Winter keeps rearing its ugly head

By Jack Elliott
Correspondent

The group crowded around the debating table Saturday morning at the Bakery in Drizzle Creek were in an ugly mood. The dusting of snow that greeted them on the May 2 morning was enough to depress the most optimistic as cabin fever once again reared its ugly head.
“If it doesn’t warm up pretty soon, the potato crop could fail and we’ll all starve,” opined Moose who had just returned from his annual turkey trot along the breaks of the Missouri River.
“Did you bring back a turkey or did you get skunked again,” asked Pickle looking desperately for some evidence that Moose actually possessed some hunting prowess.
“And I don’t mean one of those cryovaced birds from the supermarket,” he added as he looked for his order of toast. Moose ignored him as usual.
Just then Spiker staggered in the door and pulled another chair up to the table. Smoke was gently wafting from charred spots on his jacket and a pickled scent filled the air while a number of holes were evident in his jeans and a few splotches on his face telegraphed a recent disaster.
“Whatever happened to you?” managed Pieter Pychuk injecting a sense of concern into the air of depression.
“Battery blew up,” offered Spiker as he slapped at the remaining smouldering spots on his jacket and massaged his face to ease the burnt splotches.
“Battery on the bike was dead, so I switched out the one from the snow machine and it was dead too. Then I ripped one out of the 4- wheeler. It was dead as well. So was the lawnmower and the trolling motor,” explained Spiker as heads nodded all round the table at the rational of switching out every battery on every piece of rolling stock on the estate before taking the plunge and buying a new one.
”So I gave ‘er a boost with the charger and I cranked the voltage up good. Kerblam! Took the windshield out of the wife’s car and crippled that stray dog, but no serious damage,” he continued as he ordered up a substantial breakfast.
“So how’d you get down here?” wondered Herman as he craned his head taking in Spiker’s bike parked at the curb.
“Pulled the battery out of the motor home,” said Spiker as he tucked into a jelly donut just to prime his appetite for the breakfast on order.
Full breakfasts, I must point out, are only available at the Bakery on Saturdays. Our weekly collective cholesterol quota is filled at one sitting.
“A motorhome battery won’t fit into that hog,” snorted Pychuk as he raised his knife and fork in preparation for the delivery of his breakfast platter.
“Strapped in on the back seat with a bungie cord and some duct tape. It’ll do until I find one on sale,” explained Spiker ever conscious of the need to innovate and economize.
Silence settled over the table as platters were delivered and the serious business of eating was only interrupted with requests for more coffee, ketchup, pepper, and the group,s favourite spice- salt.
An hour later, the gathering had finished discussing the merits of every battery ever produced and individual tallies of batteries exploded. The lowest score was 7. Finally the congregation arose in unison with last minute ride assignments completed.
Ride assignments? For a battery buying expedition? No. This was the day of the annual gun show in the Bailiwick. There were firearms to swap and more lies to be told.
Preparation time for the hunting season is running short. There will be no time to do it once the fishing season commences.
As lawnmowers and boats are fired up over the next two weeks, there should also be a strong market for replacement batteries, burn ointment, and new windows.