WHAT WOULD YOU DO FOR ONE MONTH?

when the temperature never got to 0 degrees? Well, it happened in Ironwood, Michigan, in 1961. In the year of January. At least it must have seemed that long to the denizens.

I know Phoenicians go almost that long with a steady diet of 100 degrees, but it does cool down to the 80's, well at least the lower 90's at night. But never to break 0 degrees in a month. Wow. I remember after a cold snap or spell in So. Ill. that 30 degrees felt warm. Almost shirt sleeve warm. I guess Ironwoodites or Ironwoodoceans must have felt like that at -10.

When I first looked at the picture, I thought it was an airplane landing in the mountainside complete with a flagger, or whatever you call those guys and gals that lead a taxiing plane to a gate.

Then I thought of a worshipper thankful to God for His creation and the birth of yet another morning.

Then I thought about a sun worshipper. In the snowy mountains. All that was missing was that silver hand held tray that reflects the sun to the face.

But I finally decided on February 1, 1961, in Ironwood. What a glorious day when 0 degrees broke though.

WILD HORSES COULDN'T DRAG ME AWAY

My brother's never been to Arizona. So when I tell him about our monsoons, our dry heat (and dry cold), our dust, he doesn't have a clear picture. When I told him earlier this week that the inside of our house gets dirty even when we're not home for a week or so, he asked me if sand blew into our house.

So I don't know what he'll think when I tell him that we have wild horses running around maybe two to three miles from where we live. About twenty-five or so have been enjoying the grass that our recent rains, and yes, monsoons have brought the valley.

They feast and huddle together under trees for afternoon shade. They range in color from the buckskin with brown tail to the solid brown ones. They are so beautiful to look at as I drive the 101-North. I know other drivers are doing the same, so safety becomes an issue. But no one has ever said safety and the 101 go together. Earlier this week a guy clocked at 147 mph there was in court. How do you plead? "Stupid, I guess."

Maybe I should have mailed my brother Jack a copy of the teepee hotel in eastern Arizona. They're make out of concrete, but have about 15 individual ones available.

It still probably wouldn't get him out here. Now if they ever auctioned Henderson motorcycles at the Barrett Jackson Car Show, then I'd have a chance.

THE SAND FEELS SO GOOD
It does feel good to play in the sand. Sandcastles punctuate a beach telling you that kids are/were there.

Even backyard sandboxes are a hoot. Until you discover a cat dropping or two.

But there's nothing quite like beach sand and the vast area to build, sculpt, or in the case of my three-year old grandson Nathan, destroy.

I marvel at the real professional sand castle builders with precise instruments to cut, sift, and chisel. Sandcastle building contests are so impressive. Somehow they remind me of the Girl Scout Cookie contests they useed to have at the Galaria in St. Louis. The ones where they used thousands of cookies to build cars and windmills and all sorts of things.

Some great times can be had with a bucket or two and a shovel or two. All it takes is hours on the beach. Besides your creation and play time, you're rewarded with the best sun tan on your back. And if you make enough water runs, sunburned feet.

"YOU'RE CUTE, DAD"

I like it when my 26-year old daughter tells me that. (She also tells me she's a loyal blog reader of mine, but she hits on my site only once or twice a week, so the jury's still out.) Anyway(s), I like it when she tells me I'm cute.

While channel surfing, I discovered a band playing wildly on America's Got Talent. Actually, I think it sounds better to say "has" talent. That's not what Courtney would think was cute.

What she would think was cute is how I describe what I saw. Keep in mind I'm an old guy who tells it like I see it (How's that for a mixed cliche or two?)

I think they are called The Blue Boys. I think they have one girl though she's not blue. Three of them are blue, I think, maybe only two. The blue ones don't look like the Hawaiian mask, but they wear a blue latex mask that covers their whole head and smashes down their ears like the robbers who wear pantyhose on their faces. They look pretty futuristic, I almost said space age.

They play wild drums. One plays oversized drums with colored liquid in them. He makes a big mess, obviously. Some other guys who aren't blue play wild drums, their hands flying like making an airplane in flight gesture. Another blue guy hits a big tympany-like drum. He kinda hits it like a gong, but wilder.

Maybe the most talented is the female in the group. She sings pretty well, though I couldn't understand one word. But where she excels is on the fiddle. Man, she can play. Somewhere between a violin concerto in D Minor to hoedown fiddling Orange Blossom Special, she plays with aplomb (whatever that means.) What I mean is she's good.

