Black Ice

Ice is at its best when it’s blended in a margarita.

It’s at its second-worst when it’s underfoot, robbing every earthbound creature of its traction and footing.

At its worst, of course, it’s on the wings and control surfaces of an aircraft, robbing the occupants of the most important of the four forces of flight: lift.

As a native Californian, I became intimately acquainted with the margarita variety of ice.  I hope never to learn about the aviation variety.

As a reluctant midwesterner, though, I’ve grown all too familiar with the underfoot and pavement-bound variety.  I’ve taken multiple unplanned trips to the ground because of it.  I have a right arm with which, even after three surgical procedures, I can lift but ten pounds following an encounter with a slick patch on a parking lot.  I’ve fallen straight backward onto my head and lain for a moment looking up at the actual and virtual stars swirling overhead, and realizing that it wasn’t my fault I was still alive.

We just had our first encounter with “freezing rain.”  We didn’t get as bad an encounter as folks further north did, but it’s coming.

Every year at about this time I ask myself the age-old question: why do people live here, anyway?

One Response to “Black Ice”

  1. Lill Sister Kathy says:

    Wow, Jim. I wonder everyday when I watch the weather reports, why any one would want to live there. We have been in the high 70′s and 80′s for the past 2 weeks. One day last week, it was actually to hot to work outside, so I made Norm do it. If it weren’t for those old Santa Ana winds this weekend would be beautiful!.

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