The Wisconsin & Illinois Truce of February & ’07.

Imagine this: A half day of school on Friday. Then, the weekend. Then Lincoln’s Birthday on Monday: No School. And, then, waking up Tuesday to 40 mph winds and 6-12 inches of snow: Snow day. Grace upon grace. My kids’ joy spilled over onto the front yard into tunnels and forts and pirate flags. And, it makes a man want to be charitable. Except he has to shovel.

I’ve always thought Illinois winters were rather nancy-pants in comparison to the winters I grew up with in central Wisconsin. The atmospheric conditions of northern Illinois being the armpit of the Midwest. But this January and February, Illinois has been showing her stones in the meteorological department. Weeks of sub-zero temps and foot-deep snow that sticks around for weeks. It has felt lately like, well…Wisconsin. Good Lord, I can’t believe I’m saying this.

I have spent the better of 16 years here in northern Illinois defending Wisconsin against the attacks of wounded Bears fans. OK, this is not a difficult outpost to fortify. The enemy’s pea shooter volleys usually come against God’s country in one of two or three ways:

“Those dirty Packers.”
“Ha. Ha. You said ‘bubbler’, ‘hotdish’, etc.”
“Geez-o-Pete, why do you guys label your county roads with letters? Like ‘WW’?”

And, when they want to bring out the big guns: “Cheesehead!” Did I say pea shooter? I meant cap gun.

Anyway, I will not go down like this. Not even to a winter broadside. Donning my union suit, shovel in hand, I trudge out into the battlefield: My driveway.

I like the idea of shoveling. I don’t like shoveling, but I like the idea of it. The idea of “real work” with my hands (I don’t do much of that in my line of work). And, I like the idea of visually completing a task (I don’t do much of that in my line of work, either). So after a few well-aimed thrusts of the shovel blade, I find myself dramatically stretching out my back, now kicking the slush build-up off the mud flaps of the Subaru. And, it’s at that point my neighbor--obviously an Illinoisan--comes up with his truck and plow, and says, “Want me to pull the snow out?” My eyes narrow and my pulse quickens. My grip tightens around the shovel. Play it cool, man: “How much are you charging?”

“Nothing.” What is he trying to pull here? Keep your hand on your shovel, boy. Let him see you know how to use it.

“Yeah? Are you sure?” Look for any cracks in his composure.

“Yeah.” Ingenious. The Trojan Snow Plow.

“Then I’d love to have you plow us out!” What the devil am I saying?!?

And then he did it. He plowed us out.

And, did I mention, another neighbor came with his snow blower and blew out the end of the driveway when we got 12 inches on December 1 of ‘06? Can you believe it? These are Illinoisans. I am not kidding.

It was on February 13 of ‘07 that I decided to stop using my shovel for digging foxholes against my friendly Illinois brothers. Instead I would use it to build bridges. OK, I am kidding about that. I was not going to go that far. Besides who would make a bridge out of snow? In any case I had been disarmed, and I would call a truce. I would begin to see the possibility of good in the people of Illinois.

Of course there is Abraham Lincoln, the great Commander-in-Chief and emancipator. But, how long can one state play that trump card? OK, they still can, and they should. Besides my Snow Removal Neighbors, there are other good Illinois people in my community. My kids for one. Or, two. They were born in Illinois, which is still hard to admit. But, they are natives, and I like them.

Besides Abraham Lincoln, my Snow Blowing Neighbors, and my kids, there is my son’s barber, Windy. There are two beautiful things about Windy. One is that he only gives two types of haircuts: the “Little Boy Haircut”, and then the one he gives to everyone else, which looks remarkably like the “Little Boy Haircut”. Yet, he wields his combs and clippers with great flair, moving about my son’s head like a snake charmer. And, at the end of each haircut he conjures up a piece of bubble gum, and with sleight of hand shows the parent for approval before presenting it to the child. The second beautiful thing about Windy the Barber is that he has alopecia. Alopecia is a disorder where hair growth is difficult or impossible. So, in Windy’s case he has no hair—scalp, eyebrows, eyelashes. I’m enthralled; A man that ministers to the hair needs of others when he cannot grow any of his own. And, he is from Illinois. We saw a sign in his window this week: “Windy has retired after 52 years.” We will miss him.

The sixth good person that I have found from Illinois, my friend Wendell, told me something about where we live. Wendell was a history and social studies teacher before he retired. And, he knows everything about gardening, so I tend to believe what he says, despite his state residency. He told me, “You know, Kyle, the Wisconsin state line used to extend just south of where we live.” I had that usual eye narrowing and pulse quickening I’ve experienced from dealing with other Illinoisans. What is he trying to pull here? But, I figured, if what he’s saying is true about Wisconsin creeping like a glacier, or a receding hairline, into Illinois at one point in history, it explains a lot about Abraham Lincoln, and Windy the Barber, and the three or four other good people I have met so far in the Prairie State. I would then extend my truce to at least February 15. I will keep you abreast of my historical and territorial findings, and of the peace process.

If, on the other hand, he was not telling the truth, truces are easily broken and my trusty shovel is at the ready.