreds, perhaps thousands of cars in ditches across the metro area or abandoned on highways that, for the moment, have become expansive and chilly parking lots. Thousands of folks are stuck where they are, hunkered down and hoping to make it through the night.

So I'm really happy to report that everyone in my family has made it home. We just had a splendid dinner -- thanks, Josh -- and my granddaughter Bailey has been fed, diapered and is fast asleep in a warm and toasty room.

This, then, is my long and windy way to simply announce that Mother Nature might have won a few skirmishes on this cold and chilly day. But I'm thinking, at least for the moment, we won the battle!

Mother Nature shouts “BOO”, but Bailey is safe and happy

Despite the weather, Lauren and Bailey are all smiles!

I think one of the perks of being a Pops is that one day down the road Bailey will make her way over to my house and her Bubbe and I will have a grand sleepover with our beautiful granddaughter.

We’ll build a little castle of sheets and towels that will spill across the living room and play hide-and-seek around the house, then drink hot chocolate and watch cartoons into the night. I’m a little exhilarated and exhausted just thinking about it all.

That said, thanks to Mother Nature our chance to bond with Bailey in such a Norman Rockwell fashion has given way to stark reality. For the last week or so Bailey, now an aging newborn of three months, has been living out her babyish days and nights with Bubbe and me.

She comes with an entourage – her mom, dad and two doggie sisters: Maggie and Ella Rufus!
The temporary move was made after a blast of artic air gripped the Land of Cotton, just about the same time as one of the furnaces at Bailey’s home decided to call it quits. Bailey and her mom bundled up and settled in with us while her dad remained home – an oh-so chilly but necessary decision. Hey, somebody had to watch the dogs!

A short two days later and the cold snap played itself out. Bailey and her mom headed home. What they stumbled into when they reached their house had them – Bailey, her mom, dad and the dogs – all momentarily reeling and in search of sanctuary.

I’ll explain.

The cold snap apparently whirled about Lauren and Josh’s home – that would be my daughter and son-in-law – and lingered around a few vulnerable pipes in a back bathroom. Need I say more?

When Lauren walked into the family room she heard a bit of static coming from a couple of speakers – never a good omen – then saw that a nearby hallway had become a watery canal. Yikes! Several inches of water covered all the nearby rooms, turning the newly installed carpeting – a little gift of welcome for Bailey in early October – into a soggy mess.

The static Lauren had heard was just a tiny taste of the pop and sizzle playing out as Mother Nature fried all the high-tech gizmos filling the house – computers, routers and lots of wiring connecting a state-of-the-art sound system, flat screen TVs, digital lighting and expansive security system.

That’s a long and windy way to say the gizmos and other stuff are mostly toast today. But, fortunately, there’s always tomorrow.

That’s where we’re all headed right now, neatly bundled up together in Pops and Bubbe’s home; warm and comfy and waiting for repairs. Okay, we’re a little pressed for space and there’s a little bumping into one another now and again.

But we’re all taking it a day at a time and, the good news, at least for me and the lovely Miss Wendy, we now have that opportunity to have a grand time with our new granddaughter in an up close and personal way.

No, we’re not building castles out of sheets or sharing warm cups of cocoa with Bailey – yet! We’re doing something better. It’s called life. It begins around 7 each morning when Bailey quietly announces that she’s up and ready to start the day.

She’s generally all scrunched up, her tiny legs flailing about as she searches for her thumb. If we’re lucky – and most mornings we are – she offers up a welcoming smile and a bit of baby gibberish that never fails to warm my heart.

The bulk of the day is a mixture of handling mundane needs – feeding, burping, and changing diapers – along with fun and games; lots of rocking and singing, tummy time and soothing walks around the neighborhood. Do this simple stuff just right and Bailey offers up a reward.

Often it’s just a contented sigh, her tiny hand resting lightly on my cheek or tugging at my finger; occasionally it’s the contentment I feel watching her eyelids grow oh-so heavy as I rock her in my arms and she falls ever so lightly into a gentle sleep.

Truth to tell, it’s a wondrous and symbiotic relationship.

