Even if the long-range weathÂer foreÂcasts call for "unseasonal snow and scatÂtered weepÂing" we all know winÂter is over, beÂcause April is nigh. So it's probÂaÂbly time to take down the ChristÂmas lights.
I'm sorry, but columÂnists are supÂposed to take controversial poÂsiÂtions. But there are othÂer things you need to do to usher in spring:
• GetÂting an acÂtuÂal carwash inÂstead of using the windÂshield-wipÂer fluÂid at the gas staÂtion, aka "redÂneck deÂtailÂing."
• Clean up the dog bombs, which should have deÂgradÂed by now. ReÂalÂly, what am I feedÂing RovÂer, PortÂland ceÂment?
• Call in a potÂhole on the Minneapolis 311 app, beÂcause you like to think alarm bells will go off, city employees will slide down poles, and they'll burst out of the shed with a pot of hot asÂphalt on wheels, bells clangÂing.
• But most of all: clean up the exÂtenÂsion cords in the yard.
There were lights on the bushÂes and the trees, which reÂquired long thick outÂdoor cords conÂnected to a cenÂtral multi-outÂlet pole, which was conÂnected to a timÂer, which was conÂnected to the outÂlet; when plugged in, half the dials at the Prairie Island nuÂclear plant went into the red. FesÂtive! So is burnÂing monÂey while you whisÂtle "JinÂgle Bells," but you have to do your part for holÂiÂday cheer.
Then came the snow, the ocÂcaÂsionÂal thaw, and the hard long freeze: the cords enÂtombed in solÂid ice. A few weeks ago I tried chipÂping them out, and was acÂtuÂalÂly hamÂmerÂing an ice chipÂper over the cords when I reÂalÂized I am strikÂing an eÂlecÂtriÂcal cord with a hard metal obÂject. This is how you creÂate storÂies with the line, "well, right beÂfore my heart stopped I noÂticed my toeÂnails had blown clear out of my boots," and then you're on YouÂTube, wonÂderÂing who the devÂil was filmÂing that?
So I stopped, and waitÂed for a few days. The sun came out. The Earth warmed. By FriÂday I could pull all the cords. All but one: the plug was pinned to thick floes of ice. I jerked the cord. Nothing. I thought: it's like winÂter itÂself was reÂfusÂing to let go, reÂfusÂing to adÂmit deÂfeat, reÂfusÂing to give up its grip on our world — a dyÂing act of spite. Hah! You're done, winÂter. You lose. You alÂways lose. I gave the cord a mightÂy tug.
The head snapped out of the ice, flew six feet, and hit me right beÂtween the eyes.
jlileks@startribune.com • 612-673-7858