Let It Snork


My neighbor drove past my house and rejoiced. The fence at the edge of my property was finally peeping through the top of the mountainous snowbank. It wasn’t really a full-on “spring,” but at least there was a glimmer of hope.

My neighbor’s heart was still singing, an hour later, as she went about her normal routines at home. But then came the scream. A blood-curdling shriek of pain from her six-year-old on the other end of the house. My neighbor raced toward the awful sound, envisioning a blood-splattered scene of tragedy. As she flung herself around the final corner, she found her daughter standing in the middle of the room, the back of one hand over her horrified open mouth, the other hand clenched and pointing wildly at the window. Mommy’s face jerked toward the outdoors to see what ghastly site had terrified her little one.

There it was: a silent, gentle, almost whimsical wisp of a snowfall.

“More snow!” the youngster bawled.

Barely an hour earlier, her mother had been singing to herself, brimming with sweet anticipation. Now, without warning, New England had cruelly violated her little girl. Just six years of age, yet the Winter of ’15 had damaged her soul. Maybe permanently.

It was heartbreaking to me, hearing of this incident after the fact. Not only because of the pain both mother and daughter had suffered, but also because it was completely unnecessary. If I had only been there, I could have helped them avoid such a trauma.

Not that I’m a licensed psychologist, or even a meteorologist. But I am a newcomer to New England, a refugee from two decades the desert, and as such, I have paid extremely close attention to snow. Native New Englanders are so used to winter weather, they normally don’t take much note of the fluffy stuff falling from the sky. So when a bizarre winter comes along — like the one we’re still trying to extract ourselves from — many New Englanders are blindsided.

It need not be.

I am happy to provide a primer, free of charge, to help you effectively observe, accurately define, and emotionally process the varieties of New England snow.

(You’ve heard, of course, the old saying that the Eskimos have 200 different words for snow. This is absolutely not true. It’s New Englanders who have 200 different words for snow; most of them just haven’t learned the words. It’s time, folks.)

The snow that fell last Saturday, for example, need not have troubled anyone, least of all an innocent six-year-old on outer Linebrook. What fell from the sky on Saturday was not really “snow”; it was snork. Actually, this isn’t how you spell it: this is just how you pronounce it. The actual spelling is snorc — which stands for “Snow of NO Real Consequence.” Snow can fall thick and fast and seem extremely threatening, but if it doesn’t stick to the ground, it’s not snow. “Don’t freak, little girl. It’s only snorc.”

Then there’s the type of snow that accumulates just enough to make for treacherous walking and driving, but not quite enough to trigger the snow-plow guy you contracted with last autumn. This type of snow is called dydadec. This stands for “Does You Dirty And Doesn’t Even Care.”

The snow whose only function is to spread a pretty white layer over the ugly black stuff along the edge of the road is called prettybut. This is short for “Pretty But It Would Be Better Just Not To Have Any More Snow At All.”

For purposes of this introductory lesson, let me offer just one more entry for your New England snow glossary. There’s a kind of snow that waits till after all the previous snow has melted, then it arrives out of the blue, just to make you crazy. This type of snow is called — wait, never mind. You don’t really need to take up any brain space memorizing the term for this type of snow, because the snow we have on the ground already is never going to totally melt. Because of all the snorc.

The Outsidah onstage!


Pssst! Hey! You there! Come over here! I got somethin’ to show ya! You want some of this? It’s good stuff. I’ll make you a deal!…


Buy now, and I’ll sell you tickets for $15 apiece (not $17). Wait! Look out — here comes the Witch. Gotta run! Contact me for tickets! I’m outa here!

Sit Down, Stand Up, Rah Rah Rah!


The Ipswich Zoning Board of Appeals has finally settled one of the most agonizing questions of our time: the question of how many people can sit in the dining room at the Ipswich Inn, and how many people can stand up.

The answer turns out to be quite simple, really. The Inn henceforth will be allowed to have 36 people sitting, or 52 standing. I for one am relieved. For the time being, at least, the people of Ipswich are no longer in danger of a 37th person sitting down in the dining room at the Ipswich Inn, nor a 53rd person standing up.

Of course innkeeper Ray Morley now bears the burden of compliance — or, though I hesitate to use the term, enforcement. He will have his hands full. What if there are 36 people seated at breakfast, and someone stands up to use the restroom? They’re over the limit. I’m not sure of the liability question, but I believe Ray is going to have to drag that person, still in their chair, into the hallway, where they’re legal to stand up.

