Slightly Off the Mark

 She pops out for a day, shows a little leg, smiles demurely, and disappears again, leaving her anxious suitors to suffer through more cold and wet. It’s hardly any wonder that the symbol of weather should run hot and cold, but sheesh – enough is enough.

The stupid groundhog predicted an early spring, but he didn't say it would come all at once. What is a groundhog, anyway? It’s a big rat. Set a trap, somebody.

Even more than usual, our weather pattern looks like a heartbeat on an EKG. It reminds me the old days, when I walked to school barefoot, in a raging blizzard every morning and a blistering heat wave in the afternoon. (Uphill both ways, blah blah blah.)

I really should get around to admitting I only lived two blocks from school.

As a result of the bouncing weather, some people say they'd rather it just stay cold all the time. Their brains are still frozen. Saying cold all the time instead of warm some of the time is like saying that, since you can’t eat 24 hours a day, you’d rather just starve. To carry the heavy comparison further, I’d rather weigh 300 pounds but be alive than be the first member of my family to voluntarily starve to death.

Most of my best winter photos are taken from inside. I care less about glare than I do about frostbite.

Summer now goes by much more quickly than it used to, and winter – strange as our recent winters have been – lasts much longer. When I was a kid, the average summer lasted eighteen months. Seriously. I would go out to play after breakfast, and wouldn’t come in again for three days, just in time for lunch. The summer when I turned nine lasted for over six years. It’s a science-fictiony mystery, but there you go. We went down to Kentucky for a two week vacation that lasted so long we had to cut down trees to get the car back on the road.

And it never got hot. Kids could wake up in the hospital with two IV’s in their arms to rehydrate them, and have no idea they were ever overheated. Then they’d go home and run back outside again. Sure, most of us didn’t notice the cold, either, but we sure noticed when we started getting feeling back into our limbs. It was like getting a power pinch from our least favorite aunt – all over.

Isn't this fun? SO much fun. Later I'm having hot chocolate and a good cry.

Even the bad things about summer are proof that summer is good:

Bugs? Hate ‘em. But why do they come out during the spring? Because during winter they’re dead. Everything’s dead. It’s a dead season. Mother Nature is dead – the first lightning storm of the spring is like a giant defibrillator, starting her heart back up.

No lawn mowing during winter. Why? Grass is dead. No poison ivy during winter. Why? Dead. Snakes? Dead. No spiders during the winter. (Spiders are not bugs. Bugs are just bugs – spiders are evil.) Even spiders know dead when they see it, although many think it looks like the bottom of my shoe.

Hot and humid is unpleasant, I get that, but nobody's car ever slid into a snowbank because the sun was shining too much. No poor match girl ever froze to death under a shade tree during an Independence Day celebration.

Tornadoes? Terrible things, mile-wide vacuum cleaners. But blizzards have covered half the friggin’ country. Besides, no matter how strong it was, no meteorologist ever mentioned “tornado” in the same sentence as “wind chill”.

Winter even smells dead – spring smells of fresh cut grass, and lilacs, and that earthy scent that comes with a warm summer rain. And yes, it also smells of hot asphalt, and dairy farms, and sweat, but that’s a small price to pay for driving down a country road with the window open and breathing deeply as you pass a cornfield.

Pretty, isn't it? And DEAD.

Almost everything’s green, with patches of other bright colors like spotting a forgotten twenty dollar bill. Green is life. Winter has no color: It’s black and white and dead all over. I could also go for the cliché and mention the sounds – birds, frogs, insects, all more relaxing than the sound of sleet on siding, or furnaces kicking on. Finally, lest we forget, the feel of walking around in shorts and shirtsleeves, without the accompanying frostbite.

Warmth makes everything a little better. Sure, you can’t store your frozen goods on the back porch, but that’s a small price to pay for opening the window and breathing real air.

So come on out, Mother Nature, don’t be a tease. And don’t bother bringing your winter coat.

• Amazon:  https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
• Barnes & Noble:  https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"
• Goodreads:  https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4898846.Mark_R_Hunter
• Blog: https://markrhunter.blogspot.com/
• Website: http://www.markrhunter.com/
• Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ozma914/
• Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MarkRHunter914
• Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/markrhunter/
• Twitter: https://twitter.com/MarkRHunter
• Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@MarkRHunter
• Substack:  https://substack.com/@markrhunter
• Tumblr:  https://www.tumblr.com/ozma914

Remember: When wrapped in plastic, books make good umbrellas. Use hardcover.

 I'm reposting this blog from last summer because, let's face it, you could post something about heat waves every summer. Okay, I'm actually doing it because I was busy working on the Haunted Noble County project and ran out of time. But they're talking about a 100 degree heat index tomorrow--something other parts of the country have been seeing all summer--so it still fits.

