The Burning Snowball of Disorganization

It began, as most winter misadventures do, with a surprise snowfall on Geiger Grade—a sight so unexpected that even the mountains seemed to raise an eyebrow in disbelief. On the winding roads, nature had taken it upon herself to introduce a bit of drama. Luckily, someone had thought ahead and spread salt water on the slopes to ease the icy grip of the curves, though one might wonder if the salt was for the road or the winter gripes of the driver.

While the business folk in Virginia City eagerly awaited a brisk holiday season, hopes high as a gambler’s stake before dealing the cards, Mother Nature had other plans. The snow, a well-timed misfortune, dampened the prospects for a hearty sales surge.

So, what did a weary traveler do to quell their disappointment? Seek comfort in the Blue Haired Cafe, where nothing says ‘holiday cheer’ like a place that sounds like it serves soup and sandwiches to the intestinally-vapored.

Minestrone was the perfect remedy for the chill—a fine for stirring the soul and breaking the ice. And then there was the chicken salad sandwich, an offering carved from a particularly spirited bird.

While the sandwich was edible, the pieces of gristle hiding within were challenging to the palatal fortitude. These were not large enough to alarm but just enough sizeable to make one contemplate the wisdom of chewing.

While strolling along the boardwalk and meeting a friend, we hugged in the spirit of the season. Our embrace on the double yellow line of the roadway was so heartfelt and enduring that it became a spectacle.

Passersby paused to witness this display of affection, and soon, a small crowd had gathered, their collective gaze fixed upon us. The traffic stilled as drivers and pedestrians alike were captivated by our unabashed display of camaraderie.

At that moment, I realized that in Virginia City, even the simplest acts can become grand performances. C Street is a stage where the ordinary becomes extraordinary.

By the time we parted ways, I was sure the traffic had backed up to Gold Hill. But I can tell you this: no honking or frustrated motorist would ever convince me that our hug was anything less than the most paramount event ever on C Street.

One might assume this would be the apex of a holiday adventure, but alas, it was merely the beginning. What came next was the true pinnacle of modern civilization—the search for a calendar. A task so mundane, yet so rife with promise for absurdity, that there was no choice but to embark on it.

Reno, that smallish burg beneath Virginia City and towering Sun Mountain, is often described as a place of wonder and woe. It is a town where one might think they could find anything—unless searching for something as simple as a calendar.

For that, I was directed to the illustrious Burning Snowball, a chain bookstore with an almost poetic name—suggesting, perhaps, that its wares would burn with the intensity of a thousand flaming winter days. Inside, the calendar section was nothing short of a tragedy. Three racks of “nothing but misarrangement,” the heap of months jumbled together like a poker hand shuffled by a tantrum-tossing toddler.

It was a scene that could have made even the most ardent lover of chaos reconsider their position. Imagine, if you will, walking into a large mall on a busy shopping day—a place loathed by many and avoided by most, except when the cruel hand of necessity forces you through the gates of consumerism, confronted with a jigsaw puzzle of merchandise, each piece begging for attention, none remotely related to the other.

But this, this mess of calendars, was no mere inconvenience; it was an exercise in human perseverance. So, dear reader, let this tale be a lesson that while searching for a calendar may seem as harmless as a snowflake, it is, in truth, an endeavor fraught with peril as an untamed chicken salad sandwich.