Christmas 2008

What a different Christmas! Julie and I have been married 30 years and this is the first Christmas where we have been alone. Our very first married Christmas we spent with Gary and Tish, and the second we were blessed to have our first child, Melissa, with us. Ever since then it has been children, family, and grandchildren. This Christmas morning was quiet, very quiet.

As of Christmas day, we have had about eighteen inches of snow in Ferndale. The temperatures have been below freezing for two weeks, averaging twenty-five degrees, and hitting a low of six degrees. High winds and the chill factor kept us inside most of the time to avoid the outdoor sub zero freeze. Worst of all, we could not ride our bikes!

The Sunday before Christmas, one of the frozen water pipes to the kitchen sink finally thawed out exposing a burst pipe, leaving us without water until the next day when we were lucky enough to get a plumber in for the repair. The sound that a ruptured pipe makes when it thaws out is very peculiar. Kind of like your own personal jet engine.

We have had so much snow that the car has high centered several times in our own cul-de-sac. We were also stuck fast in the white plaque while delivering gifts on Christmas Eve, until a few good Samaritans pushed us out. I really think they had another motive since we were blocking the only driveway to the whole apartment complex. We have started carrying a shovel in the car at all times.

We live at the top of a large steep hill. We love riding our bikes down the hill, in summer, reaching speeds in excess of forty mile per hour. The day after Christmas the temperatures finally rose above freezing and we able to negotiate the hill, which was now totally lacking ice due to the warming and liberal sand from our overworked city crews. Later in the afternoon we had an entirely different experience. We left home to see a movie in town and naively started down the hill. Due to dropping temperatures and a light snow, the road surface had become a sheet of unseen ice. As the car started to pitch down from the top of the hill we saw a large red fire truck parked sideways halfway up the hill blocking the entire road. I started to wonder why a fire truck parked in the middle of the road? At that moment our little Toyota started sliding sideways down the hill in the direction of the before mentioned large red fire truck. Heart pumping and with thoughts of the mangled remains of our new blue Toyota stained with red paint, I was able to steer the sliding car into the three foot snow bank alongside the road. The car finally stopped, front bumper in the snow, sideways, now with two vehicles blocking the hill.

After a few skillful maneuvers, I was able to extract the car from the snow bank and bring the front of the car into a position ready for an attempt to go back up the hill. Where was the same skill a few minutes ago? Unfortunately the road was so slick that the car would not move up the hill in spite of the skillful driver behind the wheel. Now for my ace in the hole, I yelled, "Julie, get out and push!"

It's wonderful when Julie pushes. We gradually gained the crest of the hill and the exhausted driver pulled to the side of the road and rested. Julie dragged up hill and plopped into the car a few minutes later, chest heaving, and gasping for breath. What was her problem?

We never did find out what the fire truck was doing sideways in the road. When we returned from the movie it was raining, the road was wet and passable, and the fire truck was gone.

While we were exiting the movie theater, a nice old lady stepped over one of those barricade ropes in the theater lobby and fell flat onto her hands and knees on the hard floor. It was ugly and two other men reached out to help her before I realized it was Julie!

By the way, the movie "Marley and Me" was great. It reminded us of the black Labrador we had for fourteen years while our children were growing up. The dog we had for several years after they left home and the dog that passed away in Julie's arms, just like in the movie. Thank you "Little Ann" for the fourteen wonderful years you shared with us.