The Bad Side of Winter Weather...

Author's Note: In this piece I take a look at the pessimistic side of wintry weather here in Wisconsin.  Try to imagine yourself sitting with me in the passenger's seat during my journey to Chicago.  

The traffic on I-94 was moving at a snail’s pace for over an hour and a half.  I knew I was going to be late for my meeting in Chicago, but there was nothing I could do.  I already left for work an hour and a half early, at 5:00 am, instead of the usual 6:30 am departure time. I had prepared for the “big snow” the forecasters had predicted.  John Milan said on his weather cast the night before that, “Winds will be blustery, often reaching speeds of 15 to 25 miles per hour; snow will fall at a pace of 2 to 2.5 inches per hour, with temperatures hovering around 29 degrees.” I left early, my car was fully gassed-up and I wasn’t going to let bad drivers upset me. Already we had five inches of wet, sloppy snow on the roads which made them as glossy as a skating rink, and this as just the morning rush hour! It was going to snow all day, or so they said. This was nothing new for Wisconsinites.  We are supposed to be accustomed to this kind of weather, yet too many treat snow-storms like they are newborns first tasting something tart.  They get that sour-apple look on their faces and then begin the commute process.  Some drive too fast, some drive way too slow, but most just drive like they have never seen snow before in their life, and then panic at the sight of another car or truck.  I knew that this trip would be slow, so I just sat back, turned up the radio and had another sip of coffee, knowing that eventually I would get to work. 

And the Ideal Side of Wintry Weather

Author's Note: Take note of the semantic devices and figurative language used within this creative, yet reflective piece. I actually spent nine days in 1987 skiing the various resorts in Colorado, with many great memories etched into my brain forever. 

Standing at the top of the ski run at Snowmass Mountain, with my ski tips pointing downward, I knew it was the one place in all the world where I was at peace.  The crisp, cold morning air that was biting at my nose was filled with billions of snowflakes which were gently falling to the ground like tiny parachutes, adding to the already feet of snow that had come this winter season. The dead silence of the morning was barely interrupted by the sometimes haunting sound of the wind rushing through the pine trees. At this time of the morning, the golden sun is just peaking over the top of the eastern horizon, creating a painting like those found in the great art galleries of the world.  For miles and miles, all you can see are “snow capped” mountains, some with their peaks hidden from view by the low-lying clouds.  Dotting those peaks were tall evergreen trees, which looked like soldiers standing guard at the gates of heaven. While I stood atop the peak at the beginning of the “diamond run”, sipping my “morning cup of Joe”, I was not sure what I was going to do the rest of the day, nor did I really care what the plans might be, but I knew that if I did nothing else today, I would be OK with that plan!  

The Memories of Winter

Author's Note: That time of year, special for all, is described in this poem. Look for the memories you may have within this festive prose.


When the snowy time of year appears,
our friends and family draw near,

To grandma and grandpa’s can be heard,
the sound of children and their joyous word,

Gathered round the table, each with cup in hand,
this time of year, how it is so grand!

Steaming cups of coco, warm to hands and hearts to be,
a plate of cut-out cookies, a delight to for all to see,

Snowmen, Santas, reindeer, trees  and bells,
a different shape, with magnificent colors and smells,

Pick yours, then pass the rest, at this magical family fest,
that snowy time of year, certainly better than all the rest!

An Icy Ride, Repeated Over and Over

Author's Note: This decriptive piece was done at this year's Young Author's and Artist's Conference, the 25th annual. We were asked to react to a work of art and reflect upon what it reminded us of. Please note the use of descriptive language decribing my vacation of spring 2012.

Water that is 44 degrees is not the kind one would choose to bath in, to wash one’s face with, or to dip your toes in, even on a hot summer day.  That temperature brings about thoughts of crisp and cold mornings in November and December, and on into January and February in the region of the United States we call the Midwest. Perhaps this is why so many people who live in the more northern regions of the U.S. choose to migrate south for days, weeks and even months at a time.  It is in this part of the country where the temperature of the air remains warm for most of the year: welcoming to our unbundled and uncovered skin exposed to the summer-like air. This warmth we feel is the opposite of what those in the north experience for the better parts of five months: the cold, wet, icy months we describe as winter. Somehow that 44 degree water seems inviting, almost tempting, when the surrounding air is near ninety degrees, even in the shade: a place where the cold and icy reminders of winter meet the warm and inviting feelings of summer.  Slide Rock State Park, near Sedona, Arizona is where the swift flow of fresh snow-melt waters acts as a magnet to the curious, the adventurous, and the unknowing. Here the experience of that 44 degree water can be etched on our skin and soaked into our bones as visitors slip down the narrow waterway created by the erosion of centuries of spring and summer snow runoff from the mountains of southern Arizona.

