This meandering train-of-thought piece I hereby dedicate to Ring Lardner, champ of this writing genre. It also enables me to misspell words and get away with it.

By Fred Steiner

After escaping last week's snow drift (think Herman Melville's White Whale), I decided to set things straight in my life.

For starters, being winter, the first thing to go was brownies. Easily solved. I mixed up a batch, poured peppermint flavoring into the mix, pronounced it tea, and began to consume.

The dog licked my fingers, didn't die from a chocolate overdose and then I knew it was tea for certain.

Next, swearing off pizza, I ordered my last-ever circular cheese thing. Picked it up, I'm cheap and don't want to give a tip, proceeded to gobble it like it was the last food dish in North America.

The cat insisted on having some of the cheese, and the dog, some of the crust, so I shared. Decided since I shared it, the act made me feel good. Therefore, would nix the no-more-pizza-ever-again oath.

This meal took place one evening when my wife was teaching a Bluffton University off-campus course at Edison State with Karen Harder. So, it was me, the dog and the cat. And since I received Perry Mason Season 2 for Christmas, the three of us watched The Case of the Disappearing Pizza Delivery Boy. It was pretty interesting and Lt. Tragg actually complimented Perry M. at the end of the show. The '59 Ford Fairlaines were beauts, even in black and white.

Being Valentine's Day weekend, ordered some quick carnations from the Lions. Picked 'em up from Elaine Harris. Took 'em home. The Mrs. was so touched she baked me a wacky cake (see Telesis Club cookbook. I think this is Kay Huber's invention.)

Allow me to back up. The cat is only allowed in the house when it's 32 or below. It and I have this deal. It lives in the basement from Halloween to Easter. Pretty content. Eats, sleeps, visits the cat box and orders pizza from time to time.

The dog doesn't understand this living arrangement. Can't figure out why the cat goes and comes whenever. You see, the dog bolts for Alger every time the front door opens. Thinks it's old home week.

I try to discourage this behavior by scolding it. But, since it doesn't speak English, or I Dog. The discussion never gets off the ground.

Now comes the hard part. I inherited a snow thrower (not snow blower) from dear old mom and dad. Problem is I'm no good at math. It's a two-cycle. That means the oil goes in with the gas. Big problem for me.

I can't figure out the ratio. One container of oil says 1:16. Now, come on. What does that mean? I even asked a couple guys who know. Both told different answers.

Anyway, I filled the tank of the thrower, dumped in some oil and bang, just like that it started up. Threw snow all over the place.

Decided to mow the back yard it was so fun. Felt like summer all over again. Don Pannabecker thought I was serious, but I really only intended to blow a path from the back door to Campus View. As he and Romaine walked by and watched in amazement I pretended to throw snow in the typical lawn mowing pattern commonly called "mow it horizontal and then vertical." Thank goodness they turned the corner because the grass started clogging up in the chute. The two-cycler kept stalling on me.

By this time it stopped snowing. The two-hour delays were history, the weekend ended and before I could say Presidents' Day it was Monday morning.

It was a fun weekend and there's one piece of wacky cake remaining for a late-nighter. I hope dog and cat don't find it first.