We come from the land of the ice and snow, from the midnight sun where the hot springs blow....

The current morning temperature here in Greater Podunky is 14 degrees (farenheit), with a predicted "high" of 26. Guess what? Papa Bear gets to start complaing about the weather (log off now if you've heard this before.....) And we haven't even reached THANKSGIVING!

"Fall" is an anomoly in Wisconsin. It tends to consist of about a month of brutal, humid heat, a post-summer death knell designed to test the already limited patience of our returning schoolchildren. Isaac's (non-air conditioned) elementary school, built in 1918, served as a defacto kiln for the first 6 weeks of the semester. He came home each day flushed and exhausted, not from the challenges of reading, writing, and 'rithmetic but from having spent 8 hours in the equivalent of the boiler room on an ancient ocean liner.

Then, as if by magic, "Fall," with a capitol "F", appears. For two or three weeks, we frolic in New England-style splendor, leaves bursting with vibrant reds and oranges, farmers harvesting their golden crop. We buy apple cider and wear flannel shirts and cheerfully say faux-Victorian things like "My, but that is a bracing chill!" as we experience the occasional dip into the mid-40's. We live in a blissful state of selected ignorance, wallowing in the momentary confluence of natural beauty and the invigorating burst that comes with the first cold. We simply try not to think about what we know is coming next, and put off getting out the gloves and hats from the attic.

Alas, every year it comes, right on cue, and someone-usually me-says, "Gee, it seems awfully early for this." "This" being a breathtaking plummet in temperature from chilly to freezing; awaking one morning to realize that the trees, recently festooned with colorful beauty, have gone gray and bare; and the first, sinister appearance of snow flurries, not enough to stick to the ground but enough to land on your forehead with an icy "Fuck You!" sting. This goes on, with little variation, for the ominously darkening countdown to December 21, when we can officially call it what it really is.

I dropped the car off this morning for a few minor repairs, and walked the 1/2 mile back to the Vista Mansion with icicles forming in my nosehairs, frozen tears stuck to my cheeks. The wind dove down my neck and inside of my seasonally appropriate parka in a cascading tickle, leaving me shivering with an involuntary and all-too-familiar November palsy.

This, in a word, sucked.

I know, I know. Worse--far worse--lies ahead, and in the stoic way of the lifetime Midwesterner, I will adapt and accept, and on some weird occasions even embrace the furious wrath of Ma Nature in the long months ahead. I know I can take what She dishes out, because I always have.

But today I'm going to call my mother. And as I do every year around this time, I'm going to pose a question that has bedeviled my family for two generations: "Why the HELL didn't you and dad settle in California?"