Ice, baby.

It rained and it froze for a whole day this week, covering everything in a clear wrapping of ice. We hid in our homes and avoided going out. When it finished our world was crystaline. I went out and took some pictures, of course.

Here's the clothes lines we hide in our back yard (it's not allowed in the covenant we all seem to ignore. Neither are big dogs, apparently, but we think of Tye as slender).

At the end of the day it warmed and the rain seeped under the ice and made it possible to pry it off the concrete with only a little effort. Those of us veteran Iowans who are equipped got out our heavy iron ice scrapers and broke it up. Then we got out our metal shovels and pushed it toward the edge of the driveway. Then we used our bent handled, back-saving scoop shovels to heave the ice into piles in our yards. Those of us who still do not own snow blowers felt virtuous and independent, knowing that the snow blower people likely had inadequate ice removal equipment, due to over dependence on mechanization, and could only salt and sand the ice, which, by definition, will not "blow."

I cleared the drive and sidewalk but the ice remains on everything else and today everything is covered with a dusting of snow.

Yesterday when the sun come out I drove around marveling and the shiny glistening shape of familiar trees, enjoying the sparkle. Of course some folks suffered downed power lines. My worksite was shut down early in the afternoon when a transformer blew. That was okay. We were done.

No one needs counseling during an ice storm. On the heirarchy of needs, being able to stand up when going outside trumps angst and ennui. I hope I spelled ennui right. It isn't a word you get to use all that often Ennui is like those sexual terms which one knows but seldom finds occasion to speak out loud, like cunnilingus. I used to think the word misled was pronounced "my-zeld." It's not all about sex.

I drove to Des Moines on Thursday to hear a presentation from a big man in charge of mental health at the Department of Human Services. He is big in stature, fairly defining the word portly (I believe his picture is in Webster's as an illistration), and is making big changes in mental health here. He says. We'll see. I drove west on highway 30 and then down through the heart of our corn belt from Marshalltown to Bondurant and into Des Moines. It's a great drive with ice all over everything. Frozen rural whiteness with crystal glazing. I am fairly sure that no one on that stretch of road was thinking about ennui or cunnilingus.

Today we make the final push toward Christmas, figuring out what we have not bought yet, wrapping things, getting the tree together.

This tree, by the way is vicious. Caitlin picked it out. There were a bunch of fluffy fir trees with soft needles and symmetrical branches, easily cut and lifted to the roof of the car. Caitlin decided that there has always been a rule (huh? always?) that the tree has to be taller than she is in order to be acceptable. The cuddly easily managed fir trees were not taller than Caitlin.

The tree she chose is enormous, the same shape as the portly director of mental health for the Iowa Department of Human Services. It has razor sharp needles packed onto denselfy grown branches.

Clearly, this tree did not want to die. The farmer who sold us the tree said his wife had really been wanting him to leave this tree and let it grow, but he said "we just won't tell her." I suspect this was a ploy, that guests to the tidy farm have been razored and slashed by this aggressive conifer, and that this was his chance to unload this feral tannenbaum on unsuspecting city folk.

We got it bungied to the top of the car and crept home, hoping it wouldn't fall off our car and puncture someone. At home, we sawed off more lower branches so we could get it into our stand.

It took us about 30 minutes and a short marital spat (also traditional) to get the tree straight. We used serious gloves.We tightened it down. We walked away. It fell over.

We picked it up. We had another 30 minute straightening/marital encounter session. We sighed with relief. We got the tree to stand up.

Robyn went into the living room by the tree to study. It fell on her. She sustained scratches and abrasions. We picked up the tree, freeing Robyn. Then we had more marital encounter, straigtening, tightening. This time I wired the tree to the wall. I wanted to drive screws into the tree but could not get close enough without severe pain.

We gingerly decorated the tree. It is truly beautiful and . . . portly.

It is a strange and beautiful world, and however fair or unfair it is being toward you these days, peace to you and to yours.