Now that it's whiter outside than an Academy Awards nomination list, the news business' winter cliche season is officially underway.
I was reminded of that fact on Friday, when the arrival of the season's first major snow storm prompted the re-posting on social media of National Public Radio's list of forbidden snow-related words and phrases.
The NPR list, to be used by public radio reporters "only when tongue is firmly in frozen cheek," includes a warning that anyone who uses the verboten words in news accounts will be sentenced to a fate apparently worse than emceeing an on-air fund-raising drive: shoveling NPR newscaster Korva Coleman's driveway.
Rather than simply listing the 14 clunkers that made NPR's Do Not Resuscitate list for winter jargon, I thought I'd try to squeeze them into a single sentence. Here goes:
The first flakes of Ol' Man Winter's Snowpocalypse began nipping at our noses on Friday morning, giving those of us who weren't hunkered down to wait out the Snowmageddon no choice but to brave the elements in a bone-chilling winter wonderland of white stuff only Jack Frost could love, all the while thinking "enough is enough" with this big chill.
To grab the baton from NPR's cold, clammy extended hand and carry on its effort, I suggest adding the following snow-reporting cliches to the organization's self-censorship list:
Mother Nature's fury wreaked havoc on area motorists on Friday as a blast of Arctic air accompanied by a wintry mix roared into the area, snarling traffic and triggering a rash of fender-benders, while homeowners began digging out and preparing for the next Siberian Express.
That's all I have to say on the matter for now.
Except bundle up and dress in layers!
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Having grown up in the next county over from the one in which anti-government militia types are occupying the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge in Oregon, I'm somewhat familiar with Burns, the town nearest the refuge, and its isolation from the rest of the world.
After placing poorly in a high school track meet there one spring, and failing to show the appropriate amount of subdued behavior and quiet reflection on our long ride back to Prineville, our coach ordered us to get off the bus and march along the berm of U.S. 20 until he felt we had either suffered enough or had time to experience a change in attitude.
We ended up singing the words and mimicking the guitar and drum riffs contained in the only tape our teams's stereo-equipped travel bus was carrying at the time - "Got LIVE If You Want it!" by the Rolling Stones. It had pretty well been memorized by the time we got to Burns. You'd think the sight of 25 guys in shorts and singlets playing air guitar along the side of a highway might attract a degree of attention, but we were a few miles west of Burns. By the time we hiked the three miles to where the bus was parked on the horizon, a single log truck headed to the mill at nearby Hines, a Burns suburb, had passed.
To the driver's credit, he did toot his rig's horn.