Put it all together and they really sound good to this codger. I dare you to watch them and not bob your head or tap your toe (man, I'm sounding ancient now) to their beat. When they're finished they shoot out long strips of paper, kinda like toilet paper into the crowd. And one of the blue guys stands looking at the audience with red liquid seeping into the creases on his blue face.

"FALLING ROCKS, DON'T FALL ON ME"

Sometimes you only have to say something once and it becomes part of local legend or family lore. Once on a Colorado trip when our two children were young, my wife uttered those words in response to a sign announcing Falling Rocks Ahead. Now, nearly every time any of us see a similar sign, we utter, at least to ourselves, that clause stated years ago.

And it must work, because except for windshield chips, we have been spared from falling rocks.

On the same trip, we had rented a car from a place called Rent A Wreck. The van we rented, for comfort and necessity for others who were meeting us there, was not a wreck at all. Initially we had started with a big old boat, a hoopty, but after a few blocks, I could see that wasn't pleasing to my wife. Back to Rent a Wreck on Grape St.

The guy at the rental place told us we'd never remember Grape so count the street lights and turn after the fifth one or so. He was the same guy that told us our hoopty didn't have a couple of hubcaps, but hey, who could keep them on anyway, the way they just hopped from a car.

Our van hadn't thrown any, so we were off again. The vacation was great, ending on a Robert Trent Jones golf course, Skyland, in Crested Butte where Scott eagled the last hole. I was fighting a huge sand bunker in front of the green, so I didn't appreciate it at the time.

Maybe I should have uttered "Falling ball don't get near that trap."

AND ASHLEY JUDD WAS THERE, TOO

Once I went to St. Louis to watch Kentucky and Arkansas, I believe, play in an NCAA Regional Tournament. We sat on the Wildcat side in the Ed which was not an ideal venue for viewing. Our tickets were comps because we went with a MVC referee who received the tickets for his time and effort in college basketball. But they were far away.

And I got bored. So I went to sleep. A buddy of mine sitting next to me couldn't believe it. I mean here we are with a bunch of friends, 26, if I remember. Here it is. A Regional basketball tournament game. Featuring Kentucky. And Ashley Judd. (She had better seats, but hey, she's a bigger fan.) And I went to sleep.

I know my buddy Alex thought I was sick or old. Well, I felt fine. But I was embarrassed. I mean here I got these free tickets and I can't even stay awake. Kentucky won. Ashley, and most all of the 26 were happy. I guess I was for the Wildcats, but I'm pretty much a homer, even if Illinois wasn't too hot in those years. I know I didn't like indiana and bobby knight.

I got to see them in another Regional one time and was rooting very hard against his hoosiers. They won anyhow. But I stayed awake. Scott and I had courtside seats about 8 rows behind one of the baskets. Maybe that's why I didn't snooze.

Oh well, once I fell asleep when I was assigned a Study Hall to supervise. A Study Hall of about seventy or so. I didn't get caught then. Probably because Alex wasn't in the Study Hall.

ON THE SLOPES IN IRONWOOD

As faithful reader(s) know, I'm not much for balance. Many of my golf problems are a result of improper weight shift or slight imbalance in my takeaway. Skiing, skating on ice, water, snow, or concrete are out of the question. Even when I stretch my aching calves nowadays, I have to lean or touch something for support.

So riding a ski lift, an 18-story elevator, walking an additional 6 stories to the top of the ski slope at Copper Run and looking down at what the skiers see (sans snow) really made me appreciate anyone who would jump from 150 meters. The view was spectacular. The thought of jumping was so alien to me that I couldn't process a cadre of thoughts about it.

When we got to the elevator after our beautiful ski lift ride, we gave our tickets to a young lady who took us up the 18 stories. She was saddled with an additional task of scraping paint from the elevator walls. Being the helpful sort of guy I am, I picked up the scraper and peeled some paint for her. We arrived safely and got out to climb some more while she went back down, presumably scraping as she went.

When we got back on the elevator, she asked for our tickets. I gave her the torn stubs. "Not those," she replied. "Well, that's what you gave me back," I responded. She still looked puzzled.

"We're on top, heading down," added bro-in-law Dave.

"Remember? I helped you scrape."

I'm still not sure she accessed it all. But I began scraping again and was joined by my three relatives as we rode silently down the elevator.

Maybe in order to get that job you had to have fallen off the ski run. Kinda like that guy on ABC's Wide World of Sports intro who fell off the jump sideways.