Christmas Tunes A Coming

 As the laughter ends, Tom Thibodeau points to the audience and says, "My best Christmas memories revolve around music, with friends, family and loved ones.  Think about it.  Going to church or school to listen to a children's program, carols sung around a piano at home on Christmas Eve, or Christmas songs played on speakers during a walk through Rotary Lights.  Music can be listened to, and appreciated alone, but the best times come from listening to music with those people who mean the most to you.  It has special powers that bring people together."

He rubs his hands together, and finishes with a smile on his face, "You know, I just had an epiphany -- music is love audibled.  Isn't it?"   The crowd claps in appreciation.

Tom pauses, gets serious and says, "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you String Ties."

Liz, our good friends, Doug and Peggy, along with two of our newest international students, Maelle from France and Nicole from Sweden, are enjoying the first half of a ten-year holiday tradition of sorts, String Ties Yuletide Show, at Leo and Leona's roadhouse near Newberg Corners.  

The bar is a one-of-a-kind place with a re-crafted Amish dance floor and rafters.  Strings of lights hang magically, floating from unfinished walls and ceiling, seemingly held in place by an assortment of great sports and tavern memorabilia.  Splashes of orange and red Christmas lights combine with smaller streaks of white and yellow,  leading one's eyes to a simple wood stage beneath a large sign that reads Leo & Leona's TAVERN.  An American flag hangs proudly next to the sign, a reminder of the rebellious 60's when protesters used the flag as a symbol of personal freedom.  For many years, this roadhouse has been a home to folk, bluegrass and anti-establishment songs from Simon and Garfunkel, Crosby Still, Nash and Young, Bob Dylan and Arlo Guthrie.  

Today's concert is a departure of sorts.  Today, we are surrounded by rounded fields of newly-fallen snow, and Christmas is right around the corner.  It's a truly enjoyable experience, in anticipation of bluegrass tinged melodies for the season.

After a year off because of COVID, Tom's introduction about gathering with friends to enjoy Christmas music rings true.  My favorite memories of Christmas involved gathering to open presents on Christmas Eve, with Bing Crosby's  classic White Christmas and Nat King Cole's The Christmas Story playing in the background.  Before DVDs and streaming services, my family would always gather around the television to watch It's A Charlie Brown's Christmas, with Snoopy pulling Linus and Charlie Brown  on ice to the song Skating performed by the Vince Guaraldi Trio.  And no Christmas tree should be decorated without Jingle Bells by Barbara Streisand from A Christmas Album.

But one memory has always stayed with me through the years.  Now, listening to String Ties sing their holiday songs before an audience of music fans on this December afternoon, it stirs to the forefront of my mind.  The sights and sounds of a fiddle and violin dim and fade, like the view of our surrounding countryside during the season's first snowstorm -- present one moment, only to vanish the next, to be replaced by an image of a little boy standing before a full church on Christmas Eve....

My feet hurt from the dress shoes I'm wearing, an ailment that would stay with me into my older years.  But tonight, I am uncomfortable for many reasons, and not just my sore toes.   My corduroy slacks, paired with a matching blazer and plaid vest felt restrictive, a not so subtle reminder that I was on display -- like a Monarch butterfly pinned to a board in science class -- and bad behavior would not be tolerated.  My parents must have felt my bow tie was the height of fashion, but I preferred an open necked shirt that didn't scratch my neck and chin.

I desperately longed for this spectacle to be over, and to begin the night's main event -- the opening of  presents left at home by Santa Claus.

But first, it is the annual Children's Program, held on Christmas Eve at First Evangelical Lutheran Church, and I am struggling to remember my lines, about to be recited by my fourth grade classmates.  I had been sick the week leading up to Christmas, and had missed a few days of school, where we practiced our bible passages, a popular part of the holiday program put on by the church's grade school children. 

The weeks leading up to the concert involved walking from school -- only a block away -- to the church where we would practice singing songs and reciting our passages, all in proper order and with the necessary volume to reach the back of the church.  How strange it was to be in church when there was no service being held.  The echoes of more than one hundred children marching down the aisle to our assigned pews swirled around our heads and climbed to the second floor balcony where the church's large organ and pipes cast a disapproving look at this intrusion of disorganized chaos.

I don't remember much about earlier programs, but this year's 4th grade participation required telling the story of Jesus' birth, beginning with Luke 2 -- 

"And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.  This was the first registration when Quirinius was governor of Syria.  And all went to be registered, each to his own town.  And Joseph also went up from Galilee, from the town of Nazareth to Judea, to the city of David which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David to be registered with Mary, his betrothed, who was with child.  

And while they were there, the time came for her to give birth.  And she gave birth to her first born son and wrapped him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.  

And in the same region there were shepherds out in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night.  And an angel of the Lord appeared to them and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were filled with great fear.  And the angel said to them, fear not, for behold I bring you good news of a great joy that will be for all people.  For unto you this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord."  

Our part was to memorize and recite the verses then finish with the singing of "Hark The Harald Angels Sing."  

(Truth be told, I always sang it using Harold's Angels, causing Mr. Follendorf, our 4th grade teacher, to search for the culprit in disapproval.)

It seemed like we were always memorizing parts of the bible.  Every Friday morning I would stand in from of my teacher's desk and recite either a song or some new verse from the Old Testament.  Fortunately, the Christmas passage was one I had heard before, not that I could recite it, but at least I understood what was going on.  With some Bible passages, I didn't have a clue.

Slowly, but surely, kindergarten through third grade, recited their parts and sang their songs.  In faithful Lutheran tradition, applause and enthusiastic support was kept to  a minimum.

At last, the moment had arrived, and my classmates and I stood facing the church's alter, highlighted by a large statue of Christ ascending into Heaven.  A beautifully decorated Christmas tree -- with tinsel and handmade ornaments --and a lighted star had been added to the front of the church for the holiday season. 

  

As we had practiced, everyone turned to our left -- never to the right -- to face the congregation consisting of parents, uncles, aunts and grandparents. Somewhere mom and dad sat quietly, watchin the second of four children performing tonight.

For a fleeting moment, I thought how strange the church looked tonight, the stained glass windows along the sides of the sanctuary -- usually so bright and colorful on a Sunday morning -- were dark and ordinary.  The characters depicted in stained glass -- Jesus speaking to little children, Jesus walking on a stormy sea, and Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane, among others -- appeared lifeless and pale.  It was as if God had dimmed the building's natural and man-made beauty, to highlight our performances.  Although I highly doubted our performance could hold a candle to Mary Magdalene finding an empty tomb on Easter morning.  

