Mulling things on my morning ramble with Storm, the family's mixed Lab.
It was a week for baseball. Well, at least thinking about it.
Why not, thoughts of baseball pull away from thoughts of recent weather.
So cold this morning, I pulled my heavy all-weather, RedHead goose-hunting coat out of the garage. That is so weather-proof I have laid out in snow in 0 degrees while hunting geese and been comfortable.
It is truly amazing how much hunting clothing has advanced in my lifetime.
Even in that top-end gear, the wind found crevices to pierce.
But thoughts of baseball are equally warming.
Early this week, my wife brought home the DVD of Trouble with the Curve. It made good viewing a winter's night, a decent enough baseball and/or family-relationship movie.
A few too many cliches to be a great movie, but solid enough acting to warm a night.
It brought back thoughts of my favorite romantic memory: Walking down Lincoln Avenue with an old girlfriend in the rain after seeing Bull Durham.
Now, there's a baseball movie. But it might be even more of a romantic movie than a baseball movie.
While I was thinking about those memories, I realized that was a freaking quarter century ago.
Ice mostly disappeared a few days ago and it really hasn't come back.
Despite the brutal cold, I was surprised by how much open water there was this morning on the town pond. I tested a couple spots on the north old clay pit and they were not safe. Although the meathead did run out easily enough. He certainly enjoyed it.
This was the kind of morning that the inner Labness of the meathead truly came out. He frolicked in the snow, sprinting wild-eyed crazily back and forth, snow puffing up behind his paws.
Apparently the Canada geese are surviving well enough. There was enough ruckus, that even though I was tucked deep inside the thick hood of the RedHead gear, I could hear them on the lake to the west.
If they get through today and tonight, they will have kept their hole on that lake open all winter. I think they can do it. That's been one of the stories about ice this winter all over.
Yesterday, more love and baseball. Well, more like sex and baseball.
I was discussing with my wife the story about Mark Grace going to jail. And we got to his exploits off the field in Wrigleyville. He was beloved and loved there.
And my wife, who lived on the North Side after college in that time frame when he was the Big Man in Wrigleyville (BMW), said she wished she had run around more there.
Well, let's just say, I am not the only man she has ever considered in life.
The conversation was an interesting enough window into my wife that I googled my favorite Mark Grace story--it involves a tramp stamp--and showed my wife. (Google it yourself in your mind drifts that direction.)
Grace lived a good life. I think he might be one of the last of his kind. Now, athletes are so serious about everything.
The ice cap on the south end of the south pit, which survived the wind, warm rain and record-heat earlier in the week, looked solid enough to walk this morning.
It was right on the edge. Later today or definitely by tomorrow, it will be walkable and fishable. I might have to give it another try. Might be the last weekend for ice fishing in our area.
The ice shanty, which the ice fishermen pulled to shore at the old boat launch before the big rains,, was locked frozen along the edge. I think the town pond rose enough to surround the lower end of it.
The bank clock read 4 degrees. My thermometer had -3. The truth is probably in between.
Hey, come to think of it, we are in the same month now as ``pitchers and catchers report.''