Weather Records

"Another record day!" kvelled Dad. "Son, this is one for the books, and no mistake. Years from now, you'll be able to tell your children that you were there during the Time of Records. Remember that!"

"But what if next year is like this one?" asked Son. "And the one after that? What if this is the new norm?"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Son!" scoffed Dad. "There's never been a winter like this before, so how could there be another one? And next year, yet? Ha, ha! Impossible!"

"I don't know," said Son doubtfully. "It's been getting colder and colder over the last decade, and the game is getting really sparse. I think we should do something."

"Oh, pish-tosh," said Dad. "So we've had a butt load of record low temperatures and no rain for months. It's just cycles. We've been around for thousands of years, and it's always just cycles."

"How about this?" said Son carefully. "What if we tried some different approaches, like maybe not everyone has to go out on every buffalo hunt."

"Nonsense!" said Dad. "Everyone always has to go on every buffalo hunt. That's how it's done."

"But listen," said Son. "Some of us could specialize in smaller game. Like rabbits and squirrels. And birds!"

"Not worth the effort," replied Dad. "Buffalo and mastodon is what you want. Besides, ... birds? How could we hunt birds? They fly."

"Right," said Son, "but I have this idea for how you could ... shoot a ... spear, sort of."

"It would never work," said Dad. "Waste of time."

"And we could eat plants," continued Son. "Parts of them, at least."

"Eeuuw! Yuk!" spat Dad. "That's disgusting!"

"No, really," insisted Son. "I've, uh, tried some of the stuff that grows on trees, and it's pretty good."

"You're going to make yourself sick! No Neanderthal eats that stuff!" Dad retched sympathetically.

"I think we could even ... grow our own plants to eat," said Son hesitantly. "We really need to expand our diets."

"Oh, phooey!" cried Dad in a strangled voice. "Do you want to make your old Dad sick?"

"And we could, like, breed some of the animals," said Son. "Smaller, less dangerous ones."

"Never work," said Dad. "Never work."

"Or at least, save some of the kill each time," said Son desperately, "instead of scarfing it all down at once in a feeding frenzy."

"What's gotten into you?" asked Dad.

"Not enough food, lately," replied Son.

"Relax," said Dad reassuringly. "I know times have been hard, but things are bound to perk up soon. We Neanderthals have survived for thousands of years. What could possibly go wrong?"