But I've heard my father say Jesus works in mysterious ways.

Surprisingly things went pretty well, as periodic memory kicked in to help traverse the lengthy Bible passage.  Parts I couldn't remember, I mumbled.  I'd been singing "Hark The Harald Angels" all my life, so no trouble there.  In mere moments, our part had been regurgitated and I was back sitting in the pews waiting for the upper classmates to finish their part. Immediately, the tension left my body and I could relax -- even my feet were feeling better.  Karen Miller, a girl sitting next to me, was trying to contain a giggle, which immediately made me check my pant's zipper.  Thank God THAT didn't happen.

One of the best parts of our Christmas program came at the end of the show. In the basement of the church, were wrapped boxes of candy for every school child.  The fun was wondering which box of candy you were getting -- chocolate stars, chocolate-covered nuts or chocolate-covered raisins (my favorite).  The not so fun part was waiting patiently as we noisily traveled down the aisle , waiving at relatives and finally finding mom and dad.  We continued through the church narthex and vestibule before winding our way down narrow steps to the basement.  The wait was excruciating, as we nudged past kids on our way to our mouth watering reward.

It was an innocent time, when my biggest fear in life was performing a simple program for my mom and dad.  A time when people eagerly gathered in a darkened church to listen to the story of a savior born in Bethlehem, and to join in the singing of Christmas carols.  A time when some of us still believed in Santa Claus -- before my older brother and sister spoiled the magic.  Of  simple Christmas toys, like electric football and Tonka tractors.  Or of mom pushing us out the door early to sit in a cold, station wagon with dad so she could put our presents under the tree.     

And a  time when my behavior was still influenced by making sure I was on the Nice list, not the Bad.  

The holiday season was always one of the best times of the year, and a big part of it was myself and my siblings participating on Christmas Eve.  Rewards of candy treats certainly helped, but as the years would go by and my own children participated in Christmas programs at church, I never forgot the enjoyment that came from sharing our voices as shepherds and angels telling the story of our savior's birth.  It wouldn't seem like Christmas without music of some kind.

And like a flickering candle, whose wick is at its end, the memory fades and brings me back to the present.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you String Ties!"

One of the band members, Larry Sebraneck, squints into the audience and says, "Hello, everyone, thanks for coming out tonight.  It is so great to be back doing this show.  After a rough time last year, we couldn't wait to get back on stage."

Larry rested his arms on his guitar.  "As you can see, a lot has changed in the band since you saw us last.  Our banjo player became a snow bird and left for Arizona, taking his amazing talents with him.  Which was tough on the band.  But, you know, we enjoy playing this music so much, that we couldn't let it go.  It wouldn't be Christmas without it.  So we found two of the best musicians around to play fiddle and banjo, Betsy and Rick."

The crowd applauds enthusiastically.

"Thanks again for coming to this little place of ours.  We hope you'll like it."

He finishes tuning his guitar, while other members of the band are tinkering with a fiddle, banjo and mandolin.  Larry Dalton, smiling while he leans against his standing bass, waits for the others, who are still talking to each other.

Eventually, the preparations are done and a hush settles over the audience in anticipation of the first song.

As the first notes and words of "Christmas Times a Coming" begin, red, purple, green and white lights wrapped around each performer's microphone stand, flash on.  I look down the row of chairs and see everyone smiling and moving with the music -- their faces lit in reds and yellows.  Doesn't matter if you're young or old, Democrat or Republican, American, Swedish or French, music is universally liked.  It's the moment we've all been waiting for and a reminder the next two hours are going to be full of surprises, fun stories, biting retorts, amazing talent and wonderful songs.

Exactly what this crowd needs to get us past COVID and another long Wisconsin winter.

God Jul

Joeux Noel

Merry Christmas

The Fellowship of Brandon

I may have given up on most sports, but my love of college football remains strong.  Even if my Badgers aren't.

This fall saw the return of college football games attended by thousands of rowdy fans eager to celebrate the return of rivalries in the SEC, Big10, PAC12 and Big12.  The packed stadiums, with 80,000 or more fans in attendance, struck a nerve with Anthony Fauci, our nation's highest paid idiot, who condemned college games that were packed with fans not wearing masks.  "I don't think it's smart." he said, despite eight, uneventful weeks of these "super spreader" events.

Smart or not, college fans continued to celebrate, cheering their teams to fight to the bitter end.  But somewhere along the way, things unraveled and they began cheering something else...

Much to the chagrin of television censors, and campus Democrats everywhere, they were also yelling from the bleachers shouts of "F**k Joe Biden!"

Where did that come from?  Aren't these students graduating from school with degrees in wokeness and social justice?  Why would they be mad at Good Ol' Joe?  

Maybe it was the draconian restrictions placed on students this fall.  Masks had to be worn on campus, regardless of vaccination status.  Returning students were notified in the summer they could not return unless they were fully vaccinated.  There were even reports of unvaccinated students being denied access to online material. 

Come on man!

I can't imagine how hard it would be if I had to sit in class all day with a face diaper, or show my vaccine card to get into the library.  Given the constant pressure of vaccine mandates, it's understandable that students attending an outdoor football game would let it fly.  And it's not the first time.  Student sections have always embarrassed themselves with vulgar outbreaks, usually aimed at a competing student section or visiting athletes.  But at someone they voted for less than a year earlier?  A little schadenfreude maybe?  

Soon, shouts of affection for Quid Pro Quo Joe began popping up at NASCAR, and NFL games.  Earmuffs for children became very popular with stadium vendors before games.  Even America's pastime, baseball, got in on the fun.  In an unprecedented move, New York Yankees and New York Mets fans came together with chants of  affection for Bite Me Biden during a recent baseball game.  Country music fans -- at a Jason Aldean concert --  expressed their view of Joe Biden's senile performance with shouts of joy for our president.  Like mushrooms after too much rain, social media memes began popping up across this country, embracing the same love for Sleepy Joe, that fans of sporting events and concerts enjoyed. 

What a love fest!   God bless social media.

I'm sure the president's administration, CBS, ABC and NBC were all wishing for the good ol' days when football and baseball stadiums were empty due to COVID restrictions.

