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The Zany Snow God

By Steve Eskew

Among my many transgressions, I harbor a load of love/hate relationships. My most infuriating ambivalence involves the zany snow god. 

At ease, at ease. I know there’s only one God. No sacrilege intended with my references to the snow god — just mindless, merry myth. For the love of “Fifty Shades of Oy Vey,” I’m no pagan; I’m simply a devout Christian, cursed with a wicked sense of humor.

Thank Christ for my early introduction to metaphors. It all began when my inestimable kindergarten teacher told the class that Jack Frost was heading our way to paint the town white.

Terrified, I commenced mewling for me mum. Then the sweet Irish teech broke it down in terms I could grasp: “Snow? Oh!”

Soon thereafter, I fell in love with the fun of the white wonder, but hated the numbness of me hannies and feets, due to a three-mile march to school. Three miles, I swear. Would an unreliable narrator lie to you?

When adulthood struck me, my car often struck other cars, courtesy Nebraska’s niveous, slick hills. One particularly snowy day, while my vehicle was sliding sideways down a slick hill, I freaked. I pumped the horn frantically to warn unwary children on sleds below me. 

As the screaming moppets scattered, their head hair and mine nearly jerked straight up into the air, cartoon style. I vowed then and there that, if they and I survived this melodrama, I would give up driving altogether.

I kept me word and sold the would-be killer car. 

Having no car, I traveled by foot, reveling childlike in the wonder of the white, absorbing the purity of the cleansing effect that snow radiates. Overwhelmed by the exquisite frozen hills that I had hated when I drove, I pleaded to the spirit of the snow god for more of the marshmallow fluff. 

Now I adored observing the excitement of cheering children as they wallowed in their white  wonderland. As my snowshoes crunched their way along un-scooped sidewalks, the music my feet made delighted the skittish kid inside my soul. 

However, sometimes my dark side summoned the evil twin who resides inside my brain. During those devilish moments, I actually relished the sound of the grunting motorists. Exhausted from pushing their stuck cars out of snowdrifts, they cursed maniacally in hilarious fury.

I praised the snow god that these loony, bone-weary whiners no longer included moi.

Then Father Time slowly crept into the scene with a life-altering reversal that cruelly nixed my affection for a snowy pedestrian lifestyle.

Blame it on that fine fickle line betwixt love and hate, but now I’m  back to resenting snow. Sorry, but tramping through the sludge at this age gives me the willies. What if I trip, fall unconscious and become a frozen snack for raccoons?

Furthermore, I’ve grown to abhor power outages, caused by heavy snows’ dragging down the computerized cable lines. Suddenly, the fridge conks out, the TV croaks, phone towers collapse and the internet crashes. 

In the days B.C. (before computers), the power was restored within a couple of hours. Now it’s six days. Or is it six years?

Snow god, please don’t smite me for disloyalty, but I’m sick of snow. At least temporarily. I solemnly promise to rekindle my love for snow next week. Next month? Next lifetime. But for now, the mere memories of my former snow day adventures and misadventures will suffice. 

Today, as I sat by my window, I shivered while watching the frosted powder fill up the  land. I decided to escape the image of this  frigid world via a great contrast — by taking a steaming hot bath.

While soaking, my thoughts turned to other love/hates. I concluded that the real blame for my treason to snow clearly lies at the feet of Father Time. Don’t let me commence on the other love/hate mates that age has instigated — like, for instance, lifelong vanity. 

After the hot soak, I studied the reflection of my shirtless torso. Wow! I look devastatingly virile right now and I’m head over heels in comfort with my body.

But what if me manly chest starts to sag and Father Time forces me into a need for man-boob reduction surgery, making me (temporarily) hate my body? 

Oh, the horror, the horror. I’d rather be buried in an avalanche. Yes — an avalanche. 

Oy. Where’s a snow god when you need one?

— Steve Eskew

Thank the Real God liberal arts courses are so easy. Even retired businessman Steve Eskew received a pair of master’s degrees in both dramatic arts and communication studies from the University of Nebraska at Omaha after he turned 50. When asked to take over a professor’s theater column at The Daily Nonpareil in Council Bluffs, Iowa, Steve began a career as a quasi-journalist. Narrowly by the luck of the Irish, this led to numerous publications including theater and book reviews, profiles and Steve’s favorite genre, humor writing. Check out his new humor blog, ESKEWPADES.

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