Finding Excitement In Winter Is Elusive

Winters are long, cold and dark here in the Spokane Valley, especially in my Ponderosa neighborhood where Browne Mountain cheats us out of a good 45 minutes of daylight each afternoon.

The fleeting December thrill of anticipation of Christmas decays into the January malaise with seemingly endless days of demolition derby commutes to our jobs, rewarded by inevitable gloaming rations of boredom.

The options for evening entertainment are the usual lot. Forty or more channels of “must snooze through” TV or perhaps reading novels, which is satisfying at least until the eyes weigh like anchors.

My wife is faithfully handy with opportunities for catching up on those indoor “honey do” projects that I’ll never touch when the weather finally turns warm.

We need something spectacular and stupendous to light that flame under our backsides until the outdoor ecstasy of springtime returns. Groundhog Day just did not cut it this year!

On Super Bowl Sunday, I came as close to such an event as one can in this humble and isolated Shangri-La we call the Spokane Valley.

I broke down after three weeks of letting the crowds subside and checked out the new Albertson’s at Highway 27 and 32nd Avenue.

As I scouted the situation from my perch at the traffic lights that overlook this 21st century bazaar, I noticed a conspicuous absence of glaring searchlights sweeping the skies. Nor were there mobs of star crazed groupies and limousines delivering fur- and diamond-clad celebrities to the front doors. Leeza Gibbons and John Tesh were not live and in person for an Entertainment Tonight special presentation.

I was to observe later that neither the courtesy clerks, checkout personnel nor the ubiquitous food sample demonstrators deployed at every turn were painted in skintight sequined gowns with plunging necklines.

Such disappointment on a drab winter’s Sunday afternoon.

There did seem to be lots of us good old plain folk milling about.

Evidently, the preeminence of the NFL’s super extravaganza had failed to register its calling on quite a few of us ambivalent football infidels.

In spite of a craftily engineered and efficiently short shopping list of milk and frozen dinners intended for an effortless weekend meal, I sensed a dull yet unrelenting exhilaration as I breached the threshold of this vast warehouse of opportunity.

I quickly resigned myself to rapidly execute an unwelcome reconnaissance mission through the incredibly clever and progressive - i.e., non-standard - layout of aisles.

I kept firmly in mind that if I hugged the right at all times that I would eventually conquer this mad grocer’s labyrinth and emerge at the exit. (Friends, be sure to avail yourselves of Maze Survival 101 at your local community college before landing for this safari.)

There was one remarkable sight that made an everlasting impression. There was this young fellow walking ahead of me pushing a trolley of boxes. The back of his shirt quickly locked itself into my gaze with its hypnotic message, printed in billboard size letters.

“Up Yours,” it taunted.

I suppose I should have been thrilled at the opportunity to relive the raucous sense of humor I once knew as a 15-year-old.

Lord knows my kids roll the floors at a hearty Adam Sanders sophomoric assault to adult sensibilities.

But I’ve been 15 three times already and I guess the joke has just lost its zing.

It turned out to be a vendor of a national brand name soft drink stocking the aisle heads with his product. The front of the shirt implored, “Make 7.”

My fault for reading this character from the wrong end first. Now there’s a million-dollar ad campaign, hey?

Yep! Winter is long here in Paradise.

Now, where’s my remote control?