And then, like a Hail Mary pass that was thrown by Aaron Rodgers for a last second touchdown, the popular sentiment went viral when a NBC pit reporter, Kelli Stavast, interviewed Brandon Brown who had just won a NASCAR race at the Talladega Superspeedway..  During the interview, shouts of "F**k Joe Biden!" could be heard in the background, but Kelli, covering for an embarrassed NBC, commented on how the crowd seemed to be chanting -- in his honor -- the words, "Let's Go Brandon!"

The ridiculousness of Kelli's cover-up added fuel to the burning fire, and within the week, a "Let's Go Brandon" bandwagon was marching across America.   What began as a reaction to COVID restrictions suddenly found itself accommodating our frustrations with big tech censorship, illegal immigration, runaway inflation, high gas prices, empty food shelves, supply chain problems and everything else coming out of Washington D.C.  

No longer a vulgar college chant, "Let's Go Brandon" became a verbal (and with shirts and signs, a non-verbal) act of rebellion.  It had become a potent weapon against the left's assault on our freedoms and the United States of America.  

For Joe Biden and much of the Washingtonian elites, Brandon had become someone bigger than life -- more effective than any mid-term politician or talk radio host (God rest your soul Rush).   With every t-shirt and meme, "Let's Go Brandon" aficionados ridicule Basement Biden in hilarious and effective ways.

What's best about it, is there was no defense.  How do you counterattack ridicule?   It's the perfect weapon against state-controlled media, social protesters, and even Biden's 85 car motorcade traveling through Rome last weekend.  Is there really any concern for climate change?  Of course not.

This ridicule -- Let's Go Brandon --  is different than what we witnessed during the Trump presidency.  For one, it's based on objective reality.  We all feel the pain at grocery stores and at the gas pump.  We see with our own eyes what's happening at our border.  And we see politicians ignore their own mandates while vacationing or eating out at expensive restaurants.  It's too bad the people of California, Minneapolis and Portland aren't part of the Brandon bandwagon yet.

In contrast, what we saw directed toward Trump was based on concocted lies and a real detachment from reality.  Cable news proclaimed "F**k You Trump" was America's protest anthem.  Every night late night comics brazenly attacked the president with insults and impertinent skits that rewarded the  pronoun loving, close-minded in-crowd, otherwise known as Democrats.  The rest of the country, screw you!  So not only did they attack President Trump, they also attacked his supporters.  The media never tired of some of the most vile names ever thrown at a standing president of the United States.  But we saw through it.  We called it Trump Derangement Syndrome.  

Remember --

De Niro's R-rated, hate speech at last year's Tony awards? 

Alec Baldwin's skits ridiculing Trump on Saturday Night Live?

Kathy Griffin holding a prop meant to look like Trump's severed head?

A New York Shakespeare group that offered free tickets to anyone who wanted to see President Trump assassinated in the group's rendition of Julius Caesar?

Attacks on the First Lady and her family?

Coffee mugs, flags books and music, all celebrating F**k Trump"?

There was even a Los Angeles art show, launched on Trump's birthday, that encouraged artists to show their "primal scream" by creating and downloading art with the words, "F**k Trump."  Over 100 artists contributed.

There was no humor in these displays of hate.  It reflected the left's true character and blatant malice.  It's elitism appealed to the upper echelons of comedy, Hollywood and the music industry. But not the patriot who drove a truck, worked nights at a factory, or comforted patients in a hospital.  For those of us who watched it all, it was typical liberal trash.  And a poison that destroyed everything it touched.

What started as a small commentary on college campuses, has become a national and even an international fellowship for all of us who are fed up with climate change, the takeover of our education system and tech censorship of anything critical of COVID 19 and its treatment.  

Membership in this fellowship has no cost or difficult questions to answer.  It doesn't care what your sex is or your race.  For that matter, it doesn't care if you are Republican or Democrat.  If you feel embarrassed when Doddering Joe gets lost getting into the White house or mumbles "Where Am I?", you belong to the club.  If you laugh at Beijing Biden falling asleep at the COP26 opening speeches (before being "woken" by a staffer), come on in.  Or, if you laugh so hard you pee your pants when he cuts the cheese, breaks wind, bottom burps or shoots a fairy, then you are welcome to join the Fellowship of Brandon.  

It's like a cooling salve to a bad sunburn for those without a voice.  As Jeff Lewis in American Thinker said, it's our modern-day Tea Party.  Or as more commentary in American Greatness said, it's analogous to the Biblical Old Testament prophet Elijah mocking the priests of Baal.  It's the perfect description of our current situation, where we deny the "Baal and false god of a cradle-to-grave Socialist utopia that has never -- does not now, nor ever will -- exist."

I've always said there is strength in numbers.  It takes fifty-three men to win a football game, even if you have Aaron Rogers or Tom Brady.  Every player has a role to play, and when the clock runs down to zero, and the media has turned off their cameras, packed up their microphones and submitted their stories, the head coach knows it was special teams, defense and offense that won the day -- and a great quarterback.

By the same token, we need numbers if we are going to save this country -- "the White City with its promise of the future, the wheat fields of America's heartland and the majestic view of the Great Plains from high atop Pikes Peak" -- so elegantly found in "America The Beautiful."  

Step up people -- now is the time.  Maybe last week's stunning election in Virginia is a sign that the fellowship is growing.

We should all thank Brandon -- whoever that is. 

Wine, Pantsuits and A Whole Lotta Shakin'

 Last weekend, in Lena, IL we held our seventh annual wine party.  "We" consisted of four married couples in our late fifties to mid-sixties.  What started as an impromptu gathering at our house over a couple of bottles of wine and some cheese, has blossomed into a yearly event with wine we've bought on vacation or tasted elsewhere and think is good enough to share.  The wine is accompanied by a four or five course meal.

We've known each other for many years and everyone has different tastes in wine and, more importantly, music.  During the party, we were asked to identify our favorite songs -- we each provided three anonymous "all time favorites" -- to be identified by the person selecting them.  We were to guess who picked them.

I  was expecting songs by The Cranberries, Electric Light Orchestra, Chicago, Rush, Pink and AC/DC.  Much to my disappointment, the Schoenfeld's and Mundinger's got together and plotted against yours truly, by selecting (way too many) songs from Abba, the Swedish supergroup from Stockholm, Sweden.  Between 1974 to 1983, they became one of the most successful musical acts in history with songs like "Dancing Queen," "Mama Mia," "Take A Chance On Me," and "Fernando."

I never fell under their Scandinavian voodoo charms, never went to Halloween dressed in hot pants, glitter and pantsuits (Paul you never looked better), never bought one of their albums, and never dreamed about walking on the beach with Agnetha, Benny, Bjorn or Frida.   