Lauren, Josh, Bubbe and me – and let’s not forget Janice and Steve, our machatunim – are all working together to take care of Bailey’s needs. For her part, Bailey then satisfies our collective need that she be safe and happy.

So despite the watery mess that Mother Nature tossed our way, despite the close quarters and the little “gift” Maggie left on our hallway carpet – I did mention the two dogs, right – all is good.

At the moment the house is quiet. Lauren and Josh are resting in the guest room, Maggie at the foot of their bed; Bubbe is asleep and Ella is regally plopped next to her, comfy on my pillow; and in the room that was once my own little girl’s, my granddaughter is now safe and happy and floating in a dream.

In a couple of days or a couple of weeks the watery mess that is Bailey’s house will be fully repaired; warm and dry and home once again. And here’s the really good news. Years from now, I’m thinking, we’ll be talking and laughing about the “Arctic Vortex” of 2014 and the grand adventure that brought us all together in a very special way.

Part I: How I spent my summer vacation

Mother Nature takes charge and causes

all  sorts of problems for folks in The Land

of Cotton and others headed in that direction.

The lovely Miss Wendy and I are just back from a little fun under the broiling sun of South Florida. We had a delightful time with family and friends in and around Orlando, Daytona and the Fort Lauderdale area.

What’s mostly floating around my noggin at the moment, however, is our last day in the Sunshine State and the not-so-wonderful experience we had trying to escape back home to the Land of Cotton. Mother Nature, it turns out, did all she could to keep us cooling our heels at Orlando International Airport.

A little context might be helpful.

Like lots of travelers, I get a little anxious on travel days. I’m the sort of guy who gets to the airport early – hours early. There are just too many unknowns when flying, especially out of a new and unfamiliar complex.

The bothersome stuff most recently was a jarring mix of logistical issues – dealing with traffic and finding the airport in Orlando; figuring out where and how to return a car rental and figuring out where and how to find the Delta terminal.

And so it was that we were headed out to the airport at least five hours before our flight was scheduled. The good news, unfortunately, also turns out to be badly tarnished. There was little traffic and, despite our GPS announcing it couldn’t locate the airport, we had little trouble finding it, thanks to a map my brother Larry had given me.

One of my greatest concerns, returning our rental car, took minutes and couldn’t have been simpler – thanks and a tip-of-the-hat to Enterprise! There were one or two challenges once inside the airport, but several helpful clerks and security guards pointed us in the right direction.

So, as mentioned earlier, all this good stuff meant that we were at our gate and ready to go. The not so good news is we had four hours to kill. Yikes!

We walked around a bit and checked out the sites – fast food restaurants, a newsstand, a few retail shops and a duty-free store. We ate a late lunch, then walked around some more before settling in at our gate to do some serious people watching.

Our view on the world was mostly filled with a parade of sunburned folks, sporting Disney ears, T-shirts and tons of fat and cellulite, euphonically blended with groups of business types in sport coats (the men) and Vera Wang basic black (the women). Okay, truth to tell, I wouldn’t know a Wang from a wong, but you get the picture, right?

There was a palpable sense of energy and rhythm about the place. People coming and going; lives in transition. It was all a little dance that played out smoothly; that is until Mother Nature took center stage.

The first blip appeared around 5 in the afternoon when the departure board burped and our flight was delayed. For whatever reason, takeoff was pushed back an hour, from 7:30 to 8:30. A bit later, a message flashed on a nearby digital screen that flight times were being changed and that additional info would be provided when available.

The terminal remained energized, but the smooth little dance – a foxtrot, perhaps a tango – quickly deflated with all of us stumbling about, anxious and attempting to figure out what was happening. Families huddled together, and business types got busy on their smartphones. There was a lot of standing around and long lines of passenger waiting to talk with agents.

Time stood still and, for a moment, it seemed I had landed in purgatory, just this side of tourist hell! My life and those of my fellow travelers were on hold. Delta and Mother Nature were in control; and, for the most part, they weren’t talking!

