Treasures of Spring

First published March 25, 2005

Each Spring, as Old Man Winter starts thinking about getting his frosty white butt out of town for Spring Break, we Michigaroonies begin to experience a phenomenon that’s unique to states where we spend four months a year walking around in stupid-looking little wool hats and wearing socks to bed. I’m talking about Slush Nuggets.

In case you’ve never heard of them, “Slush Nuggets” are those great little treasures that appear in the yard as the snow melts. I live on a busy street, where snowplows push grimy little glaciers up into my yard all winter long, so by the time March rolls around I’ve accumulated a particularly rich haul of Slush Nuggets.

Now I’m not talking about the Almond Joy wrappers and peppermint schnapps bottles that poke their way out of the drifts after every gala Saturday night. These would fall more into the category of “Trash.” And, of course there are the occasional zoological discoveries, which fall into the category of “Roadkill.” I’m talking about the riches that transform the chore of cleaning up the front yard into an adventure in social anthropology.

Bear in mind that it’s the cultural, not the monetary value of Slush Nuggets that’s important. Oh sure, there was the rear-view mirror from that 1997 Hyundai that was worth more than the replacement value of the entire car, but that’s a pretty rare find. Normally, what makes a Slush Nugget special is the implied story. Each artifact represents a tiny vignette of someone’s life.

For instance, there was the paper plate with the name “Candy” and a phone number written on it in lipstick. Instantly, the name “Candy” conjures images of big hair, lots of eye makeup, and possibly some surgically-enhanced body parts. Gazing at this plate, you can actually visualize the young couple meeting across a smoky pool table; their eyes meet; she scrawls her missive on the plate the very second someone eats the last mozzarella stick; he takes it from her greasy hand and presses it to his heart.

The phone number turned out to be (honest Honey, I just called it as research for the column) the number of a pizza carry-out, suggesting that Candy wanted to make sure that her new friend had a way to deal with any sort of hunger situation he may encounter. The fact that the plate ended up in my yard suggests that pizza wasn’t really what he had in mind.

Of course the stories behind some Slush Nuggets are a little bit puzzling. For instance how, when the wind chill is fifteen degrees below zero, would someone not notice losing a shoe? Or a pair of boxer shorts? Or their bra? You would think that a cold toes would be a dead give away. Or the draft.

The Slush Nuggets I’m currently trying to interpret include a box of crayons with all the tips bitten off, an unopened jar of anchovies, a toupee (very nearly mis-categorized as “Roadkill” since it was pretty much the same color and texture as a squashed muskrat), an eyeglass case containing a pair of cardboard 3-D glasses, and an inexpensive picture frame with a photograph of someone’s belly button mounted in it (the belly button was an “innie”).

Who says winters in Michigan aren’t entertaining?

Copyright © 2005 Michael Ball

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Revenge of the Snowbirds

First published March 18, 2005

Last week my column was about Snowbirds, those uncaring people who send us cute postcards from Florida while we’re up here chipping little snot icicles off our upper lips. It seems that there are a few people who didn’t completely agree with the tone of my piece. Some were a little bit militant:

Dear Mr. Funny Guy,

You got a lot of nerve! Why I ought to rip your head off and crap down your neck, you no good commie…

Well, you get the idea.

My favorite letter came from Mrs. Alma Thigwump, who lives in the area with her husband Floyd and their three boys. Mrs. Thigwump sent me her personal journal of their winter vacation to Ft. Lauderdale. Here are a few excerpts:

Day 1 – Gosh, the airport security isn’t nearly as bad as everybody’s been saying. Billy threw up on the lady who was running the x-ray machine, but the lines weren’t too bad.

The flight was great, until Floyd Jr. locked himself in the bathroom and tried to flush his backpack down that cute little steel toilet. The flight attendant told me that the blue stuff will probably stain his clothes, but it should wash right out of his hair.

The claims agent assured us that the airline didn’t lose our bags. They sent them to Guam.

Day 2 – We all got lots of sun today – good thing I packed the SPF 30! Our hotel is beautiful, with palm trees and flowers all around the pool. Tommy threw up in the pool.

There seems to be some sort of cat living in our room, but we can’t seem to catch it.

Day 3 – It rained today. The cat in our room turned out to be a nine pound cockroach – Floyd hit it with his shoe, and it hit him back. We all waited down in the lobby while the manager went up and shot it.

