Greatest snowfall in Denver history

I lied.

It's a regular usual customary normal snowfall of any western state at any time of year including June. 

But you'd think it was historic by the way newsreaders talk.

"Oh, I remember the blizzard of '82."

     "You were stuck somewhere. Weren't you?"

"Yeah. First week of this job. I was stuck at the airport." 

Oh, shut up. Just stfu. You got nothing. 

That was the year that I returned from Hawaii having spent Thanksgiving there. Boy, could I tell you stories. 

     *squeaky ventriloquist voice* Tell us a story. 

No. 

     *squeaky ventriloquist voice*  Come on. Be a sport. Tell us a story.

 No.

     *squeaky ventriloquist voice*  Pretty please with sugar on top? 

"Okay, Squeaky, goes like this: There I was in Honolulu with a friend. Another friend from Aspen greeted us at the airport and gave us each a lei. Just like in the movies. Those things are made with real flowers and they're actually kind of heavy. They make you feel totally stupid wearing one.

And then at the hotel room you watch them die an agonizing ugly death. Get that f'k'n thing outta here.

Went to the beach. Waikiki in Honolulu. I could have bought pot at least five hundred times. Waikiki is extremely pot-oriented and I look exactly like the usual customer. One of constant flow of thousands each day. They were on me like flies on ... no wait, on me like white on rice. No wait. On me like eager drug dealers at a Hawaiian beach on a male twenty-year-old vacationing haole. That's exactly what it was like.

Immediately I encountered people I know from Denver. This was not planned. We had no idea each other was doing the same thing.

Now our Denver group is expanded unexpectedly and delightfully those new people encountered even more Denver travelers that the rest of us knew tangentially. Within hours we ended up a group of Denver travelers of some eighteen or so people. 

Later a portion of us went in to a bar that turned out to be owned by an alcoholic crackpot working behind the bar. A lesbian lady who f'k'n adored me. I mean it. She lavished me with free drinks that I could not possibly consume. She marked her free drink customers with a Wobble toy. The toys that cannot fall down. Perfect for drunks. These little wobble toys were in front of all of us wobbling around. I think I bought one drink but ended up with ten. Something ridiculous. I cannot drink. So I sipped one drink all through the night as my friends regaled her with stories. 

"What are you guys doing for Thanksgiving?" 

     "Nothing."

"Oh no. Oh no. No. No. No. You're coming here. I will fix you guys a Thanksgiving dinner. All you guys. Bring the friends that you know. You're all coming here. I will have everything prepared. I haven't done this in years. I've wanted to do this a long time. I'm going to retire soon. This is my chance. You guys are giving me the opportunity to do what I wanted for years. Please. Come here. I will have everything prepared for you. For all of you. Bring the people you mentioned. All of you come here." 

How could we refuse?

I didn't want to do this. Everyone else did want to do this. Guess who won?  

She already showed us that she is alcoholic. What are we to expect? We expected the alcoholic worst. 

But what the heck. Let's go back there and experience disaster.

All the rest of the people agreed to meet there. We all had nothing to lose. They each agreed. We were all prepared for disaster and satisfied that nothing good could come of this. We all had suitable plan B and plan C to take up where the disaster left off. There are plenty of other things to do in Hawaii especially during Thanksgiving. We'll all go to her bar on Thanksgiving just to see what she comes up with.

She closed her bar. 

The day was devoted to us. 

A room in the back that we did not know about was set up to accommodate twenty or so guests. She had brought out her family service pieces. Elaborate antique silver filled a very long table. The table was decorated expertly with Hawaiian-style/Thanksgiving-style cornucopia. Tall white tapers along the length of table that one does not expect in constantly warm Hawaii. White tablecloth the whole length. Chairs assembled from various sets. 

She went out of her way to produce a beautiful setting.

She presented a full-on Thanksgiving production. I've never seen anything like it. She came through like a champ. Like a professional. And she did all this nearly invisibly. She was present only briefly. Her joy came from her doing all this for us, not from being part of our party. That is, she did not participate in our activity. Rather, she disappeared. Exhausted, no doubt. We have no idea how she managed all that. Turkey and ham as I'm recalling it, gravy, mashed potatoes, yams, green beans, pumpkin pie, homemade cranberry sauce, regular tossed green salad, wine, cocktails, and Coca Cola for some special someone. 

At the end of a very fine meal we toasted her and gave her standing ovation and she ... wait for it ... wait for it ...  cried.

She made our Thanksgiving. She made a spectacular Thanksgiving for each of us. And apparently we made hers. 

Time to leave.

Flying back, I'm recalling now, two of us had layover at LAX. A very brief switch of airplanes. Passing through the terminal we encountered two friends who were at that spectacular Thanksgiving  dinner and had left a day earlier. Their flight was cancelled due to blizzard in Denver. Due to bizarre airline scheduling that precludes messing up schedules following schedules messed up by blizzards, our schedule went like clockwork while they were still struggling to get home. We passed them at LAX.

Sorry, Suckers. 

Boy, did I ever feel happy.

