Winter

It's cold today. Humidity freezes at this temperature, becoming something akin to freezer pixie dust. Like pixie dust, it's magical, a million sparkles waltzing elegant circles on the backs of sub-zero breezes. But like the hoary detritus in a butcher's freezer, it's not charming. Everyone timorously plodding along the icy sidewalks, including me, looks dull and sick. Isn't that so typical of winter? Both beautiful and miserable.

If I still relied on my 1960 Beetle for transportation, I'd be looking at bus schedules instead of writing this sentence. Much to my dismay, a six-volt battery couldn't be relied on to turn a frozen half-century-old engine. But why should I have expected anything else from a car built in the early days of the Cold War? Back then, people were relieved to be turning a key instead of a crank.

Now we push a button to start everything. In the last day I've pushed buttons to start a coffee maker, a computer, an iPod, a treadmill, a television, a DVD player, a dishwasher, a car, even a Christmas card. There's a part of me that bemoans this push-button convenience. It seems so disconnected from the seasons, from the mechanics of things, from reality. Shouldn't we expect engines to freeze? Can't we read a holiday greeting without a built-in soundtrack? Aren't there times when we should skip work and huddle by the fire with a cup of french-pressed coffee? In fact, shouldn't we be almost hibernating now, living slowly off the copious autumn harvest during this too-dark dead of winter?

That isn't how it is, however. Now it's time to get back to work, to pull the plow only metaphorically, and to push yet another button to publish this post.

Roots

Clearfield, Utah is an empty place, just as its name says. Not empty of people, mind you. It has tens of thousands of those. Instead, it's empty of real success and accomplishment, of yearning for something more meaningful than Ultimate Fighting, of any truly joyous living beyond a cheap beer keg or a Pampered Chef party.

As far as I know, Clearfield has always lived up to its name. It was a dreary community to grow up in, one that straddled lower middle class and poverty. My childhood memories play out on a featureless, soulless landscape dotted with tiny post-WWII homes and convenience store buildings that, like hermit crabs, had been vacated by their 7-11s and refilled with homespun flower shops and used sports gear outlets nearly always devoid of customers.

Nowadays it seems the same, except that those old homes, the ones built in a hurry to house the sudden rush of Hill Air Force Base workers during the Cold War, are now surrounded by multiplying subdivisions of generic stucco. The new residents commute elsewhere to work; they live in Clearfield because it's cheap real estate, a "starter home" haven of beige and sprawling, although poorly built, square footage. In a few years, those who succeed at all in their careers will move elsewhere, leaving behind dated, undesirable suburbs that will fall to those who have no other choice. In other words, it's still Clearfield and will always be, its name perfectly descriptive of its core personality.

I don't know of anybody famous from Clearfield. Well, there's Kevin Dyson, a Tennessee Titans receiver who had his biggest moment of fame when, on the final play of Super Bowl XXXIV, he was tackled one yard shy of what would've been a game-winning touchdown. But Kevin wasn't born in Clearfield, and sure as hell doesn't live there now. However, his down-on-his-luck brother Patrick, the one who didn't finish high school and played a single season of arena football, still does.

I'm from Clearfield, and I'm not famous. But I'd say I've done alright. I graduated from college, even have an advanced degree. I write for a living and live quite well. I live in a remodeled historic home in Salt Lake City with my wonderful wife, a witty, tall, beautiful, yoga-taut lawyer, and two intelligent, quirky, downright fantastic young sons.

So to quote David Byrne, "How did I get here?" Was it pure luck? Or was it hard work? I don't know. But however it happened, I thank Whoever Is in Charge of the Universe that I escaped Clearfield.