My money was better spent on Nazareth (Love Hurts),  Mountain (Mississippi Queen) and Billy Pau (Me and Mrs. Jones).  Now THOSE were good songs.  Come on -- you must admit, just reading the titles brings the tune to mind.  So what if they never went to number one or the artist was never never heard from again. 

Not everyone can have my good taste in music.

I remind my wife of that all the time.  Seriously.  Somehow she still doesn't like Yes, Jethro Tull, or Kiss.  I'll admit (under the influence of enough Pino Gris) some of their songs are pretty hard to listen to.  Geddy Lee's early singing voice could peel the paint off a wall and Yes' Tales From Topographic Oceans still leads people down a rabbit hole..  

Where was I?  

Oh yes, now I remember.  If my parents were still alive, I'd be on my knees asking for forgiveness for playing my music through three-foot tall speakers in their living room.   In retrospect, it makes perfect sense that I should get headphones for Christmas one year.  And it explains why they were so happy to see me move to Madison.  The first things they packed were the speakers.

The problem with asking someone their favorite song is it removes so many other good songs that would qualify given a different state of mind, a few more glasses of wine or maybe you just haven't heard them in a while.  You can also argue your taste changes as you get older.  I wouldn't listen to Frank Sinatra croon over Lady Luck when I was eighteen, but I love listening to him now.  Thanks to Pandora radio, I love "Con Te Partiro" and "Una Notte a Napoli" by the Pink Martinis, whom I didn't even know existed 10 years ago, but today make me want to to grab my wife and dance the Rumba.  Surely those two songs deserve to be on my favorite's list.

Some songs "age" better than others -- think songs from the disco years -- while others reflect popular movies or outrageous outfits that fool listeners into thinking the band is cool, and by association so are their songs.  KISS is a perfect example, since neither Gene Simmons or Paul Stanley could hold a tune if their lives depended on it.  But their girlfriends were awesome and their stage show blew your mind with fire, smoke, rising drum sets and a blood-puking God of Thunder.  A band that will go un-named (but was strangely popular at the wine party) fooled people into buying their records by being blonde, beautiful and -- depending on your eyesight -- resembling a singing disco ball.

So when we were asked to name our favorite songs, I had a really hard time coming up with just three.  Maybe it's the quiescent disc jockey in me, but I could fill a whole night with my favorite songs.  Given everyone's varied tastes and some people's affection for pantsuits that glitter, it's impossible to agree on great songs much less the best.   

Rolling Stone Magazine recently released the Greatest 500 Songs of All Time, which was compiled from 250 artists, musicians and producers.  So not normal people like you and me.  I used to like Rolling Stone Magazine in college, but not so much anymore.  A lot of things have changed since college (for example, I was one of 10,000 people who showed up in front of Memorial Union during the seventies in a toga looking for a good time) so my time in Madison should get the honest scrutiny it deserves.  Somehow, Missy Elliot had two top 100 hits, "Get Ur Freak On" and "Work It," both of which placed higher than the Animal's "House of the Rising Sun" and Van Morrison's "Brown Eyed Girl." .Apparently, smoking pot and shooting acid destroys more than just a few brain cells.  It appears to have replaced the coolness of Woodstock's rebellion against the Vietnam War and conformity with the uniform stupidity of wokenss and Black Lives Matter.  

Say goodbye to the hippy flower pots and excess armpit hair and say hello to the iPhone revolution and the social consciousness of today's Hip Hop generation!

Last week, a friend (who will go un-named, but who used to wish anyone from ABBA was on the back of his motorcycle) asked me to check out a website called setlist.fm for concerts that were held at Mary E Sawyer Auditorium in La Crosse.  What a great site.  It brought back so many memories from my adolescence.  

From 1955 to 1987, Mary E Sawyer was the place in La Crosse to hold concerts.  It also was the venue for three U.S. presidential visits and a lot of university and high school sporting events.  It's where a friend, who couldn't play a note, snuck in with the Central pep band just to watch a basketball game.  I'm still surprised our band director didn't wonder who the extra trombone player was sitting in his band, but then again, our band instructor was rumored to drink a little and even entertain a high school girl in his car  while parked on the bluff.

Despite a capacity of only 4,000, the Mary E Sawyer welcomed many up and coming bands like Heart, Journey, Rush, Kansas, Styx, KISS, Little River Band, Queen and Van Halen.  Many were opening acts for bigger bands like The Cars, Fleetwood Mac, Foreigner and ELO.  Tickets for events back in the Seventies were $8.50 for many of these concerts, featuring one, two and sometimes three musical groups.

Is there a better list of big time performers than that?  What a time to be a teenage boy discovering acne, hot chicks and rock and roll!  Could kids today have the same experience?  I don't know, but given the state of high schools and colleges, I doubt it.  Hard to relate to songs advocating the burning of police stations and looting Target stores, much less making love to gender-neutral pronouns.  

 

In March of 1975, Billy Joel had scored two Top 40 hits, "Piano Man" and "The Entertainer."  That should have made him a big draw for the Mary E Sawyer Auditorium, but apparently not.  The concert -featuring Billy and Al Steward (from "Year of the Cat" fame), was cancelled because only 120 tickets had been sold.  Twenty years later, Liz and I saw him in the Twin Cities at the sold-out Target Center. It was packed, with over 20,000 people!

It is said Billy played that night at the Holiday Inn on the pike between La Crosse and La Crescent.  What I wouldn't give to have been there. 

Another performer, Elvis Pressley, made his first-ever Wisconsin performance at the Mary E Sawyer Auditorium in May, 1956.  It caused such teenage disorder in the city that editorials in the paper blasted the promoter and those playing Presley records.  Pressure was put on radio stations to stop playing Elvis records.  It was a time for fearing anything or anyone exploring new ideas in popular music.  It even prompted The La Crosse Register to send a letter to Edgar Hoover of the FBI claiming Elvis was "a definite danger to the security of the United States."

From the letter sent to the FBI --  "... Presley's actions and motions were such as to rouse the sexual passions of teenaged youth.  One witness described his actions as "sexual self-gratification on the stage," -- another as a "striptease with clothes on."  

Supporting evidence included a reporter's version of the show -- "Elvis leaned back, opened his white silk shirt and a great expanse of bare chest appeared.  He grabbed the microphone.  The drummer thumped his tom-toms and the guitar player stroked his instrument.  The bass fiddle player thumped sensuously in the background."

