Crazy Henry and the Snow Boat.

"The Snow Boat's in town!" yelled Crazy Henry at me when I answered my door. He waltzed in and seemed to sizzle with childish delight as he bounced from the couch to the recliner to the coffee table and finally back to the couch. He shivered with glee.
"Cappy Rime just brought her in -- she's at the Saint Paul docks right now, taking on cargo and passengers!" 

"What, that old broken down paddle wheeler the city was gonna let the Fire Department burn for practice?" I replied sharply. I had been busy counting crab apples, and now I'd forgotten where I left off. "Your bread dough ain't got any yeast in it. Probably a nervous break up, that's what it is. Here, lay down and I'll bring you some crab apple tea . . ."

But Crazy Henry leaped from the couch to wave a newspaper in front of my face. It was the Minnehaha Nickel Shopper -- a very reliable rag.

"Here! Right here! Lookit!" he said urgently. And by golly, there it was -- an announcement that Captain Rime would sail with the Mississippi tide late that day for snowy parts unknown. Tickets were still available.

"Wow!" I couldn't help exclaiming. I didn't want to believe it was true, because everybody knew Cappy Rime and the whole Snow Boat thing were just a pleasant wintertime idyll told to kids by a warm fire while they sipped hot chocolate. But if it was in the Nickel Shopper it had to be true.

And suddenly the old snow lust was upon me. As a son of the Upper Midwest I needed to hear the hiss of snowflakes rubbing together in companionable riot as they fell across the tired brittle autumned-out land. That first heavy snowfall always felt like baptism into a crisp new cult promising endless possibilities.

"Okay" I said, throwing all the crab apples into the trash. "Let's go!" 

Cappy Rime welcomed Crazy Henry and me on board personally. He was tall and thin, with a short white beard and kinky white hair. His dark blue officer's blazer was spotless and fit him snug and trim. On his shoulder sat a snowy egret. 

"Where to first, Cappy?" I asked him. He seemed to encourage familiarity.

"Frostbite Falls, matey" he replied. 

We left the dock, churning up the water, flinging carp and bullheads from the paddle wheels onto both shores with a merry plop. And out of the double smokestacks came a pure white mist that spread all around the sky. Soon it was snowing thick and fast.

"I'm glad you talked me into this" I told Crazy Henry, who was trying to catch snowflakes on his elbow. 

Have you ever noticed how everything looks better through a curtain of chastely falling snow? The grubby shoreline, made up of hopeless derelict barges and crumbling warehouses, suddenly took on the appearance of  hopeful derelict barges and crumbling warehouses with redemption at hand.

But I noticed Crazy Henry had that dreamy look on his face -- he was presently going to be up to something amazing and ticklish. I can read him like a Kindle. 

And so it came to pass while I was enjoying the slow easy glide of the winter river, Crazy Henry went to ask Cappy Rime if he could steer the Snow Boat for a while. And Cappy, the genial old fool, told him yes. 

That's why Crazy Henry and I were holding onto a single cork life preserver in the middle of the chill Mississippi, while the old Snow Boat sank quietly with all hands. Crazy Henry had steered the paddle wheeler right over a drifting creosote telephone pole and ripped a hole in the hull big enough to drive a Humvee through. 

I could think of no comment deep or stinging enough to throw at him, as the river current carried us silently down to Iowa. We eventually made it to shore and were taken in by a family of kindly corn chandlers. 

Winter never came to Iowa that year, and all the Turkey Red wheat rotted in the ground. When April rolled around Crazy Henry showed me an ad in the Keokuk Nickel Shopper about an ethnic banana pudding bake off to celebrate the birth of Hanuman. Then he asked me if I wanted to go. For reply, I chased him into the sunset with a pea flail.