 _____________________________________________

This week has been so hot, "so hot" jokes have been trending.

There's only so much you can do with them, of course--they've been around a long time. One of the original European settlers, in the Roanoke Colony of Virginia, left a note that said "it's so hot we're moving to Plymouth". The settlers were never heard from again, after apparently getting lost on the Washington, D.C. beltway.

Just the same, it's been so hot even I've been uncomfortable, not that I'd admit it. I'd still take a heat wave over a cold snap, but that doesn't mean I like either one. I went out to mow the lawn at 9 a.m. the other day, and ended up going through five water bottles: Three in me and two over me. It was so hot the lawn mower started flashing an error light that said "water me".

"You think I'm leaving the shade without a drink, first? You just filled me with gasoline!"

I didn't know it even had error lights.

Fun fact: In order to clean my mower you have to connect a garden hose, which sprays water all over the inside of the mower deck while it runs, to clean the grass off. So, you DO have to water it.

Naturally, it's not just the heat up here. Last week was so humid that, after I mowed, I had to step into the shower to dry off. Relax, I'm not posting any photos of that.

Anything that was in full sunlight started to glow red, unless it was already red, in which case it started to glow orange. The fire hydrant down the street called me over and begged me to let my dog pee on it. I refused, being worried about steam burns.

"Don't worry about me peeing back at you, I can hold my water."

At one point the humidity level was 140%, which translated to a heat index of, and I quote, "broil". Jim Cantore came over from The Weather Channel to investigate how the humidity can actually be higher than 100%, and his cameraman drowned. Meanwhile, three people were blinded when the sun shone of Cantore's head. He was heard to say, "I'd rather have thundersnow". Speak for yourself, fella.

But I took advantage of it by letting the air conditioner drain its water into a bucket outside, then using the bucket to water my plants. By the way, if anyone needs any planters, I, uh, killed all my flowers with scalding water.

It's been especially rough for people who don't have air conditioners--or for people with no power at all, including the ones hit by the most recent thunderstorms and derechos. (It is too a real word--shut up, spell check.)

I tried to honor their crisis by going outside, at least long enough to mow the lawn. Their general response was that I was crazy, and could they stop by for several hours?

Anyway, eventually I had to go out again, to let the dog water that hydrant. The dog's response? "Um, no thanks ... I'll hold it."

"Nope. Uh-uh, not until the next cold snap hits in August."

• Website: http://www.markrhunter.com/
• Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ozma914/
• Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MarkRHunter914
• Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/markrhunter/
• Twitter: https://twitter.com/MarkRHunter
• Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@MarkRHunter
• Blog: https://markrhunter.blogspot.com/
• Amazon:  https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
• Barnes & Noble:  https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

 I don't know if anyone who's not in the emergency services will fully appreciate this, but what the heck. I wrote some new lyrics to the Christmas song "Deck the Halls", and it's dedicated to all the emergency telecommunicators out there--including those who, like me, still call themselves 911 dispatchers.

I just hit my 29th anniversary on the job, so don't mess with me: I'm legally insane:

TIS THE 911 SEASON

Tis the season for the fighting,

Fa la la la la, la la la

Kicking, screaming and the biting

Fa la la la la, la la la

Barroom fights and family squabbles

Fa la la la la, la la la

Louder than a turkey gobbles

Fa la la la la, la la la

Frequent flier, 911

Fa la la la la, la la la

Claiming that his meds are gone

Fa la la la la, la la la

Overdose is never fun

Fa la la la la, la la la

Especially at half past one

Fa la la la la, la la la

Traffic stop, to be proactive

Fa la la la la, la la la

Sure enough a warrant active

Fa la la la la, la la la

It won't get that cop promoted

Fa la la la la, la la la

When they find out he has COVID

Fa la la la la, la la la

Working all night, on through Christmas

Fa la la la la, la la la

Sure do hope the family missed us

Fa la la la la, la la la

We won't join in with the choir

Fa la la la la, la la la

Unless they catch their tree on fire

Fa la la la la, la la la

Fa la la la la, la la la

Can't sleep because we're still wired

Fa la la la la, la la la

Family members give you some cheer

Fa la la la la, la la la

Save your stress until the New Year

Fa la la la la, la la laaaaaa........

Remember, every time you don't buy a book, the Grinch steals a tree.

Hi, can I complain for a second?

I try to only complain once every few months or so except in my humor columns, where my misfortunes are supposed to be humorous. Nobody likes a complainer. In fact, don't read this. Just stop right there and head on over to some video of cute horses toying with much smaller humans. 

"You think you're gonna ride me? I'll mess you the heck up."