"After the show more than 1,000 teenagers tried to gang into Presley's room at the auditorium, then at the Stoddard Hotel.  All possible police on duty were necessary at the Hotel to keep watch on the teenagers milling about the hotel until after 3 a.m.".

Lindy Shannon, La Crosse's Godfather of La Crosse rock and roll contributed this memory, years later --

"...I recall the commotion he caused after the concert when hordes of teens blocked traffic in front of the hotel, hoping for a glimpse of their idol.  Police tried in vain to disperse the crowd, but they wouldn't leave until Elvis waved and stuck his leg out the fourth floor window and wiggled it madly.  This seemed to satisfy all but two over-excited city school girls who climbed the hotel fire escape and somehow managed to gain entrance to Elvis' room.  The only other person there besides Elvis was the RCA Victor record salesman from Milwaukee who later told me what happened during those few bizarre moments."

"The girls began sobbing wildly, pulled up their Sloppy Joe sweaters and insisted that Elvis autograph their breasts.  Elvis told them they would have to leave the room and he ushered them to the door.  Later that night the girls apparently had an autograph session of their own, and after much boasting to their school friends the next day, their hero's signature was discovered on their bosoms by some teachers."

Crazy stuff, huh? -- you hear about such things from the Beatles and Elvis all the time.  But in La Crosse?  Their songs are certainly on my favorite song list, but my fanaticism only goes so far as buying their music.   I wonder if my friends at the wine party have private tattoos with I Love Abba written on their butts.  Or maybe a piece of fabric from one of their pantsuits they keep next to their beds.  You never know what members of the unofficial "Mama Mia" fan club will do.

This year's wine party introduced music into the annual event, and it was great, even if it meant watching them dance around the table singing "Dancing Queen."  Despite their reaction, the most important thing for me was this -- picking three of your favorite songs was meant to provide a bit of fun, food for thought, and good-humored debate.  Maybe even prompt a post for Squirrel Factory.

And to be honest, I loved that my friends thought enough of me to secretly arrange for all of those Abba songs to be played.  The way I look at it, with all the cancel culture and WOKE insanity everywhere you look, we need a little more love in our lives.

Even if it's sung by Abba.

Viva il vino!  

The Most Dangerous Man in the World

I am the most hated, dangerous man in the world.

Am I Mr. Big from Live and Let Die?  No.

Am I Ernst Stavro Bloveld, planning to launch a national network of satellites to monitor mastermind criminal activities across the globe?   No.

Or am I the monetarily-challenged Dr. Evil from Austin Powers demanding one M-I-L-L-I-O-N dollars?

Again, no.

My wife and friends don't know how dangerous and evil I have become.  Apparently, being good in the sack and having a boat goes a long ways towards putting people at ease.  My teammates at Viterbo University, aging sports stars that they are, still invite me to play basketball, and clients trust me to invest hard-earned money for their retirement years.  My co-workers also still invite me for a beer after work. And yet every time I look in the mirror, I am reminded of the monster I have become.

Aaron Rogers gets more love from the Packers front office than I do from today's education system, feminists and civil rights groups. 

My crime?  Being a white, straight, conservative male dude.

According to a survey administered to students at a prestigious community college, white males are the most hated group in America.  These students were given 10 questions relating to eight different racial, gender and ethnic groups, including black males, black females, Hispanic males, Hispanic females, white males and white females.  The questions were designed to measure students negative attitude toward the eight groups and included phrases like hateful, prejudiced, cheating, societal wrongdoing and lying.  Question ten even asked, "If you had to kill one of the above groups, which one would you kill?"

Putting aside the false premise that people ARE different based on their skin color, I don't think I've ever been at the top of a list before (although I did finish second once in middle school during basketball tryouts), and yet here I am at numero uno on six of the ten questions.

The ten-question survey clearly shows how much prejudice people have toward me by making false  generalizations about white males.  Conversely, if you put good qualities and asked for the same responses, my guess is that I would be at the bottom of that list.

The de-construction of the white, heterosexual male has been going on for decades.  Only recently, with Black Lives Matter and CRT (critical race theory) have the attacks become more visible.  Like some variant of Brood X, the U.S. cicada hatch coming in 2021 -- students from liberal colleges everywhere are infesting  American corporations, major sporting leagues, government agencies and the military.  The result is an attack on what it used to mean to be a white, conservative male:   individualism, hard work, objectivity, the nuclear family, progress, respect for authority and delayed gratification. 

I don't know what is more impressive -- the systemic transformation of rich, entitled students into hateful and rude snowflakes that hold America in contempt, or the capitulation of our once-great institutions to appease their ridiculous demands.  Both are as welcome as the Grim Reaper knocking on your door in the middle of the night.

Equally frustrating is the ease with which the liberals have dodged their hypocrisy.  Democrats enjoy being the moral arbiters -- they of the "hands up, don't shoot" grandstanding -- while openly accepting real racists and public masturbators as their leaders.  It's impossible to be a hypocrite when one doesn't believe in anything but power.  When that is the standard by which you live -- and you have the media on your side -- any behavior is acceptable.  As today's Democrats like to say -- "... don't let a good crisis go to waste."

I have to wonder how something so racist and anti-American came to be.  It's hard to believe a country so in love with Martin Luther King's dream of one day living in a nation "where (they) will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character," could completely change course in less than a decade.

There's little doubt that  President Trump peeled back the onion that was hiding the layers of rot found in our major institutions (education, government and judicial).  Trump attacked their non-American agendas and laid them out for all to see.  Perhaps, fearing another Trump presidency, or someone like him, the Democrats accelerated their agenda with no holds barred.  

With the GOP and Supreme Court rolling over on the 2020 election, it was time for the Democrats to call in their own MR. BIG.  

Perhaps it went something like this... ?

Electric arcs crackle overhead as the shadowy figure spins dials and manipulates levers.  Nearby, a  tank -- holding the suspended blob of a brain labeled BYEDN -- bubbles happily.   Scattered on benches and cabinets are test tubes filled with various powders and liquids.  One of them, a large beaker labeled COVID, is lying on its side as a rat sniffs its spilled contents warily.

A large metallic table, suspended by an assortment of hydraulic pistons, holds the shape of  a cloth-draped body.  Leather straps are wrapped around its chest and legs.  From beneath the sheet hangs a shriveled arm, with tubes leading from it with red, white and blue fluids running into a slotted grill in the floor.  

