Issue: April, 2008
Author: Sleeter C. Dover
Printable Version (PDF)
Executive Director's Report
Any sign of spring?
Okay, I give! Uncle! Or whatever epithet or adjective that I can bring to bear, I will readily provide in order to see this wind-blown, snow-covered, deep-freeze, dark and dreary winter move on to miserable winter history!
Is it just me or have we returned “back to the future” to only find out that the future is the ghost of winters past? Please tell me we have finally seen the last of those “on-site” weather reporters huddled against a howling wind on blurred white-out screens promising blue skies and rising temperatures, only to have them resurface a few days later with “updates” of the same storm that just simply refuses to move on out of the area?
Oh, and another thing! What in the H, E, double hockey sticks ever happened to global warming?! Has global atmospherics and futuristic natural phenomena prognostications been left in the hands of “weather reporters” also? Is there nothing we can get right in this country anymore? Is natural science still “natural?” Is it “natural” to make snow men in Dallas? Atlanta? Jacksonville? What’s next? Surfing Powder River?
I feel much better now. Nothing like a good old fashioned rant about this time of year to get fired up for warm, sunshiny days ahead! Surely. Maybe? Hopefully! Perhaps I have kind of taken this “March Madness” business literally.
Speaking of which, I suppose basketball March Madness was put on this earth specifically in aid of winter-weary freakatoids like myself as a bridge to The Masters. Now, I considered adding “golf tournament” after The Masters, but for an old southerner like me, having to add golf tournament after The Masters borders on the sacrilege. It is fairly well established that The Masters is not a golf tournament; it is THE golf tournament. And we all know full well that thereafter, summer will quickly follow. It’s the law! Isn’t it? Well it should be!
While I am at it, you should know that as I write this, the real deal March Madness is rapidly approaching and moving inexorably towards what should prove to be a truly climactic finish. Alas, I must also report that the news out of Las Vegas on this day has added a somewhat bleak veneer to all of our anticipated “shining moment” for our beloved U.W. Cowgirls. Again, we find ourselves in the precarious position of having to sweat out the next few days in anticipation of what the NCAA selection committee determines is the final fate of Cowgirl basketball this year. In the spirit of “time capsule” type accuracy, you can now critique my earlier “bracket buster” prediction for this years college hoops wars. Not that I was biased or anything towards my southern roots -- well maybe just a bit -- but I bravely predicted and picked as my “Cinderella” for this years NCAA Tournament, a little college some 18 miles north of Charlotte, North Carolina. There, nestled in the green southern pine forest, you will find Davidson, North Carolina, home of the Davidson College Wildcats of the Southern Conference. Time has now told if I came out looking like a sage as the tournament moved toward the final four, or if I hitched my wagon to a pretending “wanna be” fallen star.
But hold on, free advice is flowing from me today like the Snake River. Or maybe the Green River, should your thoughts turn like mine to a peaceful day unsnarling fly fishing line from the unexpected Green River riverbank vegetation that I was told did not exist in Wyoming. Now I appreciate a good joke just as much as the next guy, but what is it that prompts folks to misguide poor unsuspecting novice fly fishermen such as myself ? Why I was even encouraged to try my fly fishing luck here in Cheyenne on nearby Crow Creek. For the uninitiated, I just barely found Crow Creek itself and found neither fish nor water in it. Of course, having been through a lifetime of the rigors of male bonding rituals, I have come to accept the necessity and inevitability of these knee-slapping indoctrination episodes, so I move on to the next unforeseen embarrassing duplicitous humiliation with good humor and grace. I do, however, remain ever vigilant for the promised “every dog has his day” day, when perhaps I might even be able to partake in such frivolity from the elevated position of the “joker” as opposed to always seeming to be the woebegone “jokee.”
A gentle warm wind rustles leftover dry leaves outside my window now, and as I gaze expectantly towards the west, my hopes and dreams conjure up images of spring showers that lead inevitably to spring flowers. I am exhilarated just imagining the potential laying just beyond the puffy white clouds peeking over the Cheyenne skyline. It is entirely possible that today holds the promise of a glorious, all encompassing, magnificent, BLIZZARD!
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