As I felt the wind this past week, that made me have to get up and check out the window for flying witches on bicycles, it prompted random thoughts in the wind. Lofty gusts, actually, that really have no definitive answers. I was traveling through the delightful selection of weather called “driving sleet” last week in southern Wyoming and decided to use my seat warmer. My first question would have to be the use of the word, “sleet.” It’s partially snow and partially ice, so someone for whatever reason came up with “sleet.” Not me. Not now. Not ever. I was driving through “slice.” And, however you want to “slice” it, it made me hate all the people who lived in a warmer climate because their word “slice” is associated with pleasant things, like pie or cheese or zaa. (pizza for those of you who aren’t associated with the current trend of believing that everything has to now be spoken in a language called “abs” – short for abbreviations. Geh ih?)

Now, the seat warmer is usually reserved for wives and the kids because I am too much of a “manly man” to consider turning it on, but while I was driving through that little “slice” of heaven last week, I decided to try it out.

I learned things. That learning experience left me with questions and a heat rash. For instance, there are three settings on my seat warmer. I assume they are low, medium and high, although there are no labels – only graphics appearing on my dashboard. I have since named those settings. I have added orange duct tape and bold, black, sharpie labeling to avoid future injury.

Low was pleasant. I rather enjoyed it but won’t admit that in a public setting of “manly men.” It’s just not something you talk about. The second setting, I have renamed “baked ham” due to the intense heat I was sitting upon and because I smelled bacon as I was driving. The third setting was undoubtedly only to be used north of the Arctic Circle or as an illustrated training session for those who are planning on going to Hell and may have an innate curiosity to experience the heat levels that may be found in those nether regions.

I tried to put my hand underneath me to afford some instant relief and now must explain to everyone how I got that unique waffle print on the palm of my hand. So, yeah, driving here in Wyoming, my new relocated state of mind, has been, interesting to say the least.

Now, it’s not that I can’t handle the cold, because I have a dad who was born on the border of Canada and North Dakota and a mom who was born in Eveleth in the midst of the Mesabi Range. So, I consider myself born to the breed. I also did a two-year stint in Duluth. My teeth still chatter when I say the name of that town out loud.

I can remember walking out of that northern house when the wind chill was down to a balmy 60 degrees below zero. Again, why they have terminology when it gets that cold is beyond me. At that point, they should just say, the temperature is paralysis. Plain and simple. If you go venturing out IN it, paralysis. Period. It’s that kind of weather where your brain locks itself inside of your cranium and holds your speech hostage until Spring.

Oh, most likely there are lots of other windy thoughts that will provoke questions. Questions such as, “where do the second socks go that you KNOW you placed in the dryer?” We had one of those. We called it the tax dryer because you’d put everything into it and get half back out of it. On good days we were tempted to use Holy water and call a Priest. 

All in all, I can say that it’s wonderful to be in Wyoming. They call it the land of yippie ki oh ki yay. A place where you can almost hear Garrison Keillor bragging on his hometown of Lake Wobegon and occasionally hear some Whoopee John Wilfahrt playing the Wyoming polka amid the static on late night radio.

It brings back memories of watching the Northern Lights and hearing a lonely or misguided loon out on a secluded lake. A lake, like, for instance, Superior. As in, Duluth/Superior. A lake where you can watch the boat come through on Memorial Day.

Yes. The boat. You know which boat. The USS Coast Guard’s icebreaker. Oh, and of course all dem udder boats stuck in da ice way up dare in nordern Minahsoda. Ahhhh, no place like home.

I’ve stopped complaining about our western “slice.”