Good, now I can write this just for me, which takes a lot of the pressure off. It's a private diary entry that happens to be available to billions of people. Anyway, basically I'm just here because February sucked.

Some people don't like the word "sucked" in this context, seeing it as a naughty word of sorts. I get that; I'm not really a fan of bad language. But in this case I feel I'm justified, because February did suck, and the only other words that might describe it are way worse.

I was sick for all of February, first with a cold and then my annual sinus infection; my wife was sick for only half that time, although with the same thing. (Which, yes, means it was my fault.) In this we were in good company: 90% of all the people in Indiana, and 75% of all the people in the world, also got sick in February. What else is there to do? It's February.

Of course, February sucks every year. It's maybe a little better than January but worse than December, and way worse than March--although March has its moments. I understand these are actually good months if you live in Key West, South Africa, or New Zealand. But New Zealand keeps getting overrun by Hobbits, so there's that.

"This sucks."

I think maybe what triggered this is a combination of Seasonal Affected Disorder and Facebook. SAD is only depressing during winter, and is a condition in which sane people feel bad because they recognize how much winter sucks. Facebook is depressing all year round. But this particular February, it seemed like every time I looked at Facebook someone had died, either locally or celebrity-wise.

The celebrity part isn't important, and functions mostly to remind me I'm getting older. But locally, the population of my home town dropped 10% this February.

And then, on the last day of the month, my father's sister and my mother's brother both passed away. It happened in different states, and was completely coincidental. And yet, I couldn't help thinking that it was February's last, parting middle finger of suckiness.

I wanted to touch on that, so I could end on a less negative note. Almost anything is less negative than that.

There were other, little things, too. I tried my best to shatter my foot (yes, I wrote a blog about it--be patient); our book sales, like February, sucked, but from what I've heard the same thing happened to all my writer friends. (I assume book sales would have been bad for non-writers, if they'd had any.) Then there was the weather, which was very February-like.

"I would just like to point out that this is NOT dandruff."

But now it's March. Meteorological spring, a time of longer days and, hopefully, the first green shoots of a new season. Time to pull ourselves up by our boot straps, which as a firefighter I've literally done, and accentuate the positive.

The positive being that it's not February. Which sucked.

We had such a nice, warm winter going on there.

(Well ... "nice winter", is relative. But in northern Indiana, if the temperature stays above freezing for any amount of time between late December and the end of January, that's a nice winter.)

I wanted it to continue. I contacted my state representative and asked him to build a wall between us and Canada, to keep out those nasty polar vortexes. Look, I love Canada, but I understand why they call that country America's Hat: They have to wear hats up there to keep their ears from falling off. For nine months a year.

You have to respect people who get by even though they think North Dakota is a bit too warm for them.

Anyway, my state representative recently got a frostbit nose on the Pokagon State Park toboggan run, and was thus sympathetic. He threatened to shut down the state government unless they funded a Games Of Thrones style ice wall, until it was pointed out to him that keeping a polar vortex out would require a wall eighteen miles high ... and besides, Lake Michigan was a problem.

That guy has since moved to Boca Raton, which I discovered is in Florida. Traitor.

So, with no approval for a wall, or my backup idea involving a line of several hundred thousand salamanders pointed north, winter came back.

(Imagine my embarrassment when I discovered salamanders had to be powered by something, which made the idea financially unsound. I thought they all just crawled to the state line and breathed warm air into the wind.)

So one day I went outside to do yard work while it was in the low 50s (Fahrenheit--let's not get silly). Two days later it was 22 degrees, and lake-effect snow--which my wall would have stopped--was causing vehicles to skid all over like a Disney On Ice version of "Cars".

Which ... come to think of it would be a brilliant show, and I'd pay to go, if I could get out of my driveway.

Anyway, for awhile there we were having decent (relatively) weather, while the south was getting clobbered with ice and snow. I feel for the south, but there's a certain irony there: For most of my life I've sworn every winter that by next winter I'd move away; but like an angry Democrat celebrity, I never do. Honestly, I really love Indiana the rest of the year, but is a northern Indiana winter worth that?

Plan B was to become a rich author and have a winter home, an idea I abandoned when I found out the average author earns under the poverty line.

When it snows in the south, the counties dig out their only snow plow (manufactured by Mack in 1959). Most adults stay in, most kids go out to throw snowballs, and people who have to drive somewhere crash. All of them. But there's a good side: southern snow rarely lasts long, and pretty soon they get nice and toasty warm again (relatively).

Without a wall. Or maybe with, because the upper Midwest functions as their winter barrier.

Our good luck is over now, and we can expect a few months of complete ick. I shall survive by staying home as much as possible, writing under a multi-spectrum lamp while wearing both long flannel underwear and a big fluffy robe, and several layers in between. It's not quite denial. 