It was at this point that Wendy pointed out a nearby TV monitor that featured video of a swirling storm – slashing rain, hail and lightning underneath dark and brooding skies – battering homes and buildings. Trees, street signs, telephone poles and utility lines were literally twisting in the wind. At the bottom of the screen a map of the area was prominently displayed. The storm was hovering over, wait for it, Atlanta!

Our already delayed flight was pushed back a bit more, from 8:30 to 8:50; then to 9:10 and, eventually, to 9:30. The flight was now two hours late and Wendy and I had been at the airport for an exhausting seven hours.

The news continued to be bad.

At 9:30, when our delayed flight should have been taking off – and the original flight should have been landing – the squeal of a microphone silenced the terminal and it was announced that all service into and out of Atlanta was temporarily suspended.

Isn’t there some old cliché about it being darkest before the dawn? Well, dawn seemed hours away when, in fact, a ray of light peeked out only moments later. As I wandered about, I glanced back in the direction of our gate and spotted Wendy wildly waving. It turned out Mother Nature was growing tired and it seemed a small window of opportunity had spilled across the Land of Cotton.

Wendy, I and 150 or so other folks were hustled aboard a waiting plane, tucked in as the pilots hurriedly pushed back from the gate, then collectively sighed when it was announced, yet again, there was another delay. Fortunately it was short.

After 30 minutes or so of simmering on the tarmac, we were airborne and headed north. Interestingly, the two hour flight only took an hour. Go figure!

It would take another two hours – waiting, yet again, on the tarmac in Atlanta; making our way to an offsite parking lot, driving from here to there – before we made it to our little corner of the world. It was 2 a.m., the power had been knocked out in the area and debris seemed to cover the world.

But, at the time, I had to agree with Dorothy. I jumped out of the car, tapped the heels of my sandals together, and happily announced to my sleeping neighborhood, “There’s no place like home!”

UP NEXT: My response to Delta’s “How Did We Do?” survey!

Hot, Cold and thinking about the Falcons!

Life is grand, here in the Land of

Cotton; temps are high and the

Falcons are soaring!

PHOTO / Nor Grebnief

Apparently someone forgot to tell Mother Nature that it’s winter. Here we are in the middle of January and the temperature is hovering around the century mark!

Okay, not really; it just feels that warm! If my high-tech inside/outside thermometer has it right – and that’s not a given – it’s in the low 70s here in the Land of Cotton.

I’ve been staying cool and calm most of the morning, dashing about in gym shorts and a tee-shirt. Another few days of these unseasonably warm temps and my azaleas will start budding and the weeds in the lawn will start stretching out their tendrils! Can you say yard work – sheesh!

What’s particularly bothersome is the vibe is all wrong for the Falcons – I’m referencing football here, not the feathered, winged, bipedal, endothermic, egg-laying, vertebrate animal. The, um, birds will be taking the field tomorrow to face off against the Seahawks – yes, another football reference.

I imagine the feathers will be flying, in one fashion or another, and today’s warm temps will grow even warmer inside the Georgia Dome.

And just to carry all this weather talk to its logical conclusion, I’m thinking it will be a cold day in hell before the Falcons actually make it to the Super Bowl!

Spring in Dixie – chills and coyotes!

Has Mother Nature gone completely mad? Here in the Land of Cotton we woke to a chill in the air, temperatures dipping into the 30s! Afternoon highs weren’t expected to break out of the 60s and a brisk wind throughout the day made it feel like the winter that never showed up this year has finally decided to pay us a visit.

I thought a light jacket was all I needed to stay warm on my morning walk. Wrong! My noggin had goose bumps on top of goose bumps and my hands, nakedly challenging the elements, were chilled and stinging.

My hat and gloves were where you’d expect them to be in mid-April – buried deeply in the hall closet, snoozing with contentment until the first frost of fall. Unfortunately, Mother Nature has been in a bit of a tizzy over the last year, raising the thermostat last winter and offering up a chill this spring. Go figure!

You could hang beef in our den; but that’s fixable. The lovely Miss Wendy has patted off to bed, the perfect opportunity for me to raise the thermostat. Let’s just keep that a little secret between you and me, okay?

