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!