I hate the snow. It's hard to believe that a few years ago I would be happy to see it falling on the back porch of my parents' house. Snow was the mythical, magical stuff of transformation, at least until the dogs went out and turned it into a giant white, yellow, and brown exhibition piece. I always wished for a white Christmas. But now I can't even stand that cold, wet smell that blows out of the mountains in the middle of winter.
What could turn such a fantasy into the stuff of horror movies? What would ever drive me to pack my bags and haul ass to Florida forever? (Other than being a total hurricane nut?) I think my abhorrence to snow started with this incident in 1994.
My Dad and I were the first of our family to arrive in Nevada after our move. We made it to Reno just in time for the first snowfall of the year. Fortunately, our motel room had heat, and we were warm and toasty. We watched the giant lawn across the street turn white with freshly fallen powder. When the snow finally let up two hours later, we decided to go outside and enjoy the fruits of a fresh snowstorm.
First things first -- the inevitable snowball fight. As I was scooping my ammunition to ward off a flank attack from Dad's Army, I noticed little black and brown specks in the snowballs. Shrugging, I thought nothing of it and continued to chuck my frosty cannonballs at Dad. Most hit him dead on.
The frosty air had started making my throat sore and hoarse. Our clothes were getting cold and wet. But I still didn't want to go inside -- there was one thing I had always wanted to do in the snow.
As a young child, we had briefly visited the Sierras during the winter. For years I had heard my sister describe her snowman at Mount Rainier. I had wanted to make one too. However, when you are only four years old, it's hard to heave a huge snow knot up the hill, and no one came to help me. We left before I had the chance to even make Frosty's ass.
Ten years later, I faced the opportunity again. I found a nice, deep spot in the grassy area, and scooped out the traditional three balls. This was going to be great. It took a half hour to find all the snow, but finally I had built my first (and only) snowman.
The sky cleared just a little, shedding some welcome warm light on the park. Snow started to drip from trees, benches, and park signs. The light illuminated my creation.
"Where did you get the buttons?" asked Dad.
What buttons? I turned around and looked at Frosty. There on his front was a lopsided line of black and brown dots. Upon closer inspection, I discovered that there were more spots on the rest of the snowman. In fact, it was covered head to toe and back to front with the things.
I walked around the snowman, pondering these mysterious inclusions. How could I have missed them when I was making it? They were everywhere. Whatever they were.
Finally, I saw something on the back of the snowman and realized exactly what they were. Stuck to the snowman's ass was a rather large dog turd, about an inch wide and at least six inches long. It must have been made by a pit bull or something.
"Uh, Dad", I said slowly. "Maybe we should go in."
"Why?" he wondered.
What was I supposed to say to him? Hey Dad! I've been hitting you with shit bombs for the past half hour! Sure, that would work.
The sun came to the rescue at this point. Slightly uphill from us, near the sidewalk, was a sign. Snow slid from it to reveal the true horror of our situation:
"Pet Area. Please keep your dogs on a leash."
We were standing in the middle of Shit Central.
Suddenly our snowy afternoon lost its appeal. Dad examined his jacket and beard and discovered more of the brown clods. He was literally covered in dog shit. (Fortunately, I had been spared the shit shower. Dad's aim sucked and I was much quicker than him.)
Disgusted, we hurried out of the park to wash up. Dad went right into the shower to clean his dog friends off. I unwrapped myself from my jacket, scarf, and gloves, and turned on the local weather to see if this was our only storm of the week. The snow had given me a runny nose, so before I took off my jacket completely, I slipped my hand into one of the pockets, searching for my Kleenex. To my horror, I pulled out three poop nuggets. My pockets were full of shit!
I threw the jacket across the room, gagging on that morning's three-cheese omelet.
"Hurry up, Dad," I yelled. "I need to wash my hands!"
So there I sat with shitty hands for what seemed like an eternity. At that moment I started to wonder just what I had found so fun about snow.
Last winter, as I watched the dogs writing their names on the deck, I recalled this incident in great clarity. I realized with disappointment that I had missed the greatest opportunity in this crisis. I should have taken that six-incher off Frosty's ass and made it into his mouth.
-- The Shit Volcano