After a splendid afternoon – clear, radiant blue skies – temperatures have yet again plummeted into the high 30s tonight. If you get quiet enough, I’m thinking you can hear the piercing whelp of a coyote in the distance. I wonder if it’s too late to dash out and buy a cord of firewood?

The Big Apple, Part I: In search of winter’s chill

It was a warm and humid Land of Cotton that the lovely Miss Wendy and I jetted away from late last week. Winter was paying little attention to our little corner of the world, so we decided if we wanted to be, ah, cool, we would have to turn the temperature down ourselves.

That’s how we ended up in New York over the weekend, in search of a little winter chill and cheer. We weren’t disappointed! The Big Apple has also been experiencing an unseasonably warm winter this year, so we had no idea really what sort of weather we’d find a 1,000 miles north of home.

Apparently Mother Nature decided it was time to make a showing. She blew into town, riding an arctic cold front that greeted us with falling temps and falling snow.

I had packed my bag with a couple of new and little-used sweaters that, along with a new hat, scarf, gloves and winter coat, kept me warm and toasty. Ditto Wendy! Over the long weekend, We stayed busy strolling around the upper west side of Manhattan, then down through Central Park to Columbus Circle and on to Times Square.

We eventually made our way all the way through Midtown to Union Square, on to Greenwich Village, Soho, Tribeca, the Financial District and the 9/11 Memorial; and, finally, Battery Park on the southern tip of the island – more about all that in postings later this week. Stay Tuned!

For three days, the sky was a wintry gray and the temperature hovered around freezing. On Saturday morning a light snow fell, partially blanketing the trees, walkways and green spaces with a dusting of the white stuff; a special little gift from Mother Nature and the Big Apple’s Bureau of Tourism.

The whole winter thing almost became a little much when on Sunday gale force gusts whipping off the Hudson and East Rivers dropped temps into the teens. As Wendy and I walked around the area it felt like we had momentarily stumbled onto the North Pole.

Back home now and it’s all a warm memory, the chilly trip up north a nice reminder of the joys of winter and the promise of spring. The oh-so drab and gray days of February linger about, but the temperate month of March is waiting in the wings.

Ode to winter: Daisies, tulips and weeds; oh my!

The world is out of whack and all I can do is wonder when Mother Nature will take note. In my bizarre, abstract, literary way of thinking, I’m also wondering what Shelley – as in Percy Bysshe – might have to say about the unseasonably warm temps hanging out here in the Land of Cotton.

After all, it was Shelley who once wondered “If winter comes, can spring be far behind?” Well, what happens if winter never really blows its chilly way into the area? Will we simply go about our lives in a state of eternal tepidness? It’s a quandary!

Here I am in the oh-so eternally gray month of February, wearing T-shirts, shorts and sandals, watching daisies and tulips push their way through the earth. The flowery bits of whimsy that bring life and color each spring to my little corner of the world are showing off way too early, confused by the heat of a wintry day.

Trees are blooming, azaleas budding and, oh-so horribly, weeds are stretching their leafy tendrils much too soon across my lovely bare lawn. Another week or so of sunshine and I’ll be forced to push the cobwebs aside in my utility shed and waken my lawn mower, weed whacker, hedge clippers and blower.

So I’m hoping – well, praying – that Mother Nature comes to my rescue. It’ll only take a little cold snap to put things right; a day or week of frigid temps; maybe a bit of ice to cool things off!

Unwilling to leave myself and my needs to the capricious nature of, ah, nature, the lovely Miss Wendy and I will be jetting off in a week or two, searching for winter in the Big Apple. Highlights will certainly include eating our way through a few iconic delis – can you say HOT PASTRAMI – listening to Sutton Foster remind us that “Anything Goes”, tapping our tootsies at a Barry Manilow concert at, wait for it, Radio City, and – please – feeling the rejuvenating slap of an icy breeze across my face as we walk along Fifth Avenue!

And then, refreshed, I can return to Dixie, settle in for a slow thaw and wait for the warm embrace of March. If winter comes – even if I have to travel a 1,000 miles to find it – can spring be far behind? I’m hoping!