But it beats Boca Raton in the summer.

Slightly Off the Mark

Unless you’re one of those people of questionable sanity who likes cold weather, October has little to offer Hoosiers except autumn colors and Halloween.

But by Halloween the leaves have usually fallen and the days are short. This gives me a feeling of bleakness and dread that … come to think of it, bleakness and dread are very Halloweenie.

But no matter how you feel about the weather (it stinks), Halloween is the beginning of snack season. Through Thanksgiving and Christmas and on to Valentine’s Day, we get to pack on a nice layer of fat against the cold.

It doesn’t really help. But what the heck, any excuse for chocolate.

As with most things, Halloween is more fun to kids. These days I’m expected to turn on my porch light and give candy to other people. I’d rather hide in the dark and let the dog scare off anyone who approaches. There’s a cocoa shortage, people—chocolate charity begins at home.

But when I was younger, it was one of the highlights of the year. In elementary school we’d spend October making decorations of ghosts, witches, and of course pumpkins with scary faces.

I wonder if that’s allowed, these days? They’ve probably banned that kind of stuff from public schools, along with cardboard pilgrims and anything Christmas. I liked the pilgrims, although even then I knew they’d be toast without Squanto and his corn crop (not that they had any toast).

Where was I? Oh yeah—candy. My family didn’t exactly hand out candy like candy … back then treats were, well, a treat. But on one glorious night we could collect enough candy to keep us going until Thanksgiving.

It wasn’t seen as a dangerous holiday, at the time. (This would be in the 70s. No, wait. Let’s change that to the 80s. Yeah, the 80s.) On the contrary, this was the night when it was quite literally okay to take candy from strangers.

Our dad would load us into the back of his El Camino for a trip to the store, which had highly flammable costumes and masks that rendered us mostly blind, then—

Oh, the El Camino? Well, it’s kind of a half car, half pickup truck. We didn’t worry about belting into the too-small front, because there were no seat belts.

Anyway, we waited until it got pitch dark and then hit the streets, methodically knocking on every door. Sometimes we’d get apples, which was not exactly a jump for joy moment. Packaged candy was okay, but the really nice people would make things from scratch, like those wonderful popcorn balls or caramel apples—which beat plain apples hands down.

The only glitch I remember is when we reached the home of a deaf old fellow who had no idea it was Halloween. He was probably the guy who later invented the idea of only trick or treating at homes with porch lights on. Or, maybe he was hoarding his chocolate.

Just as our parents passed out the last of their candy, we got home with more candy. It was important to eat the homemade stuff, like caramel apples and popcorn balls, first. If you weren’t too much of a glutton, you could string the rest along for weeks.

The times were so much less dangerous.

Now, some of you might be horrified by this. Some might smile at the exaggeration, then be horrified to discover it wasn’t an exaggeration: That’s the way it happened for some of us in the small towns of the mid-70s—I mean, 80s. This was a time when, if we did something stupid like walk in the middle of the street, our parents would get three phone calls and be standing at the front door by the time we made it home. When everyone knows everyone else, it’s not as dangerous as it sounds on paper.

We did know about the dangers, as shown in the very first short story I ever had published, in the late … 80s. It was about a hungry vampire who drinks his own blood after biting down on a razor blade inside a Halloween apple. If anyone still has that old copy of the Central Noble High School Cat Tracks, you’ll find the story to be very, very bad.

Maybe you’ve seen “Frozen”. Maybe you’ve been frozen. Either way, I think you can relate to how I changed the song’s words, to reflect my feelings about winter. If you’re not familiar with the song, just ask any kid. If they don’t have the soundtrack or a karaoke version, they can probably still hum the tune from memory.

"I Don’t Want To Build a Snowman"
 (sung to the tune of Do You Want to Build a Snowman)

I don’t wanna build a snowman. 
Come on, are you crazy?
I’m not going near that frozen door
Call me a bore
I’m not going to freeze today.           

I’m used to being warm
and when I’m not
I wish that I could die!

I don’t wanna get the frostbite.
I don’t want to see fingers white.

Go away, Winter.
Okay? Bye...


I don’t wanna build a snowman.
Or get hit with wet snowballs.
I think the outside may be for you,
I don’t like turning blue
and suffering from falls.

(Just hangin’ at home.)

I’ll stoke a fire or two
Staying in my room,
and at least then I won’t die.
(Brrrrrrr)

Please don’t make me go out there,
People are asking when it will end.
They say their skin has turned to ice,
Out there it’s not so nice:
Just go back in.

We’re not such a fan
Of this icy land,
But what are you gonna do?  

I don’t wanna build a snowman. [sniff]