Old Man Winter

….he just keep rollin’…

Finally a snow worthy of a Minnesotan! Sam got to explore this new bright white environment and build his very first snowman (with a little help from his mama). The foot of snow was quite a welcome respite from the brown view from the back side of our house. Everyone seemed happy about it except Laurie, who in an unwitting episode of role reversal, finds her self thrust into the role of Czarina of snow removal.

Well, more fun as eight to twelve inches is forecasted to arrive in the next twenty four hours.

Peace out.

Just do it, Gram

Any young Stenzel has wondered about Gram’s attitude toward flatulence. She apparently used to keep a diary, because I came across the following story written in her unmistakable handwriting on a loose leaf of paper. It seems to suggest why she might have her obsessive aversion.

I made the supreme sacrifice when I met my sweet husband, fell in love, and it became apparent that we would marry. I gave up beans. Some months later, on my birthday, my car broke down on the way home from teaching school. Since we lived in the countryside, I called Joe and told him that I would be late because I had to walk home.

On my way, I passed by a small diner and the odor of baked beans was more than I could stand. With a couple miles left to walk, I figured that I would walk off any ill effects by the time I reached home, so I stopped at the diner, and before I knew it I had consumed three steaming bowls of baked beans. On my way home, I made sure that I released all the gas. Upon my arrival, my husband seemed excited to see me and exclaimed delightedly: "MaryAnn, I have a surprise for supper tonight!"

He then blindfolded me and led me to my chair at the supper table. I took a seat, and just as he was about to remove my blindfold the telephone rang. He made me promise not to touch the blindfold until he returned and went to answer the call. Unfortunately, the baked beans I had consumed were still affecting me, and the pressure was becoming most unbearable. So while Joe was out of the room I seized the opportunity, shifted my weight to one leg and let one go. It was not only loud, but it smelled like a fertilizer truck running over a skunk in front of a pulpwood mill. I took my napkin from my lap and vigorously fanned the air around me.

Then, shifting to the other cheek, I ripped off three more. The stink was worse than cooked cabbage. Keeping my ears carefully tuned to the conversation in the other room, I went on like this for several more minutes. I must confess that the pleasure was indescribable.

Eventually the telephone farewells signaled the end of my freedom. I quickly fanned the air a few more times with my napkin, placed it on my lap, and folded my hands back on it feeling very relieved and pleased with myself. My face must have been the picture of innocence when my husband returned, apologizing for taking so long. He asked me if I had peeked through the blindfold, and I assured him I had not. At this point, he removed the blindfold, and the twelve dinner guests seated around the table chorused: "Happy Birthday!"

It's a cold one...

...but that’s February in northwest Minnesota. Probably the best way to put it is to borrow a phrase from Gerald Ford: “Things are more like they are now than they have ever been.” I saw a reading of 32 below on the outside thermometer as I was making the 4 AM trip to stoke the wood stove. The dogs are becoming unwilling to venture outside. It’s pretty pathetic watching a big, bad German Shepherd squat for her morning poop while she gingerly lifts alternate paws off the ground for momentary relief from direct contact with the snow.

Fortunately, we had the foresight to finally insulate and install a heating system in the outhouse. Mr. Heater is basically a grid that glows red hot on top of a 20 gallon LP tank. In less than 60 seconds the chamber warms to a cozy and expeditious 70 degrees. The problem is that propane gas combustion produces a lot of carbon dioxide and water. The window frosts right up, and we lose our view. Luckily, the door has not iced shut – not yet anyway. After reading of the Jim and Sam escapade, better to be locked in than locked out.

No senior slump here, folks

Tales from the baby zone

It was almost two years ago that Sam invaded our quiet and cozy abode bringing with him much gear, which usurped every corner of every room in the house. This little being quickly learned to rule the kingdom and commanded his serfs to do his bidding. The mom and dad soon forgot about the outside world and adult thoughts and conversations seemed foreign and elusive. Little Osama had a ravenous appetite and piercing cry and grew quickly, progressing from howler to crawler to walker to climber in warp speed. Yes, climber!

The little guy battle cry of late is “I Climb!” the book case…out of the crib…on top of the couch. Yes, he has scaled the walls of the crib and broken free of his shackles. Mom and Dad’s one and only form of defense (the crib) has just been obliterated never to return. This morning at 5:00am the little one gnashed his terrible teeth, and rolled his terrible eyes and roared his terrible roars and said “let the wild rumpus begin!” The bleary-eyed dad was caught off-guard attempting to fetch the paper and locked out of the house by a laughing imp – in subzero temperatures (-7degrees) and wearing only a robe. Fortunately mom had on her “listening ears” and quickly came to the rescue.

Our life as we knew it is once again forever changed by this pint-sized prankster.

Please check in on us from time to time before the spring thaw to make sure that the mom is not lying unconscious from a friendly(?) “bonkondehed” and the Dad is not suffering from frostbite.

Pray for us,

Old Ma & Pop