Mob movie cool on a warm summer night

One sure way to beat the heat here in the land of cotton is to spend a cool evening inside watching a mobster movie. That’s exactly what I did earlier this week, managing once again to sit through Godfather: Part II.

I first saw the film back when I still had hair, Richard Nixon was in the White House and Elvis was starting to wear spandex. I’ve seen bits and pieces now and again, but haven’t watched the entire film in decades.

It remains one of the top movies ever produced, featuring a killer cast – Al Pacino, Robert Duvall, Diane Keaton, Robert De Niro, John Cazale and Talia Shire. It also has a pitch-perfect screenplay, beautiful cinematography, and a wistful, melancholy soundtrack that won the Oscar for Best Original Score in 1974.

There is a minor hiccup that bothered me the first time I saw the film and continues to irritate decades later. Lee Strasberg, the legendary actor, director and acting teacher, plays Hyman Roth in the film. It’s worth noting that he was nominated for a best-supporting Oscar for his performance – he lost to Robert De Niro, playing the young Vito Corleone.

Take a moment and recall the scene when Michael meets with Roth at his home in Miami. Michael is ushered into a smallish den where Roth is relaxing before lunch, sitting in some sort of lounge chair, watching TV. Roth initially seems oblivious of Michael coming into the room. His right leg is awkwardly resting on the arm of the chair and he seems to be lost in his head.

The first thought I had as Strasberg turns toward Michael and the camera is that he’s acting. That, I’d argue, is a thought you never want to have when watching a flick. The entire scene – at least the Strasberg half of it – feels phony, unnatural and awkward. The leg thing comes across like some sort of artistic affectation.

None of this is particularly surprising. Strasberg, after all, is considered the father of method acting. It’s a concept that Dustin Hoffman captured hilariously in the film Tootsie when his character is trying to figure out how best to portray a tomato by understanding what motivates the veggie. Sometimes the best thing to do is just act!

The Godfather franchise is filled with memorable characters and solid actors who bring them to life. Strasberg eventually finds the heart of Hyman Roth and quietly builds the character throughout the film. In their last scene together, Strasberg and Pacino face off; Roth ranting about the nature of the mob and the work they have chosen, Michael seething in quiet rage.

All four hours were grandly entertaining and very, ah, chilling. That would be a good thing on these oh-so hot and humid nights. Up next? The Untouchables and Sean Connery’s over-the-top Irish brogue!

Weekend weather just a tease of things to come

Mother Nature has been toying with us. The weekend was sunny and warm, a taste of spring just a few weeks after the Land of Cotton had been transformed into a frigid wasteland..

Temperatures soared on Saturday, helping melt away the winter blahs that had settled across the region. Bone chilling temps, ice, snow and freezing rain were, for the moment, fading memories.

Out and about with the lovely Miss Wendy, enjoying the afternoon sun that sparkled happily along the Chattahoochee, we were joined by an eclectic mix of folks as we sauntered along our favorite walking trail. There were young families with their young kids and children playing ball; runners, bikers and boaters; friends and, I imagine, lovers. Even the geese seemed a bit perkier, fluttering about with good cheer.

Sunday was just about the same, another day of warmth and mostly clear skies.

But it was all a tease. Monday broke gray and dismal, temperatures plunging into the high 30s, rising only slightly into the mid-40s by late afternoon. Tuesday was more of the same, including a fog that shrouded the region in a heavy blanket of mist.

Meteorologists were once again predicting gloom and doom, talking up a massive winter storm sweeping across the country’s heartland, expected to dump large amounts of snow over the Midwest and New England.

The good news is the Land of Cotton will only be feeling a slight chill from this frosty blow in coming days. No need to stock up on milk, bread and booze. That said, it might be helpful about now to remind ourselves of the promise offered up by Percy Bysshe Shelley in “Ode to the West Wind”.

All together now: "If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?"

Why I smile when the weather turns ugly

I couldn’t help but smile a bit while watching weather reports play out last night, filled with horrid news of freezing temps, rain, sleet and dangerous driving conditions across the Land of Cotton. It was late afternoon when I heard the first reference to “black ice,” and knew it was only a matter of time before traffic became a slip-sliding affair.