Or maybe I have the math wrong. The numbers are intimidating. I assume if Ray can have 36 sitting or 52 standing, then he could also have half of each number: 18 sitting and 26 standing. It gets complicated. If one of the 26 sits down, I think Ray will have to haul one of the 18 to their feet. But wait — will this be OK — 27 standing, 17 sitting? I don’t think so. According to the ZBA formula, a seated person is taking up 1.44 as much space as a standing person. Every person who sits down will require 1.44 people to stand up. This is silly. It’s not physically possible for 44% of a person to stand up, leaving the remaining 56% seated. I’m afraid this person will have no choice but to crouch.

Or perhaps it would be OK to round off the numbers: a ratio of 1-to-1.44 is nearly the same as a ratio of 1-to-1.50. Which is exactly the same as 2-to-3. This could work: When two people sit down, three people stand up. It’s not exactly the ZBA formula, but it’s pretty darn close. It will make the Inn dining room into a huge game of whack-a-mole, but at least, thank goodness, there will be compliance.

Let me warmly urge you not to let these new regulations frighten you into avoiding the Ipswich Inn for breakfast. I was there this past Friday; everything seemed normal. And I’ve urged Ray to get a slide rule. He can meet you at the door and let you know whether you’ll be starting your meal sitting or standing. Also, his sidekick Becky Gayton can put an app on her iPad to track diner movements and predict how long it will be before you’re asked to change positions. True, you might start in on your “McMorley special” at a pleasant table overlooking the lawn, only to finish it standing in the corner near the coat tree. But have no fear. You can lean quite comfortably against the wall. So far, the ZBA has not ruled against leaning.

I’m in “Into the Woods”


If you live on the North Shore, you’re invited to this fascinating and beloved musicale. (I play the Mysterious Man.) You saw the movie? There’s more to the story than you saw on the screen! Email me via unconventional@dougbrendel.com today for tickets. This show will almost certainly sell out!

show flyer large-2

Rumor Has It


Rumors are awesome.

They’re better than television.

The Internet is rumor-driven, but just think about those rumors even before they get to the Internet. That’s pure rumor. That’s 200-proof rumor. This is the kind of rumor that gives you a rush. Makes your head light. This is the kind of rumor you shouldn’t drive after. Or post on Facebook after.

Like the rumor I heard about Winfrey’s, on Market Street, and the Ipswich Board of Health.

Yes, I know. Just seeing this combination of proper nouns has caused your heart to palpitate, hasn’t it. You can hardly wait for me to tell you the rumor, can you? See? Pure rumor. Strong stuff.

OK, here’s the rumor, the original fairy tale, as it first came to me:

Wondrous Winfrey’s, the popular manufacturer of wondrous chocolates, decided to branch out from their Rowley headquarters and open a wondrous retail outlet on Market Street in Ipswich. Fantastic! Shoppers will throng to such a place! Downtown Ipswich will blossom!

But then came Colleen Fermon, our town’s Public Health Director, swooping down on the candy-maker and ruling that they would have to put in a full commercial kitchen — Full! Commercial! Kitchen! — before opening their store on Market Street. Just to sell pretty little boxes of chocolate! Which they had already made! At their factory all the way over in Rowley! ROWLEY!

So of course, Winfrey’s — balking at the horrendous cost of setting up a Full! Commercial! Kitchen! — backed out of the deal. Which means they would be keeping their tax dollars flowing to the Town of Rowley — and choking off any hope of improving the Ipswich downtown retail experience.

Outrageous. Tragic.

Also, as it turns out, a teensy-weensy bit untrue.

The rumor was so delicious, so fantastic, so extreme, I just couldn’t bring myself to spread it all over town. Oh, I wanted to. What a gusher of vitriol I could uncork on social media!

But first, just to confirm that this incredible fiasco had actually happened, I had to make a few inquiries. At Town Hall. With the realtor. With Winfrey’s.

Turns out, the rumor mill did get a few tiny little details just a tiny little bit wrong.

Like, for example, it wasn’t our dear Public Health Director’s call. When you’re handling food in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts — like placing individual pieces of candy in a display case — the state steps in, no matter what the Town’s rules may be, and insists on compliance with its public health regulations.

Let’s see, what else? Oh yeah. The state requirement isn’t exactly a Full! Commercial! Kitchen! What the state requires is a hand sink. Oh, and a mop sink. Slightly less burdensome than a Full! Commercial! Kitchen!