I meant to say guilty just now. Freudian slip. 

Back home in Denver, it really did blizzard. The extension built out from the porch that turned the porch into a solarium *whispers* was not exactly to code. And the roof was loaded with snow. 

A friend of mine noticed the roof over that extension was sagging a bit. Noticeably. He brought over his skis to use them to knock the snow off the roof. This is the person who taught me to ski. He is the strongest skier I've ever seen. He locks in his legs, tucking one knee into the back of the other and transforms into a cannonball down the slopes. Where every other skier goes "s-s-s-s" ski trail daintily down the slope, Myre goes hard "C" ski trail. BAM! in your face. He is power-skier. He's scary. He'll ski right over your stupid face. Slice off your ears.

Luckily, he's nice.

But there he is now on top of my roof. It's a one-story building so not that high. And the snow below nearly reaches the roof edge. He decides to ski off the roof. 

Good Lord. 

The man is going to break his bones just to be absurd. Just to have fun with this blizzard. He has fun where everyone else experiences trial and tribulation.

"Get your camera." 

"Goddamnit. He's really going to do this."

I'll find that photo and scan it, but right now I'm too lazy. From my pov it's historic. That is historic blizzard. 

Not being stuck at the airport first week on job, a thing so exciting the newsreader recounts it while reporting an ordinary Denver snowfall. What a dope.

Here's what he should be reporting. How Denver streets are not snowplowed when the city's mayor is Democrat. And how that's glossed over because the mayor is Democrat. How easily non-plowed streets are explained and accepted when the city mayor is Democrat. 

And when the city mayor is independent or state governor is Republican how the streets are plowed constantly during the storm, over and over again throughout the storm, and continuously thereafter, nothing but the sound of street plows throughout the night and all day,  main streets, side-streets, neighborhood streets, continuously while snow is on the ground and until it all evaporates, but only when the city mayor is Republican. 

There is a huge obvious difference there that goes unreported. On purpose. I haven't heard a single snowplow. There is near zero traffic. Zero sound of traffic. Not a single person outside. And the street that I see is still covered. As if we've experienced debilitating historic blizzard when all we've had is a regular snowstorm. Newsreaders, just bite me.

I wondered why people were so obnoxious last night. 

They were listening to newsreaders predict historic snowstorm. In their minds they are in it. They actually listen to newsreaders. 

Deena caught me. 

I am now instructed to bring some kind of side dish.

"How do I get to your place?" 

     "We're doing it here. Upstairs."

"Oh. Well. That makes it easy to find. That changes everything." 

I don't feel like cooking anything. 

I just don't. 

I've been looking through thousands of food-related photographs. Handling the photographs all over again. I've got pie-pictures coming out of my ears. I look at the times when I cared. I'm forced to look back at the things that I did. My old self surprises my new self. I don't even know that younger guy. He is a different person. My soul is his soul but he is entirely different. 

How can my soul have continuity when the body it inhabits changes so much?

Come on, Soul, answer me!

I don't give a f about pies.

I hereby resolve to connect with my earlier self. To give my soul continuity in this life.

I am instructed to make sweet potatoes. 

As I do.

And I think this time I'll make them as pie. 

Seeing those pictures of earlier pie crusts makes me want to do that again. 

Here's what I'll do.

Make a pie crust. 

Make it artistically. 

Use the pie dough to create more decorations for the top. Create holes in the top so the filling bubbles through and extra crust embellishments for an artistic presentation. 

I'll do this to please myself. 

To reconnect with my soul.

I will leave this all up to my soul. Give it full rein. 

Then the pie filling, eh, the usual thing. 

I invented this when I was twenty. 

I was invited to one of Joe's parties. He told me to bring sweet potatoes. 

I didn't know how to cook. I dolled them up with orange juice and orange zest. Raisins and such. Brown sugar. I kept tasting and something important was missing. Cinnamon. Clove. They had the flavor I wanted but they lacked something important. 

I didn't know what I was doing.

I tasted. Thought. Tasted. Thought. Tasted. Thought. Over and over. Finally *ding* butter. 

They need butter!

Omg, that changes everything. 

Lesson 1: always add butter.

Butter, butter, butter, butter, butter, butter, butter, butter, butter, butter. 

It fixes everything. 

You cannot go wrong with pineapple. Orange chunks. Raisins, cranberries, figs, dates, dried apricots. Load the sweet potatoes with extraneous crap. Sugarcoat the whole thing with brown sugar. Give it body with butter. Encase it in fabulous flakey crust. 

Flake, flake, flake, flake, flake, flake, flake, flake, the whole thing falls apart as you eat it. 

Art is destroyed by eating it. 

Of all the people I met last night, all the jerks on the road squeezing in front of me. Like rush hour in blizzard, all those people hastening in blizzard preparation, the shoppers gone nearly insane, all the contrarians who cannot even manage a simple conversation without initiating an argument, the most interesting person was the checkout guy at Sprouts. Now there was an interesting fellow. He is charming. Communicative. And fast as blazes. Efficient. He has your things all bagged up before you can enter your PIN.