Periodic rain, carried by a strong wind, strikes a curved, leaded glass window, although it cannot be heard above the constant buzz coming from the lab's powerful generator.  

A second figure, wearing a white lab coat, pauses in her work as a nearby wall, covered by a bank of mounted television screens, shows various cable news broadcasts from CNN, CBS, MSNBC and NBC.    

From the screen showing MSNBC, anchorman Don Lemon is saying, "We have to stop demonizing people and realize the biggest threat in this country is white men; most of them radicalized to the right, and we have to start doing something about them."  

Another screen showed black Actress Gabourey Sidibe, from the film Precious, discussing race on “The View,”: “Older white men are a problem, y’all, for everyone. We’re all at risk.”  

James Livingston, a history professor at Rutgers University, speaks on the screen showing CNN : “OK, officially, I now hate white people. … I hereby resign from my race. F— these people.”  

On another television screen, the face of Steven Clifford, former King Broadcasting CEO, says, “I will be leading a great movement to prohibit straight white males, who I believe supported Donald Trump by about 85 percent, from exercising the franchise [to vote], and I think that will save our democracy.”  

Combined, the frenzied voices muddle into a common theme, heard on every channel except the one labelled FOX.  As if under a spell, each personality begins reciting language from today's DND press release, verbatim -- "... with Trump's assistance, white, male racism has once again reared its ugly head."

The man cackles menacingly and mutters to himself that everything is going according to plan.  In his hands is an envelop from which he opens and removes a video tape marked "Jimmy Kimmel's Opening Monologue."   He reaches across a wooden table and opens a drawer labeled, LATE NITE COMEDY.   Inside are rolls of video tapes spooling into a machine connected by wires and flashing bulbs.   Familiar names can be seen, like Stephen Colbert, Saturday Night Live!, Jimmy Fallon, Comedy Central and  Full Frontal with Samantha Bee."  Finding the correct slot, he puts the cassette in place, waits for a mechanical device to retrieve the tape, then closes the drawer.

Suddenly, a flash of lightning dims the overhead lights, to be followed by the boom of thunder.  Excitedly, the man rushes to the table, frantically checking the straps holding the body, then cranks a wheel.  Slowly the platform rises toward the ceiling, where within moments, a metal door opens and the platform and body disappear into the night sky.

As minutes pass, the man paces impatiently back and forth between a monitor showing of birds eye view of the rooftop and a heart monitoring machine, currently showing a flat green line.  He pulls down a pair of goggles to shield his eyes from the glare while his female assistant adjusts a few more dials before the sound of approaching lightning seizes her attention.

"Any moment now, Barrack!  We are so close -- I can FEEL it, any moment!"  she laughs deliciously.  "Soon we will have the ultimate symbol of opportunity, created by you.  With it we will be able to fulfill your promise to fundamentally change the country!"

With a look of annoyance, ex-president Barrack Obama studies the monitor, where he watches the strapped figure being pummeled by a steady stream of wind and rain.  He pushes a lever up adding more power to the experiment, as coils near a wall begin to heat and glow.  The hum of electricity becomes deafening as the generator's cowling cries in squeaky protest.  The wall of television monitors blacken, except FOX News.

"I need more power!" Barrack shouts, as more lightning and thunder rumble through the night sky.

Moving a final lever, he sends a final surge of electricity into the body on the roof.  Despite the leather straps, the sheet covering the body is in tatters, revealing a figure reacting to artificial life surging through its body..  Its face grimaces -- an instinctive reaction -- as it fights the violent insurgency coursing through its veins.

 

Unsuspecting observers would be shocked in their recognition -- it is the disfigured body of one of America's most iconic symbols, Uncle Sam.  However, the figure looks nothing like the tall, whiskered  figure revered in patriotic plays, stories and verses.  Instead, the damaged body has been "re-arranged" into a jigsaw of white, brown, and black body parts, representing African, Latino and American Indian origins.  There has been a crude attempt to feminize the body, but it will never be mistaken for female or anything attractive.  Instead of representing something beautiful and unifying, it is a monster.  Like all things liberals attempt, this experiment is a frightening failure.

Suddenly, a crack of lightning momentarily whitens the television screen, before it fades to black, smoke curling into the air from the monitor's fried circuits and wires.

"Quickly Alexandria," Obama orders, removing his goggles, "help me lower the body!"  Together the two figures move the wheel in reverse, lowering the smoking platform and body into the laboratory as the overhead doors slowly close.  Overhead the violent storm has subsided, leaving illuminated clouds racing through a darkened sky as its only reminder.

Slowly, the platform reaches the floor.  Its surface is blackened and charred having absorbed the majority of the lightning strike, but the body remains intact.  Smoke, the result of water turning to steam, rises from the monster's blackened skin.  In numerous spots, cuts have re-opened and stitches have burst where original and new skin were sewn together.

AOC is delirious with excitement, as though someone is talking about the New Green Deal.

Obama leans forward, carefully places his hand on the monster's chest and stares at its face.  Seconds pass in anticipation, then fingers begin to twitch, then its hand and finally the entire arm.  Obama  watches the face and chest, looking for signs of sustained life.  Still nothing.

"Come on!"  Obama shouts, then thumps a clenched fist on its chest.  Blood and water splatter.  "You are my creation.  My response to America's unjust founding, its homophobia, white supremacy and lack of opportunity for gays, transgenders, and other minorities.  YOU are the new America.  A country based on equity of outcome, not equal opportunity.  Awaken!  Become the Marxist object of tolerance you were meant to be."

As Obama's words die in the silence of the laboratory, the creature's chest suddenly begins to rise and fall, its eyes flutter and its mouth opens, gasping for breath.  Finally, the eyes open and looked in fear at its creator.

AOC stares in amazement and says,  "Ooh, master Obama! No, no!  I mean, mister.  No!  Not mister.  What politically-correct pronoun are we using these days?"  she asks, then hesitates and pinches the bridge of her nose in concentration.  Thinking has always been difficult for her, but today she is determined to meet the challenge.  She smiles, opens her eyes and looks toward the ex-president.  

"I mean your excellency!  Yes, your excellency Obama.  I am so excited!  Today will go down in history as we reach the end of our journey.  Following decades of radical protests, of climbing the corporate ladder to achieve control over America's most prized institutions, and of successfully removing the need to vote has led to this moment in time."  

She wipes the back of her hand across her mouth, which had begun to salivate uncontrollably.  

