Sap Picking and other Yooper Delicacies

I've been hearing about Yooper Bars for some time now, and I have to admit that every time they've been mentioned, I've had this image float through my mind of some granola-berry combination of weighty magnitude, hearty, rustic, as flavorful as the U.P. itself.

Today was the day. Yesterday evening one of my students triumphantly pounced in front of me, waving a mysterious looking flat package before my eyes. "Has anyone hit you yet?" She questioned, the prize still dangling in front of me from her fingertips. No, no one had and so on the condition that I would pay soon, she left it on my desk.

Sometime before lunch today my other students spotted it, and one sly fifth grader slunk over and made as if to pilfer it. But he was the same one who told the class later that they ought to watch me as I ate it, to see what transformation I would undergo. They couldn't all agree on what that transformation might entail. Yooper expressions? Yooper loyalties? But it was my eight grade wordsmith who put it in just the right manner. "Miss Knott," she said, allowing one giggle to escape, "This Yooper Bar will give you the ineffable desire to say 'yous guys.'"

I suppose the night is yet young and we shall see what the morrow brings. But at the moment, even after peeling and demolishing the melt in your mouth chocolate Yooper Bar, "yous guys" still sends shivers down my spine, shivers that not even the Yooper delight of "picking sap" would alleviate. I guess I'm just too used to collecting it--instead, I can imagine each transparent droplet, tremulously waiting at the end of the spout to be chosen and placed lovingly in a bucket, like a blueberry nestled amongst its fellows.

When Winter Comes in March

The excitement in my classroom Tuesday afternoon was apparent. My students had long ago informed me that a snowstorm was coming through our starkly barren region beginning that evening. And then there was the sly little comment from one of my seventh graders, slipping out after an instruction I had given about an assignment being due the next day. "If we have school tomorrow," she added, making me feel like the Grinch with a heart three sizes too small as I muttered to myself, "Pshaw. Fat chance that the wimpiest winter I've ever seen will begin now."

But that was Tuesday. Wednesday morning at 5:00 a.m. had me racing obsessively to the window every 10 minutes, gazing out at the wads of wet snow already packing up on my front step railings. My phone came with me everywhere. White cat bowie was allowed to use his litterbox instead of the customary morning trip out into the cold. And finally the call. My coworker housemate and I waltzed about the house, with difficulty finally settling down to take advantage of the much-needed snow day while gazing out our windows at the hill across the road, completely obliterated by blowing white.

So here's what else happens when winter surprises the U.P. in March:

Yoopers apparently don't like shovel marks. I get "yelled" at for hefting the ten inches of wet snow out of my driveway--and within minutes have a luxurious parking pad made by the school board chair's Cat.

I go poking around with my cross-country skis and find that the best trail is the one made by snowmobiles on the river--as long as one avoids the places where the trail disappears under water. . .

Sabbath morning, as I awaken to more snow, I hear the Cat next door removing it from the church parking lot. . . my house is next.

I bottom my truck out in my own driveway. I'm certain that I can hear the truck settle its wheels back on the ground as I chip away at the white mass beneath it.

Friday morning, as students begin to arrive, I'm sure I smell snowmobile exhaust, and the sheepish looks of three students tell me the rest of the story

I am so caught up and ahead after two snow days that I have time to blog!

Sammy Goes Off-Roading

You've met Sammy before--a little, white rear-wheel drive Toyota pickup with a paint-chipped hood, nearly 200,000 miles, and the faithfulness of having been in the family for about 9 years. Sammy's a good egg, albeit a little bit of a speckled one these days what with all the road muck sprinkled on his white shell from the winter roads.

This afternoon, however, Sammy wasn't so sure about listening to directions, even with the four big buckets of sand behind his wheelwells. He thought it was more fun to get a running start on the road and then to slide, his hands out in the air for balance, truck cap tape fluttering behind him, trailer hookups dangling.

He got to showing off a good deal, much to the chagrin of some folks, triumphantly calling out at one point, "Look, mom, no front wheels!" as he slid up a hill on the ice-glimmering road. With that, his front wheels indeed went all squirrelly and he himself did a curly-que that ended in an ungraceful faceplant into the juniper and snow filled ditch.

There just so happened to be passing by a couple fellows who were willing to haul him out and dust him off, none the worse for the wear, and who even kindly offered to follow him home lest he get into any more shenanigans on the way. So Sammy tried hard. He pointed his nose straight ahead. He hunched forward to tried to keep his wheels straight. But the shellacked road was just too temping. Off the road he went again in another face plant, finding snow in his nose after being hauled out the second time by his bumper.

This time Sammy decided to stay put. No more adventure. He pulled himself off the road into a little clearing and made ready to nap there, shutting off the shine of his eyes with sleepy eyelids and agreeing to wait out the ice long as necessary, just wishing he were tucked into his sheltering garage some five miles south.