Then there was the minor matter of who was renting the space. Winfrey’s, right? Uh, no. The store was to be owned and operated by a young lady who would be contracting with Winfrey’s to sell their chocolates.

And why did the project fold? Why did the hand-drawn “Winfrey’s” sign come down out of the window? Was it the onerous regulations? Some jaded backroom politics? The Town’s crushing anti-business bureaucracy?

No. Actually, the young lady planning to sell Winfrey’s chocolates unexpectedly got an offer she couldn’t refuse: a job — with way better pay.


So, let’s recap.


Otherwise, the rumor was absolutely, entirely true.

I mean, yes, it was about chocolate.

And we should be outraged. Totally. Chocolate on Market Street would have been so cool.

Sales Are Good


It’s all over the Internet — so it must be true: A man in Manchester, Mass., is selling snow.

Mr. Kyle Waring is taking orders for authentic New England snow from people trapped in warmer climates and longing for winter. Last I checked his sophisticated website, ShipSnowYo.com, Mr. Waring was willing to ship you 6 pounds for $89, or 22 pounds for $199 — or you can get on a waiting list for cheaper rates later. (I don’t quite understand why the price would go down later, when presumably he’ll have more trouble obtaining snow. But that’s his problem, not mine.) He started out offering a plastic 16.9-ounce bottle full of snow for $19.99, but he had a meltage problem. (“Your snow may arrive as water,” his website warns.) Later he offered a 10-pound package for $119. Apparently, however, if you’re crazy enough to pay for 10 pounds of snow, you’re crazy enough for 22.

Of course it’s ridiculous for Ipswich to sit around and let Manchester rake in all the snow money. I think we got more snow this winter than Manchester did — we got more snow this winter than anybody did — which would mean that Mr. Waring will run out of inventory before we do. We can start selling snow now and still be making money when he’s stuck sitting in his bare driveway with nothing but a bunch of temperature-controlled shipping crates.

But friends, listen up: Ipswich can do even better. Snow is only the beginning. I can’t help but think of Humphrey Bogart playing a con man in the 1955 Christmas classic We’re No Angels: “We sold bottled air to those whose doctors advised a change in climate. We had three kinds: sea air, mountain air, and all-purpose air just for breathing!”

Think of the possibilities for Ipswich. Stimulating, inspiring Crane Beach air — $12.50 a bottle. Fresh, invigorating Willowdale State Forest air — $14.99. Historic, dust-laden Doug-Brendel’s-basement air — $22.75. We could bottle the air from the fryers at the Clam Box. People could spray it around their homes, or use it as a uniquely Ipswich version of “new car smell,” to remind them of summer in Ipswich.

Let’s figure this out. If there are people who would buy snow — and we know there are, because Mr. Waring sold out of his first batch — there must be a market for other readily available resources. I would welcome your feedback on my initial range of ideas:

* Historic New England dirt. This dirt was dug up from a property that was actually walked on by actual colonists, the people who founded our nation. This is patriotic dirt, trod by patriots, even before there was football. This is the dirt that made America great. $50 per pound, one dollar for every state in the Union.

* Authentic New England fireplace ash. Nobody in America burns more wood in more fireplaces than New Englanders do, because no place has a greater concentration of people trying to cut their heating oil bills. The fireplace ash we offer you today is ideal for throwing on an icy driveway, to minimize slipperiness and avoid personal-injury lawsuits, or for spreading on the gnarled remains of a garden, in the form of almost-magical compost, as many deluded New Englanders do. $17.50 for a one-gallon plastic baggie full of the stuff.

* Unique Ipswich dryer lint fashioned into a masterpiece of impressionist art by a Doyon 4th-grader. $1.25 million, designated for the school budget.

* The actual vacuum cleaner bag, complete with contents, from the vacuum cleaner used to sweep the Board of Selectmen’s room at Town Hall last Monday night. I think $35 would be fair.

* One-of-a-kind kitty litter compilation, fresh from a house where John Updike once lived. $20 firm.

* Special eBay offering: Complete collection of Town Meeting ballots swept from under the seats of the Ipswich Performing Arts Center. Bidding begins at $1,000. (“Buy now” for $2,500.)

As I said, I’m open to other ideas. Depending on what we come up with, there may even be a federal grant from the Small Business Administration to apply for.

Whatever money we can make this winter can help pay for next year’s woodpile.