Stepping into the water at first is breathtaking, but not the breathtaking feeling of a Miami Beach sunrise, or a San Francisco Golden Gate Bridge sunset in all of their colorful and symbolic beauty. Oak Creek’s icy-cold water literally takes your breath away, almost paralyzing you when you first step in, and yet your feet up to your ankles are the only parts of your body exposed to the water! Never mind sitting down slowly, because most would not even attempt to sit.  The best way to become one with the water is to jump right in, demanding that your body adjust in an instant to the shock of the change.  It is hard to keep from crying out once the water covers your legs and torso, yet most everyone who does take the plunge gives forth a moaning “ohhhhhh”, along with the facial contortions that go along with grandma squeezing your cheeks when she firsts greets you on a visit. With your hands raised high in the air, you begin your decent from the top to the bottom of the smooth-rock slide. Your journey only takes 20 or so seconds, but is seems like an eternity, mostly due to the cold water stinging your body anywhere it touches. Yet once you reach the bottom, where the rushing water slows and forms a pool, only then do you have time to react, and swim to the side of the natural pool.  Grasping the rock edge, you pull yourself out of the water so that the sun and air can warm your body.  But somehow and for no particular reason, you do it all over again because the ride down the slide was that great!

Roger Becomes...

Author's Note:  In this piece, an alternative ending was created for the Langston Hughes short story "Thank You Ma'am". By using text evidence and prediction skills based upon logical events, I have envisioned a place where the main character, Roger, might gravitate towards as he grows older. 

Startled by the sound of the door slamming behind him, Roger almost fell from the stoop.  Reflecting on what had just happened to him in the last hour or so, the boy thought about the things she said to him; the things she did for him and how her “words of wisdom” changed his view of what he wanted to do with his life. Then, proudly he yelled so all could hear, even though it was well past one a.m., “Thank you Mrs. Luella Bates Washington Jones, I won’t let you down!” 

As he meandered down the streets dimly lit by the poor lighting of the neighborhood, Roger said to himself that he wanted to do things in his life the way the older woman would do them: helping those in need. There were plenty of those kinds of kids, friends of his, in the neighborhood: the kind who had no direction, no role models, and no hope. The boy felt that this was his chance to make a difference in his community. But could he change the lives of kids who didn’t want to change, those kids who had managed to set their course in life already?

Roger new it would be a challenge to be positive in a world surrounding him where despair and little hope existed, yet he knew this could not deter him from his goal: to be a role model for his friends and the “little ones” in the surrounding neighborhood. Helping those kids who didn't have a parent figure to guide them, to give them advice, or to provide them a meal when they were hungry was something Roger could do, as Mrs. Luella Bates Washington Jones had done for him.

Living the life of a thief was no way to grow up, and he was going to make sure that Jimmy and Robert, his two best friends, along with the countless kids on the streets, would not go down the path so many of their older friends chose: the life that lead to despair and depression, the life of the criminal element.  He was going to make a difference, for himself and others, today!

To Be a Champion

Author's Note: Winning that special game as a young boy can be a memorable event in the eyes and mind of any athlete.  A city baseball championship is the pinnacle event for any boy's summer.  Pay attention to the details I have provided readers in this narrative and descriptive piece.

Winning, we are told, isn't everything, but to a teenage boy playing summer baseball, it sure can be sweet.  It most certainly was this season, the summer of my 7th to 8th grade year, 1974 to be exact. I was a member of the top baseball team in Waukesha Park and Rec baseball.  We were city champions when it was all said and done, winning convincingly in the championship game vs the south side Roberta Park players, the "A's". Winning was indeed everything this particular summer.

The "Twins", comprised mostly of kids from the Dopp Park area of Waukesha, which is near the hospital, was an amazing group of players.  We had two solid pitchers who had mastered the curve ball and off speed pitch, along with nasty fastballs, and a catcher, myself, who could handle the challenging aspects of what happens when a curve pitch drops two and a half feet through the strike zone.  The coaches knew I could handle the pressure of each pitch by the way they instructed me to call the game.  Along with great pitching, our hitters were phenomenal for young boys of 12 and 13 years old.  This was largely due to our daily pick-up baseball games for months on end prior to the season.  Many a baseball we wore out, eventually wrapping the ball of string in masking tape after the leather cover had torn off  to keep the games going. This scenario was much like the famous movie "The Sandlot", minus the big dog and junkyard.  

With the undefeated regular season complete and the playoffs in full swing, the championship game was next upon us. "Steve, today's game will be a tough one because these guys are great hitters; we need you and John to be on your 'A' games today", said the coaches.  John was our older, more control oriented pitcher.  He would lead the game off by pitching the first five or six innings, and we would conclude with Tim, our "fireballer" in the seventh. When Tim, our younger pitcher, enters a game, the entire team knows that victory is certain that day.

