The Aerie
We finally got some snow here in Minneapolis. When Minneapolis has to wait until January 21st for its first snowfall, the city is on edge like a young couple who miss a period: most of us would be willing to piss on a stick just to end the suspense.
The dénouement is a complete cock-up, of course. Minnesotans are some of the most skilled snow-drivers, but after months without snow the skills get rusty. While even veteran Minnesotans can be found buried up to their wipers in the snow of a roadside ditch, the first snow completely blindsides the last year’s new arrivals.
The smart ones get into trouble by driving slow: they actually stop at stop signs, sinking into the snowy mire of the intersection. The stupid ones drive 'way too fast, and by the time their SUV stops rolling the interior is coated with hot latte and pieces of cellphone.
Complementing the madness are the road-plowing rules, which are the simple and painless kinds of rules that you can expect when you mix bad weather, city bureaucrats, and towing contracts. Minneapolis actually has it easy: in St. Paul the plowing and towing rules require a knowledge of astrology (did you know that Jupiter is in Aquarius and part of a Grand Trine?) and the examination of fowl entrails. Minneapolis on the other hand simply alerts the public to a Snow Emergency by sending an intern down the basement to whisper "Snow!" into a styrofoam coffee cup, and then phoning, faxing, e-mailing and sending couriers to every towing agency in town. After giving the towing companies a day to warm up their vehicles it becomes illegal to park on the same side of the road as the even-ness or odd-ness of the date. Or maybe it's ONLY legal to park on the even or odd side of the road. The only way to tell is when your neighbor's cars start to get towed, which is why it helps to live in the middle of the block.
I celebrated the Saturday following an overnight blizzard by waking at 6:30 a.m. to take my son to the Lego League State Finals. He was not at home, however - the park had sponsored a neighborhood overnight, and he was sleeping in the locked park building at 7:30 when I arrived. Much nonsense followed as I pounded on the windows to wake someone up, got him and his friend into the van, and headed off to the tournament.
The circus had clearly come to town during the blizzard, because the clowns were all over the road. I got out of the van to push one nimnul through the intersection where he and his toy poodle had gotten stuck, and then ended up riding his bumper down the block as he timidly proceeded at a pace slower than my van on idle. He finally pulled over to let us pass, permanently embedding himself in the plowed ridge of snow on the side of the street. Hopefully the St. Bernard with the keg of brandy under its collar will find him soon.
The day was clear and bright, and the freeways when we reached them were delightfully well plowed, free of snow and dry. So of course everyone proceeded at 45 mph, except for the old couple in the hats who were going 30 and forcing everyone to swerve around them. I suppose I shouldn't complain about the safe, if slow, pace of the traffic: had the roads been dark, icy, slick, and obscured by precipitation, everyone would have been driving 75 mph and talking on the phone.
We arrived only slightly late to find the hosting school crowded with cars. I drove up front to drop the boys off, and to my surprise saw a parking spot labeled "Visitors only, 2 hour parking" standing empty. Of course, this is Minnesota - Minnesotans obey signs like that, even if it's a weekend and there's nobody in the school office who will complain. Instead they go out and park beside fire hydrants, on sidewalks, or atop smaller cars – anywhere so long as there isn’t a sign explicitly prohibiting their selection.
I snatched up the spot and was helping the kids get situated when my phone rang. A neighbor had notified us that the plows were on their way, and my car (as opposed to the family van I was driving) was parked on the wrong side of the street. My wife had tried to move the car, but it wouldn't start.
I wept as I pulled out of my parking spot, trying to avoid backing into the SUV waiting to pounce (Minnesotans WILL park in a prohibited spot AFTER someone else has done so - "I thought it was okay: someone else parked there first!"). Arriving home I found that my wife had flooded the engine, and then had drained the battery of electrical power apparently in the hopes that the cylinders might sympathetically be drained of fuel.
I jumpered the cars together (another Minnesota required skill - I've only melted a battery post once) and, having sat for quite a while by then, my car quite agreeably started up on the first try. Then there was the juggling of car and van, trying to get both off of the street at the same time. I worked through the logisitics, and five minutes after moving my little Geo Metro across the street the plow roared past. Civic duties completed, I returned to the Lego tournament, where piles of automobiles swayed dangerously in the wind-blown parking lot.
I employed a trick from my days as a stalker, and waited in my car by the front door. Soon a woman emerged carrying a paper bag, keys in hand. Patiently I followed her across the parking lot to her car. She had probably only intended to put the bag into her car, but having noticed me following her she now felt obligated to actually move her vehicle so that I could have her spot. After all, if she just closed the door and returned to the school, I might scowl at her.
I felt bad when a few hours later my son’s team was eliminated from the State Finals - not because he was upset at the loss (he didn’t seem to care, actually), but because I felt guilty about my pleasure at being able to go home early. The unfortunate winners ended up being at the tournament more than 12 hours.
We got home, had Subway sandwiches for dinner, and then our friend Debbie came to hang out with the family. Everyone got to bed very late, and I for one was practically shaking with exhaustion. I looked forward to a nice long night’s sleep.
Eight a.m. and the phone rang: a neighbor was calling to remind me that the plows were coming, and my car needed to be moved.
Bless ‘em, if it weren’t for my neighbors, I would have been ticketed and towed twice in as many days. Blearly I climbed into my car, still in my bedroom slippers. The engine started right up, but the car wouldn’t move. Yesterday’s plows had embedded my car in the same kind of snow embankment that had captured the fellow and his toy poodle.
I just hope the St. Bernard shows up soon with the brandy.