"Perhaps we should call CNN or ABC?  Maybe a text to Chris Cuomo?  Or another threat to Justice John Roberts?  I am yours to command, your -- uh, excellency!  Tell me -- what do you want to do?"

Obama smiles then says,  "Call my wife.  Tell her she can once again be proud of America.  The New America.  Our America."

 

 

Twenty-Four Below, With Love

The snow crunches underfoot as the spikes grip the snow and propel us forward across the lake.

Before us stretches North Nokomis Lake, roughly 470 areas of snow covered, frozen water, just one of more than a thousand lakes near St. Germain in northern Wisconsin.  On its shores sprout black spruce, tamarack and jack pine with an occasional cabin or residence sprinkled between them.  Today, they are empty and abandoned -- frigid husks crying for the warmth of a fireplace while their owners remain comfortable back home in Chicago, Madison or somewhere south of the Wisconsin border.

At its deepest, the lake is seventy-three feet deep.  I mention its depth because walking across unfamiliar, frozen water in the middle of February always makes my heart beat a little faster.  Not only are you mocking Jesus, who actual could walk on water, but one can't shake the feeling that maybe we don't belong out here.  Dismayed, I think to myself that Liz, snowshoeing a few feet behind me, would have a spectacular view as I fell through the ice, my arms flapping wildly , reaching desperately for traction before sinking beneath the icy water.  At least with all this snow she wouldn't be watching me float beneath the clear ice for one minute before running out of air and sinking to the bottom.  Today, it would be one big splash , and then nothing until spring when the authorities would scour the lake for my frozen body.  

Why am I always thinking such thoughts?

"We have nothing to worry about," I say as I stop and turn to Liz.  "It's been below zero for a week now and last night reached 15 below zero.  I'm sure the ice is a good eight to twelve inches thick."

I watched as Liz, in her Columbia jacket with matching scarf and hat, let out a cloud of steam.  Her breath quickly frosted the scarf and fogged her sunglasses.  "I hope you're right," she says, removing the glasses and putting in an inner pocket.  "My low opinion of you being right would take a big hit if we have to swim to safety.  Besides, look at these snowmobile tracks, they go all the way across the lake."

We continued on, the large flat metal planks spreading our weight so we don't sink too deeply into the snow.  "Good point.  Let's stick to the tracks already here."  

In my mind I figured a typical snow mobile would weigh about six-hundred pounds.  Add someone riding at maybe another two-hundred-twenty-five pounds and you're well over eight hundred pounds sledding across this lake.  Liz and I can't be anywhere close to that.

We've gone another ten minutes, with the hopes of getting a view around a tree-lined point when I notice yellowish-brown patches in front of us.  The snowmobile tracks continue on the other side, so I step into fresh snow leading away from the discolored snow.  As I do, I notice my poles are sinking deeper into the snow, leaving little discolored circles.  

Before we continue any further, I look toward Liz and say, "I think we may want to head back the way we came."  

"Yeah, have you noticed the different colored snow?"

I pull off my goggles and look behind us.  Our trail of footprints, which used to be white are now a darker shade of gray, bordering on brown.  "Um, yeah!  I think I see water in the snow.  Let's turn back and stay closer to shore."

And with those frosty words leaving my lips, I feel a large section of snow sink beneath my snowshoes...

A few months ago, my wife thought it would be a great idea to head north for Valentine's Day. The holiday landed on Sunday this year and if we took off Friday and Monday it would make a nice get-away.  With COVID still making restaurants questionable, a road trip sounded like a good idea. It wasn't long before we mentioned the idea to friends of ours, Doug and Peggy, who were big into snowmobiles.  With the words barely out of our mouths, they were up for it.  As regular travelers to Wisconsin's Great North, they loved the idea of a couple feet of fresh snow and miles of groomed trails.

Liz and i who are not snowmobilers, would take our Christmas gifts to each other -- snowshoes -- and find trails of our own.  

And when we weren't speeding across frozen lakes or finding our way through snow covered pine trees we'd settle down for a weekend of Mexican Train, Nines and Netflix.

So plans were made to find a place near Eagle River, WI for a long, fun-filled Valentine's weekend.

Little did we know the weekend would turn out to have some of the coldest temperatures of the year, dropping down to twenty-four degrees below zero.  Windchills were expected to be forty or fifty degrees below zero making snowshoeing, much less snowmobiling a matter of life and death.  Just our luck -- as if 2020 and the beginning of 2021 wasn't bad enough.  The continued wreckage of COVID, the questionable presidential election, the Packer's loss in the NFC championship game, and now being stuck in a cabin up north surrounded by twenty inches of snow with nowhere to go.

That is unless we could dress for it, use hand and feet warmers, and make short trips in and out of life-renewing taverns.  Sounded like a plan.

The bartender was telling us how the cash register was trying to kill her, when some guy behind us lets out a yell.  "Yes!  I won, I won!" he repeats standing next to a video display showing winnings of $250 from the video gambling game mounted to the bar's far wall.  The smell of sweat and gasoline remind me that snowmobiling is best enjoyed outside with lots of fresh clean air.  Outside, snowmobiles either thunder by or are parked haphazardly on all sides of the tavern.

Liz and I are sitting at the bar, adult beverages in hand,  in Sister's Saloon and Restaurant in St. Germain.  We've stepped in from the cold after a three mile trek through Fern Ridge Trail.  The trail was awesome, with trails leading through snow covered pines, up and down ravines, crossing snow covered bridges -- as the occasional sounds of snowmobiles buzzed nearby.  Liz said they reminded her of a swarm of bees, angry at having their hive knocked from a tree.  Fern Ridge Trail didn't share the road with snowmobiles, but they did travel through the same neck of the woods.

"As I was saying before Tom got lucky," continues Sandy, our bartender for the afternoon.  "That cash register has been trying to kill me all week!  The drawer keeps popping open as I'm walking past, hitting me in the hip and arm.  I should show you my bruises."   She gives us a wink, then adds, "One of these days I'm going to throw the whole thing in a snow pile."

"Attacking" cash registers are not the only thing worth watching in Sisters Saloon and Tavern.  Stacks of helmets are the first thing you see when walking in.  All brands are there -- Ski Doo, Arctic Cat, Polaris, and Yamaha.  My guess, is there are probably twenty-five people in the bar, almost all of them arrived by sled. 

