Through high school and into the first couple years of college, I worked in greenhouses or landscaping.

Loved the work. Loved it so much that I stayed out of school two years between high school and college.

But for a guy, that kind of work is physical work, often mundane physical work.

So talk or imagination tended to fill the time.

There's only so much sex and girls you can talk or imagine, even as a teenager or 20-something.

So we sometimes ventured into philosophy and religion.

More often it was slumming in the moronic.

A favorite when digging tree holes on a 95-degree day was coming up with book names:
Easy Digging, by Sandy Soil. Hard Digging, by Clay Dirt.

Thought of those days today when the meathead and I pushed out our usual 1 1/2 miles.

The third of it around the town pond was in virgin snow. Mine were the first prints down. And it was a tough go into a good half foot of snow covered with about a half inch of iced crust.

Quite loud too.

By the back side of the town pond, I felt like I was doing a major cardio workout.

Who needs the East Bank Club? Not that I know anything about the East Bank Club, other than parking by there when I do my monthly head poke into the Sun-Times offices.

All I know about the East Bank Club is the times I park there I often see what a friend once characterized at a charity function as expensive women, coming and going, maintaining their value.

I digress.

So, from 35 or 40 years ago, a moronic thought came: Hard Ramblng, by I.C. Snow.

I wasn't particularly proud of myself, but it made me laugh and endure the slog through the crusted snow.

The doves were gone this morning. I imagine it is hard to feed through crusted snow.

No fresh tracks, other than dog tracks, showed in the snow. I am guessing rabbits and squirrels are light enough to run on top of the crust.

I crunched through with each step. Loudly. Crassly.