I think old man winter is getting lazy. He used to run across the Canadian border in November and start freezing the ponds and lakes. Before you knew it, the old coot was piling snow on our roads, and siphoning heating oil out of our tanks. 

Maybe it’s his age that is finally catching up with him. He’s getting on in years, and just can’t move as fast as he once did. It could be that knee of his, the one the doctor wants to replace, is giving him trouble. Or perhaps his snowmobile is stuck in the muck of thawing tundra somewhere near the Arctic circle. Whatever the reason, I’m glad he’s not as fast as he used to be. 

Fact is: I wish he was dead. There I finally said it, and I’m not afraid of him anymore. That old codger made my life so hard, I would be happy to pull the plug and put him in the grave.  

That old man was so mean to us, that most folks would call it abuse. Like the time when I was installing a window, and froze my face so bad I couldn’t talk. Or, that time our driveway got so drifted in, that my daughter came running out of her room in the morning insisting our car was stolen. He probably thought it was funny, but the poor kid is still in therapy. 

Yes, I’d pull the plug; truth is, I’d pull the trigger. I know, I know, I’m not supposed to have all these spiteful thoughts about anyone. But let me tell you something, if Mother Theresa lived where I used to live, even she would be thinking about poisoning that old man’s soup. 

But, just to be nice, I would do the funeral for free. I would dress up in my flip-flops and flowered shirt and learn to use that syrupy, and insincere professional pastoral voice, with just hint of twang thrown in for theatric effect. I would say something like: 

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to commit the body of old man winter to the earth. Let’s not pretend to be sad, nor shed a single tear. Let’s be honest with ourselves and admit that he was one miserable son-of-a-season, and we’re all glad he’s dead. Now let’s go eat some potato salad. Amen. 

I will probably regret writing all these unkind things about him. But that’s the problem with the written word, Twitter, and Facebook. Once you write it or post it, you can’t take it back. I will just have suffer the consequences next time I run into him. 

Make no mistake about it, he’s a vindictive sort, and probably one of the only people, other than Andrew Cuomo and Michael Bloomberg; who actually read my column. So right now he’s undoubtedly sending out one of his cronies to hunt me down and discover our hideout. 

Understand, that it was almost a decade ago that my family and I entered the winter protection program. It was back in the first days of the global warming revolution, when I became an informant, and testified before congress about the depravations suffered by those living inside his borders.  

However, in the interest of unbiased journalism, the reader needs to know that I was also implicated in a plot (that I might add, was never proven) to accelerate the earths warming by the use of some controlled fluorocarbons, and the burning of some used tires in a brush burning protest.  

Anyway, after some bargaining and negotiating we were relocated to a warmer climate. Over the years we’ve grown accustomed to wearing sunglasses, and do our best to blend into our more genteel, and gentle climate.  

I know he’s still around; because a few days ago that old man wrapped his lips around our chimney, and sucked the wood right out of our stove. Some of our acquaintances way down in Florida, told us that some of his punks spray painted their windows with frost last night. 

Sadly, the expert prognostications about his death seem to be premature. But I’m mighty happy he is slowing up some.  

Jeff Ells’ book, “Ruth Uncensored” is available on Amazon, Kindle, and Nook.