Headwaters Wordsmithing

Writing for the actor, singer, and reader.

Birthed in the Northwoods of Wisconsin,  Headwaters Wordsmithing creates screenplays, lyrics, and books with an emphasis on faith in God...and a minor emphasis on coffee.  Make yourself at home.

They Said It Was Coming...

Sometimes you believe stuff and sometimes you don't.  Remember the Y2K deal - The Millennium Bug?  All the computers crash and it's back to Mad Max and anarchy?!

Or how about, (I'm dating myself here), the lasting impact of the Nehru jacket on the world of fashion?  Or the Beatles being more popular than Jesus?

Yeah.  Don't believe everything you hear.  But in this case, Channel 12 was right.

And fortunately we believed it.

Sunday was supposed to be the winter day that makes people of means by retirement condos in the deep South and those who can't think about eating their young..

Saturday found TechnoBoy bringing in more wood.  He filled the designated spot in the storage room.  Then the Wife had him fill the boot & shoe area by the back door.  And the bin by the woodstove.  And then some more available crannies in the storage room.

If the house would've caught fire that day it would've burned for a month.

I went out and widened all the paths that crisscrossed the yard.  This feat rivaled the wanderings of the Children of Israel through the desert of Sin - in a micro sort of way.

There was the path from the house to the shed.

From the house to the good wood pile.

From the house to the not-so-good woodpile.

From the gas meter at the back of the house to the electric meter to the backdoor.

From the backdoor past the birdfeeders to the driveway.

From the front door to the driveway and then I wheezed inside for a cup of the Elixir to contemplate the concept of robbing a bank and going South for the winter.

The Wife went to the store and stocked up.  She got the necessities and some fun stuff -.snacks, chips, popcorn - that would take the edge off of being stuck in the house with the family for an extended period of time.

Never underestimate the ability of a corn dog to keep one from eating its young.

And so we were ready.

Phlegm the Taurus was filled with gas and pointed toward the street, its tail into the northwest wind.  The van, too, had a full tank and slumbered near the front door.

That afternoon was in the upper teens and sunny, so we went to Saturday Church at sunset and were back rummaging for dinner by 6:30.

We went to bed that night and slept peacefully, knowing we've done our part.

And sure enough, Sunday arrived to live up to its frozen prediction.  TechnoBoy wrapped himself and his desk chair in a blanket and did computer stuff.  I was hunkered on the sofa, burrowed chin deep under the Chain O'Lakes comforter watching the NFL playoffs, crawling out from under once an hour to stoke the valiant little woodstove.  The Wife was reading a book at the kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket, drinking hot beverages, and muttering to herself.  She was already into the corndogs.

Glad we bought that jumbo pack.

Monday morning I stumbled outside and staggered toward Phlegm the Taurus.  Phlegm was not happy.  And it let me know it.

When Phlegm is ticked off it sounds like a swearing contest between Chewbaca and R2D2.  And then there's that  high, strained growling, like a flock of Chihuahuas on a steak.

I soothingly patted its frosted dash and then bolted for the house.

Forty-five minutes later, I came back out, got in the saddle, and rode Phlegm to work, stopping briefly at Mickey D's to grab some morning manna and a bad cup of coffee.  Coming out of the parking lot I saw the scrolling marquee of the bank across the street.

21 below.


A quarter mile down the road I passed the electronic sign for the well-drilling company.

20 below.

Well, the sign was a quarter-mile farther south than the bank's.  That would explain it.  Or computer error.

The third pull of coffee had me siding with the computer.  I didn't have the faith to believe that the town 27 miles to the south was currently at a sweltering 97 degrees.

Yeah.  Nothing screws up a good hypothesis like the facts.

During the half-hour excursion over frozen concrete, I realized that things could've been much worse if we hadn't prepared for the cold.

And we prepared because we believed what Channel 12 was telling us.

Huh.  I polished off the dregs of Ronald's bitter brew as a thought fought its way into my head.

He told us that He's coming back.  And that things would get worse.  But don't be afraid.

Be ready.  Be aware.  Be faithful.

And have hope in Him.

Yeah.  We believe that...and that's what keeps the craziness at bay.

That...and the occasional box of corndogs.

All content copyrighted by Dennis R. Doud. Website designed by Isaac Doud.