"Here we see the wreckage of the great snowball wars of 1955." - Tom Servo, MST3K

You can see turns 3 and 4 of the Wilder 500 in the background behind the lean, mean, snowmachine. The Boy was doing pit stop duty when we took this one.

The warm, sunny days had been spoiling me. It had to turn, and it did. Yesterday it snowed 4”-6” of fresh, powdery snow. The front deck, which had actually been showing wood as a surface rather than packed icy snow for the first time since November, was once again inundated with snow.

I got home, and was confronted with a wonderful sight. The Boy was clad in khakis, a white button down shirt, and a tie. After kissing The Mrs. hello, she noted, “The Boy has a question for you.”

The Boy: “Can we get the snowmachine out?”

These past few days it’s been warmer than the way that Tom Cruise felt about Mimi Rodgers, Nicole Kidman, Penelope Cruz, Katie Holmes, himself, so I don’t think that we have too many days left that we can pull the machine out. It has been known to snow in May in Fairbanks, (well, and every other month but July), but this might be the last chance to really cut loose. Since it’s a snowmachine and not a gravelmachine, I decided The Boy was right. Time to get going. Besides, how do you say “no” to a little tiny man wearing a tie?

The Mrs. had to leave, so that removed the option of going far from the house since The New Boy was happily asleep in there, dreaming of Yoda or whatever a ten-month-old dreams of. Carpet? Small plastic squeaky things? Oh, wait. Ours dreams of food, which would explain the gnaw marks on his crib slats.

Anyway, The Mrs. left, and The Boy and I jumped on the machine and headed . . . around the front yard. I tried going into the backyard, but the partially melted and consolidating three feet of snow got me stuck in the first turn. There are very few things less fun than getting a snowmachine unstuck in the presence of a five-year-old. “Why are we stuck? What are you doing? Is it broken? Why can’t we go?”

All the questions combined with the inability to curse great gaping gobs of profanity like the situation called for leads to a medical condition technically known as “frustratus fatherus,” the only known cures for which are beer or getting the snowmachine unstuck. A few million questions later, and we were back on the relatively well-packed snow in the front yard, and my beer could remain untouched until the weekend.

That led to a conundrum. The front yard, while larger than some entire subdivisions in California, allowed us only to get up a little bit of speed before I had to slam on the brakes and make a sliding turn and go the other way. As we did successive ovals, I realized how truly bored that NASCAR drivers have to be, “Hmm, this turn looks familiar. Like it did the last 300 times I made it.”

But, as luck would have it, we wore ruts in the snow. I began to increase speed. A few leftover hills of snow, slammed successively by the snowmachine began to form into respectable jumps, and the more we hit them, the steeper and better they became. Soon, on the backhand straightaway, the entire snowmachine was airborne. That will make a five-year-old squeal, as well as make his helmet impact yours with all the force of Russell Crowe’s rage.

After a bit, it was time to put the snowmachine away. The Boy complained bitterly as I went inside to do my taxes (I try to start them at least a day before they’re due).

“Play with me.”

I got inside and looked out the window at him trying to ride his bike in the snow. Okay. Forget the taxes for now. I figure if I mess something up, the IRS will send me a nice letter asking me gently to refigure them when I have time, right?



The Boy, on his way to learning things that will get him in trouble, come kindergarten. The Mrs. indicates that the penalty for snowballs in school is akin to a felony, since, you know, so many kindergarteners have been decapitated by snowballs.

Do taxes, or hit The Boy with a broadside of snowballs that would make a pirate captain go “Yaaaargh”?

Okay, that’s math that’s easier than a 1040.