Behind the bar are signs informing patrons of the male persuasion how much it will cost for the bartender to tell their wives they aren't there.  Another sign advertises a frog legs dinner for $15.  Liz and I immediately think of Lydia, our Chinese student who is now attending Pepperdine University in Malibu, California.  The ceiling and walls are decorated with tiny white lights, giving the place a North Pole feel.  No one would be surprised to see Santa Clause walk through the door.

Today, a lot of other people are walking through the door.  Liz and I have never seen so many snowmobilers.  We have seen more sleds than cars.  There is a constant stream of sleds on both sides of Hwy 70, some running parallel to the road, others are crossing the road at the first chance.  And when they aren't driving their sleds, they are in bars like this one warming their insides with some alcohol or hot chocolate.  

We've chosen the former as our way of warming up.  

"I still can't believe we ran into water on that lake this morning," I tell Liz, who is taking a sip of her bourbon old fashioned.  "When I felt the snow shift I saw my life pass before my eyes.  Thankfully it just settled into some water on top of the ice."

Liz's face is still red from the frigid nine below temps.  Her hair --the part not covered by a hat she refuses to take off -- is still sweaty, a sign of how hard she was working on the snowy trails.

"I never wanted to go out on that lake," she says.  "I know Peggy said it was alright, but I don't remember seeing any sign or anything that said the lake was safe.  I can't believe a snowmobile drove over it!"

"Yeah, we'll just stick to the wooded trails, over solid land."  I can hear the bartender saying there were two fishing tournaments being held near St. Germain.  Unfortunately, this year's Knocker's Bikini Relay was cancelled because of the cold...  I could see CBS' Charles Kuralt bringing his "On The Road" production to St. Germain to do a story on bikini snowmobiling.  

Think what you will of driving snowmobiles in the cold, in a bathing suit, but those women have to be tough.  Or drunk.  Or both.

Despite the absolutely cold temperatures over the Valentine's Day weekend --  minus 20 degrees on Friday, minus 13 degrees on Saturday, minus 22 degrees on Sunday and minus 32 degrees on Monday -- none of them set a record.  I've done a little research on record cold temperatures for Wisconsin and found a few staggering numbers.  Near Rest Lake, not far from where we were, a temperature of minus 51 degrees was recorded on February 25, 1928.  But the all-time coldest temperature for the entire state of Wisconsin was recorded in Superior on March 12, 1948 when it hit 62 degrees below zero. 

Makes me wonder why we were concerned about a measly 32 degrees below zero.

Actually, you don't need record temps to cause damage to your skin or much worse, your life.  Frostbite is a condition in which your skin and tissues freeze.  It usually occurs on your fingers, toes, nose and ears and can lead to permanent blood vessel and tissue damage.

Luckily for most of us, the chances of reaching that point are rare, and frostnip provides an early warning signal before it gets that far.  Symptoms include red, tingling or numb skin.  At that point, it's best to get inside or to keep yourself warm.

Hypothermia takes place when your body loses heat at a rate faster than it can produce it, and your body temperature drops extremely low.  It can cause your heart, nervous system and other organs to enter a state of shock and ultimately lead to death.  Symptoms include shivering, slurred speech, slow breathing, lack of coordination and confusion.  

Silly me, I thought those were signs of getting old.  Hello, sleepy Joe.

I open the door to the Toyota and slide inside, glad to see the overhead dome light still works.  I insert the key and turn over the ignition hoping for the best.  With a groan and screech, the engine starts, shaking the car to its core.  Every component is cold -- no not cold, more like frozen.  The seat, the dials and the wheel barely move in protest to my intrusion.  Thankfully, there is little frost on the windows, so no need to go out and scrap it off.

The temperature gauge in the dash reads 24 degrees below zero.  It feels much worse.  I'm freezing, so I put the car into gear and back out of the driveway, heading toward the rising sun, which is nothing more than a strip of orange and yellow.  This morning, I wouldn't blame it if it decided it was too cold and went back down.

The car crawls -- I'm not kidding, I could probably walk faster than the car -- past a large pole barn, one of many on the cranberry farm.  A car is parked in front of one, its engine running.  From inside comes the sound of equipment being moved.  No one is outside -- if they are, they are not moving.

We've spent the weekend on this farm, called Lake Nokomis Cranberry, Inc.  Our cozy retreat is located above the gift shop and winery, although I'm not sure there was much activity due to the cold temperatures.

Despite my foot on the accelerator, the car maintains it's slow march toward the ribbon of light rising above the horizon.  I thought driving the car would keep me warm, but I'm miserable because of the cold and it will be at least five minutes or more before the car warms up enough to stop my shaking.  Eventually, the car rolls to a stop just short of a sign that reads "No Vehicles Past This Point."  Because of  today's frigid conditions, it's not advisable for any warm blood human to go beyond this point.

Despite that thought, I stop the car and step outside to photograph this morning's beautiful sunrise.  The snow literally pops as I walk to the edge of the road and fumble with the camera, realizing I have to remove the camera lens cover.  Quickly, I remove my glove and tuck it under my arm while I remove the cover and put it into my coat pocket.  Already, my hand is burning, so I focus on the expanding light coming from behind some trees and shoot.  

Despite the conditions, the camera takes the photos I want.  I shoot a few more and walk back to the car and jump in, slamming the door.  "God Almighty, it's cold!"  My breath painfully floats around the interior before giving up and settling on the car seats and floor.  

Time to get back to the house, I think.  Back to the warmth of the kitchen, where Doug and Peggy will be looking for a cup of coffee.  Back to shelter where the wind doesn't cut your face with a blast of its icy touch.

As I back the car into its overnight "stall" (a bumpy patch of snow), I put the car into park and sit feeling the leather seats warming beneath my butt.  Strangely I don't leave the car,  instead I look around, putting to memory my surroundings.  It's hard to believe it's over.  My mind wanders to the events of the last four days and I smile, enjoying the images of snowshoeing around Shannon Lake, or our first night playing Mexican train with Doug and Peggy, or stopping for lunch in Wausau, or having our valentine dinner at Whitetail Inn with its roaring fireplace, or the memory of our waitress who found the courage to call me Gestapo Guy because I had crossed my arms while eating at the table.  Or best of all, the memory of Liz's touch as we kissed each other and said "good night."

Despite the wicked cold, this weekend has been a blast.  Good friends and hearty outdoor exercise had kept our blood flowing and belly laughs coming.  As I turned off the car, my final thought is not whether this weekend was a good idea, but when we would be coming back for more.

Hopefully when the temps are above zero.