The final game began like most others that year: our first six hitters rocked the ball hard, scoring six runs in the first four innings.  Defensively we were strong as well, only allowing one runner to get to second base on a bloop double down the first base line in the third inning.  John had six "K's" by this time, well on his way to his usual "double digit" strike out game.  When the fifth inning came around, a lead off homer by the"A's" first basemen, a sense of urgency was felt by our team.  Not really the worrying kind, I felt things were well at hand; this was proven by our shutout innings which followed this "fluke" homer.

Confidently our team reached the final inning up by five runs with our "closer" entering the game.  As the what would be the last batter of the contest walked up to the plate, our fans cheering loudly for the final out, I raised my hand with two fingers held high, yelling to my team, "two down, who wants the last out?"  With that call, Tim gave me a "no problem" look and proceeded to nail three straight strikes, the last being the most nasty curve ball I had seen that day.  When the umpire cried "strike three", and the batter looked bewildered as to path of that "cliff-dropping" pitch, the championship was won!

My fist flew up towards the sky with the game ball in my glove, as I ran towards the player's mob at the pitcher's mound.  We had done it; despite various setbacks we had to overcome: the family vacations which caused kids to miss games, the rain outs which caused us to play three games in five days one week, and the loss of our starting second baseman due to injury, the Twins were Waukesha City League Champions.  This season, especially this day, would be etched in the record books, along with the minds of the young men who played that day on the winning team.

Good or Bad Choices

Author's Note: In this PERSONAL NARRATIVE piece I tried to use a connective introduction "hook" so that it would return in my conclusion.  I want the reader to feel as though they are right next to me and the other persons in the story. Also, pay attention to the dialogue in the piece to see if it seems realistic.  

Choosing the right friends, or the people we hang out with, can be a very trying time in life for young people.  At first some kids might seem like fun people to hang out with, but if you look more closely at who or what they really are, life on their path may not be the choice you really want to make.  It is here that you may feel the swift kick in the butt that many youngsters experience or NEED to experience in their lives. This is the way it was in my early school years, from second to third grade. 

The neighborhood was littered with different kinds of kids, but the sort who seemed to be the most interesting were the ones who very likely did the more mischievous things.  Whether it was playing "dingdong ditchit" in the neighboring apartment buildings, throwing rocks at the passing train on the nearby tracks, or stealing the small "slugs" from the electrical boxes that were in the "new constructions" underway in the apartments behind our building,  with this crowd,  mischief was around every corner. 

It was then that the neighbor Kurt began to influence some of the decisions I was going to make in the next few months.  He lived down the street in the duplexes north of our apartments on Scott Street and had the coolest "banana seat" bike in the land, purple in color with high chrome handlebars and a black seat.  Kurt never seemed to have to be anywhere specific, always a carefree kid who hung around everyone else because, we came to find out later on, his parents both worked and left him alone from 6 am to 6 pm every day.  "Come on Steve, let's go to the dump," Kurt said one summer day.  We jumped on our bikes and started our ride down to the dump near the end of the street we lived on.  I should have turned around that minute when Kurt said, "wait, I have to get something from my house first."  I wasn't sure what it was he was going to get, but if I could have predicted what it was, I am sure I would have been close. 

After interrupting our journey briefly, we were soon to be off on our trek.  "I got it." exclaimed Kurt, as he ran from his house.  I could not see what "it" was, but only time would tell.  I probably could have guessed right then this "it" was not going to be good, as Kurt had always seemed to have "something up his sleeve" so to speak.  When we arrived at the dump, we jumped off our bikes and proceeded to the spot where the old refrigerators and stoves were piled.  This was a great place to practice our rock throwing skills, something most young boys work at daily in the summer, especially where rocks were plenty.  Kurt became quickly bored with rocks and wanted to "fire" things up.  "Look what I have Steve," Kurt said in a dangerous voice.  "What are those?" I asked, not knowing, but yet really knowing what was next.  "Watch this," Kurt said.  He then proceeded to pull out a "zippo" lighter and lighted the small-finger sized tube.  "Run," he hollered.  I knew this would be no good as soon as he cried run.  Off we sprinted, far enough away; safe from the impending result.  KABOOM!  The door to the refrigerator blew off it's hinges in a mini mushroom cloud of smoke and flames 15 to 20 feet in the air.  Kurt had somehow gotten his hand on some kind of explosive; come to find out, he had taken from his dad's work truck.  Kurt's dad was in construction, which provided Kurt with a multitude of "trouble" opportunities. He had stolen the half-stick of dynamite the night before from his dad's truck and wanted to have an early 4th of July blast. 

Right then, that day, I should have parted ways with Kurt, but what 8 year old would think that far down the line.  Could I have known Kurt would introduce me to cigarettes and all sorts of trouble in the coming months? Absolutely not. My parents didn't smoke and for sure they had raised me to be smarter than this, or so I thought.  Hindsight is 20-20 we are told, but for a young, impressionable boy, fun was a yet undefined word.  Somehow that "kick in the butt" didn't come soon enough for  me because I had to learn the hard way that being friends with the wrong kids can lead to trouble times one-hundred.