I was right. The evening was still young when the show I was watching on the tube was interrupted by a frazzled meteorologist, yelling that the sky was falling and warning motorists to drive with caution. He then urged anyone not needing to be out and about to stay home – safe, toasty warm and out of harm’s way!

I smiled again, tossed another log onto the crackling fire in my den and, well, sighed. The warning offered up by the harried guy on the tube was, in fact, good advice. And for the first time in three decades I was going to be able to ignore the weather and not worry about losing my job.

I’ll explain. Back when I was working for that place with the printing press in the basement, each year when the days grew short and a chill filled the air, a memo from headquarters was tacked onto a bulletin board in the newsroom.

I forget the phrasing, but essentially the point of the note was to outline company policy, that when the weather turned ugly – ice, snow, sleet, heavy rains, tumbling temperatures – employees were expected to find their way to the office.

And that’s what I did. While the rest of the world it seemed was warm and safe in bed, I slid my way into work each winter for years, inching slowly across treacherous roads and interstates covered with ice and show. The good news is that as often as not the roads were empty and my sliding about often seemed like some sort of bizarre game or cosmic joke.

It was me against Mother Nature and since I’m still around, I’m guessing I won! Now I can sit back and relax in my comfy chair, remembering warmly all those frigid days when the landscape was bleak and yet another deadline was resting just beyond the slate-gray horizon.

When I get up today – noonish has a nice ring – I might venture out for a cup of Joe, then pick up my morning paper in the driveway. I’ll be thinking of my friends and former colleagues at that new place in the ’burbs as I read about the bad weather.

Covering Mother Nature can be dirty work and somebody has to do it. Nice to know I’m no longer that somebody.

Roads across the Land of Cotton (photo above) were covered with ice late Wednesday as a cold front blasted its way across the region (AJC).

Three dog night in the Land of Cotton

It’s been a three-dog weekend for me here in the Land of Cotton. No, I’m not referencing the frigid temps and snow flurries that have turned Dixie and much of the rest of the country into a winter wasteland.

I mean, literally, it’s been a three-dog weekend. The lovely Miss Wendy and I had the grand opportunity to take care of our grand-doggies – Joey, Maggie and Ella Rufus. The canines', um, parents – that would be my darling daughter and son-in-law – were away for a few days and asked if we’d handle the brood.

Truth to tell, I’ve always wanted to be leader of the pack and this seemed like a good opportunity to woof it up. We spent the first evening with weekend pals, Susan and John, taking advantage of Lauren and Josh’s state-of-the-art entertainment system, watching “It’s A Wonderful Life” and watching Joey, Maggie and Ella enjoying their doggie lives.

We snacked on popcorn; the canines settled for dog biscuits and lots of attention. It’s probably worth mentioning that Joey, a golden retriever, and Maggie, a black lab, collectively weigh more than I do; and if they ever learn to walk upright they will easily be able to rest their front paws on my hairless noggin.

Highlight of the evening had to be when we all trotted off to bed – just to set the record straight, Susan and John had already said their goodbyes. Miss Wendy and I were settling in for the evening when Ella, 15 pounds of mostly hair – she’s a Westy-Shih Tzu mix – joined us, then Maggie called dibs on the middle of the bed, wiggling herself into a snuggly position, then resting her head on my chest.

I was about to push her aside when she glanced at me with one of those innocent doggy looks that got my attention and had me thinking a bit about karma and what my future might look like if I kicked her out of bed.

Fortunately, Joey was happy to curl up on his oversized doggy pillow. That changed the next night when Wendy left me alone with the dogs and they all decided to join me in bed. I learned that dogs do, in fact, snore – long and loud! I hadn’t heard such a ruckus since my days in the army.

Joey – did I mention he’s the size of a Shetland pony – also kept getting up and walking around a bit, following his tail, trying to find that sweet, comfortable spot that always seemed to be on the other side of the bed.

