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?