Also, it seems that Floyd Jr. replaced the SPF 30 with Wesson Oil. The doctor says that the blisters will go down in a couple of days, then we’ll all start peeling. Billy threw up on the doctor.

Day 4 – It’s still raining. We went to the mall to buy some underwear, since ours are in Guam. Tommy and Billy took turns throwing up in Starbucks, and Floyd Jr. went swimming in the fountain. The doctor says the rash should go away in a week or so.

Day 5 – We went out to breakfast at the cutest little diner just down the road from the hotel. Floyd Jr. threw up on an elderly couple while we were waiting for a table. We all had pancakes.

Day 6 – Nobody threw up today!

Since the weather has been bad, the kids have used the Pay-Per-View in the room quite a bit. So far we’ve paid $696.15 to watch Freddy vs. Jason one hundred and seventeen times.

Day 7 – Well, our vacation is over. Our suitcases were delivered this morning, just in time for us to go to the airport and send them back to Guam.

We sure will miss Florida, but we’re all glad to be heading home, where the kids can vomit in their own beds.

Ok, Mrs. Thigwump. I stand corrected.

Copyright © 2005 Michael Ball

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Guidelines For Snowbirds

First published March 11, 2005

Two kinds of people live in Michigan in the winter. There are those who manage to go South and get warm for a while, who we’ll call “Snowbirds,” and there are those who don’t, who we’ll call “Depressed.”

I don’t count people who go to Hawaii, which is clearly not “South.” These people are in a third category, and we’ll call them “Arrogant Pampered Jerks.” I’d really rather not talk about them.

Now if you’ve lived around here for any length of time, you’ve probably found yourself in one category or the other depending on the year – some winters you get a little time in the sun, and some winters you don’t. When I don’t, I try not to begrudge the luckier folks, because I figure sooner or later my turn might come around again, and I don’t want to find myself getting all begrudged.

So I was as gracious as I could manage last week when my friend called me from Florida, just as I got home from work. “Hey man,” I said, cheerfully stomping the ice out of the treads of my sneakers, “How’s the Sunny South?”

“It rained for over an hour today. Can you believe it?”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied, sympathetically shaking the snow out of my jacket and hair. “Well, at least it’s warm down there.”

“Warm! It barely got to seventy-five degrees today!”

“That’s too bad,” I said, rubbing my hands together to see if I could get any feeling back in them. “That must have been really hard on you guys. Seventy-five – brrrrr!”

“And the temperature really dropped when the sun went down. I may have to wear a windbreaker to dinner tonight!”

“Wow, Dude, that really sucks,” I said, sitting next to the puddle of slush by the back door and picking the little ice balls off of my socks. “Good idea to wear a windbreaker, though. You don’t want to catch a chill.”

After I got off the phone, I decided that it might be useful to jot down a few rules that you Snowbirds might observe when you communicate with the rest of us:

1. On the way home tonight I watched a panel truck slide off an icy overpass and take out a busload of nuns. Don’t call and complain to me that the little umbrella fell into your Mai Tai.

2. If the Victoria’s Secret models are staying at your hotel and rehearsing for an all-thong fashion show out by the pool, don’t tell me about it. Just get pictures and video footage, and we’ll discuss it when you get home.

3. Bear in mind that I’m comforting myself with the idea that I’m saving the big bucks you’re spending on your vacation. Please don’t tell me that your boss gave you the keys to his fully-stocked condo, round-trip air fare, and a lotto ticket that hit for the ten grand you’re using for walking-around money.

4. My back is sore from shoveling 2,400 pounds of snow out of the driveway so I could get my car stuck in the bank parking lot. I’m not interested in hearing that your back is sore from playing that extra eighteen holes of golf. The same goes for your aches and pains from tennis, water skiing, scuba diving, or surfing. Unless you got bit by an alligator or a shark – that might make me feel a little bit better.

Just remember – in another week or two, you’ll be back in Michigan, slogging around in the frozen muck like the rest of us. And I think you’ll find that the new sun tan you’re sporting is pretty much irrelevant when you’re out there hacking the ice off your windshield at 6:30 in the morning. That’s right, Sun Seeker, you gotta come home some time.

Until then, try to be kind.

Copyright © 2005 Michael Ball

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