I also learned that if you’re the head of the pack, you might have the best view of the world, but whatever you do – get up for a drink of water, go to the bathroom, grab a book or magazine – there’s a really good chance that the members of your pack will want to join you.

They can also talk. Word choices are limited – hey, they’re dogs – and mostly focus on food, water and treats, pooping and esoteric details involving the licking of one’s genetalia!

Here’s another bit of useful info I learned over the weekend. It turns out “Three Dog Night” is much more than a rock band from the late 1960s. When it’s cold – I’m talking bone-chilling cold – it’s a toasty good thing to have three dogs around to keep you warm.

Me, baboons and running a winter marathon

It was a blustery, frigid breeze that greeted me at the river over the weekend, a reminder that winter is settling in across the Land of Cotton. No matter. I was comfy in a heavy sweater and coat, my noggin covered with a cap.

Only a few other folks were about, the walking path mostly a blank runway filled with leaves and other debris, zipping off toward a slate-gray horizon. It was a perfect launching pad for thought and sent my mind momentarily searching for other cold days in my past.

Growing up in the south, I’ve never been forced to deal with the kind of cold that freezes your thoughts and chills your bones. It’s always been a soothing cold here, weather that is usually more delightful then painful, the sort of chill that has you feeling alive and alert.

Ice has occasionally been a problem, snapping trees and downing power lines when temperatures dip below freezing, turning highways and streets into disaster zones filled with motorists slip-sliding away – often into one another!

The icy fingers of winter have managed to grab hold of me tightly only once. And, like most problems, this bashing was self-inflicted. I’ll explain.

It was the late ’80s and I had been running for a couple of years. I was in a good place. Everything in my running life was stable – weight, training, running times. I had gone from races of modest distances, 5 and 10Ks, to running an occasional half-marathon – 13.1 miles. In some sort of vague way that had yet to completely materialize, I knew that at some point in the future I’d run a marathon. I just didn’t realize it would happen so quickly.

My boss and friend at that place with the printing press had gotten me into running and he was now pushing me to join him at the Rocket City Marathon in Huntsville, AL. No need to bore you with the details, but in early January – it was 1989, or maybe the following year – I found myself bunched together with Don and several hundred other runners, minutes away from the start of the race.

I’ve had people ask me how long the Rocket City Marathon was and, of course, the answer is 26.2 miles, the same distance as ALL marathons. What made this trek a bit different was the weather. A cold snap had literally blown in a few days earlier and settled over the area. The morning of the race, the temperature was in the high teens and the sky was an ugly battleship gray.

“Bracing” is what I think local meteorologists predicted for weather conditions at the start of the race. I’m not certain, but I think I recall one weatherman saying only a baboon would run in such conditions.

He was right. The low temperature, a modest wind blowing from the north and a wintry mix of sleet, snow and rain all came together over the next several hours to turn my little adventure into the marathon from hell!

To battle the elements, I was wearing a long-sleeve tee-shirt, a nylon running jacket, a runner’s cap, mittens and, um, tights – not toasty thermal tights, but some sort of unholy blend of nylon and spandex. Go figure!

Despite the dreadful weather, the race actually got off to a good start. Adrenaline can, in fact, keep you warm, even when you can hear ice crystals crunching beneath your feet and bits of sleet start building up atop your racing cap. The body has this miraculous way of producing heat as you expend energy, a wondrous mechanism that keeps you alive and functioning if you need to work outdoors in wintry climes.

But miracles only go so far and the body can only take so much punishment. At a certain point – and I’m sure there’s some sort of algorithm to figure this out – things start shutting down and the body’s thermostat gets turned off. In my case, that all happened around mile 17 or so on a slushy hill in the heart of Huntsville. I still had a grueling nine miles remaining before I’d reach the finish line and the warm embrace of Miss Wendy.

Making matters even worse, the Rocket City Marathon was a modest affair, only a few hundred runners, most scattered about the city in ragtag groups across a dozen miles or so. For long stretches I’d find myself alone, running in neighborhoods that seemed part of some mad artist’s vision of the apocalypse. Fortunately, race officials had placed a few poor schmucks along the route at key points to help runners find their way home.

That moment came for me about 3 hours and 45 minutes after I waved a hearty farewell to Wendy and Lauren, all but lost in the excitement of the starting ceremony – balloons and banners, a high school band, bells, whistles and a surprisingly loud bang from the starter’s gun.

Only Wendy and Lauren were about as I limped across the finish line. A volunteer wrapped me in some sort of metallic blanket that for the moment seemed as cold as the rest of the world. It was about then that I started shaking, chilled to the bone.

I was gingerly escorted into race headquarters and offered a bowl of tepid soup. I’m certain I looked shell-shocked and certainly felt like I’d just been through a major battle. I wasn’t at all certain at that moment if I had survived.

The room brought a measure of warmth and the soup, shakily spooned from bowl to mouth, began slowly thawing me out. That wasn’t all together a pleasant experience. The chill was immediately replaced with aches and pains in places I didn’t know I had.

A few minutes later I managed to make it to a shower – race headquarters, thankfully, were inside a local high school and runners had access to a large shower room. I stood underneath the warmth of a gentle spray of water, the chill, aches and pains of the day giving way to a rising cloud of steam.

Anyone who’s done any long distance running will get this next part. The rest of you will simply think me mad. On the mend and warmly clothed in fresh sweats, I was dozing off as the lovely Miss Wendy handled the driving chores for our return to the Land of Cotton.

The pain and effort of the day were already fading memories and my runner’s high – a euphonic blend of endorphins and exhaustion – was kicking into overdrive. So my thoughts as I fell asleep were focused on me jogging effortlessly along a sun-drenched beach and what I needed to do differently to better my race time at the next marathon I entered.

Such is the madness and glory of life.

Hot, hazy and crazy in the Land of Cotton

Let’s talk about the weather. If you haven’t noticed, it’s hot in the Land of Cotton. Dexter (yeh, that would be the pooch with the fluttering ears) seems to have found a solution to the problem.

Of course it is the summer and temperatures generally hover in the mid-90s around here this time of year.

Not that long ago, when I was 20 pounds lighter and running for fun, I enjoyed training in really hot weather. There’s something about jogging a few miles and sweating off a few pounds when the mercury is approaching the century mark that is, umm, sort of edgy – and perhaps such thoughts are brought on by heat exhaustion.

So, how hot is it anyway? I’m glad you asked.

 My sunglasses fog up each morning before I make it to the end of the driveway.

 A neighborhood kid recently cracked an egg on the hood of his father’s BMW, added a little cheese, and managed to pull together a tasty omelet. Not sure how his dad felt about dah yolk!

 While driving home the other evening, the humidity was so high, the lovely Miss Wendy had to keep turning on the windshield wipers to whisk away the sheen of moisture that made it impossible to see where we were headed.

 Birds in the backyard, apparently too hot to care that I’m only feet away, splash about in the small puddles I’ve left behind after watering plants on our patio. Ditto cats and dogs, butterflies, rabbits and the occasional chipmunk.

 Those patio plants, btw, are toast if not watered daily.

 My lawn, along with those of my neighbors and others across the area, is a wretched mess of scorched grass, weeds and bald spots – sort of like my noggin.

 It’s dangerous to just stand around outside, especially if you’re wearing cheap flip-flops and standing on asphalt. Rubber melts and so will you if you’re not careful.

 Storm clouds mass high overhead each afternoon, pulled together by the torrid temperatures, lashing out with torrential showers filled with sound and fury, signifying, ahh, it’s hot!

 That doesn’t stop the swell looking TV weather guys and gals from taking up valuable air time each evening, tracking with breathless wonder the thunderstorms sweeping across the area.

 Shorts, sandals, linen shirts, caps, hats and lots of sunscreen are de rigueur for dis dude!

 And what would we do without air conditioning, ceiling fans, fresh water, soda, slushies, freezonis (yep, there is such a thing), shakes, frozen yogurt and Italian ice?

Finally, September 22. That’s a day you’ll want to mark on your calendar – the first day of fall. Meanwhile, think cool thoughts.