I demand a recount on Al Gore’s Nobel Peace Prize. Does this look like global warming to you?

Traditionally on the Maine coast, December snowstorms are an ethereal thing, coming silently during the night, ruining the morning commute and then melting away, gone in 48 hours, much to the dismay of the Camden Snow Bowl which, everyone now realizes, was built on the wrong side of the mountain.

Not this year.

I believe the first snowflake that fell is still sitting in the Cobb Manor driveway. The manor has been operated on the RIRO snow maintenance system, especially in December. When you have a growling, four-wheel drive monster, you simply Ram In, Ram Out and live within the tire tracks.

No shoveling allowed.

Well these ruts appear to be a fixture now, until at least July 4. Woe betide any visitor (we have few) who tries to park outside these established RIRO ruts. One English freeloader spent most of his Thursday morning trying to escape by ramming the gas pedal to the floor, in violation of clearly established New England driving techniques.

No wonder they lost at Dunkirk.

Traditionally, December is a mere warm-up to winter, with an occasional foray into the 20-degree range, then back above freezing to quickly remove the snow and ice that plagues walkways, roofs and roads.

Not this year.

I have already eaten a serious chunk of the $600 woodpile and the oilman apologized for the $600 oil delivery the other day. Yikes.

I do little enough in my couch potato life and lifestyle. But at least I used to walk the 1.2 miles to the Post Office to get the mail a few days a week.

Not this year.

I have already left the newspaper sitting in its comfortable green tube at the end of the driveway for several days at a time. Too much ice. Too cold. I will get it tomorrow. I drive the behemoth to the post office, swathed in hat, gloves, boots and all the warmth that L.L. Bean can provide.

Chief Al, who is clearly an Eskimo, calls every day to accompany him and his wonder dog, Taser, on “the geezer walk” around the golf course. I politely decline and tell him to call me in the spring when the ice and snow has melted from the 2.2-mile course.

It’s not even winter yet.

There is so much snow and cold that the gulls who traditionally clean up my chicken barbecue messes have taken to slamming their impressive beaks into the glass atrium door, demanding food. I thought a bill collector was knocking. I give them food just to save the door.

It is hardly the second week in December and I can detect the ragged edges and symptoms of cabin fever starting to develop. The first sign to me is the number of odd murders across the state which are, usually, a traditional visitor in February and mud season. We have already had our fill.

Like those cartoons of men in prison, I am already marking off the calendar and counting down the days to my annual visit to Florida and spring training for the World Champion Boston Red Sox. Again I have a bargain-basement rate of $45 a day for motel with a pool, bar and dining room, just a mile from the park.

Thank God.

It costs me that much to heat Cobb Manor for a day. I make it about eight weeks until the Patriots win the Super Bowl against Dallas and I head south.

Then and only then, somewhere in Delaware, will the snow and ice melt and slide from the roof of the classic Mazda 626 (35 miles a gallon).

I am counting the days.

And it’s not even winter yet.

I am glad that Gore lost the election.

Well, no. It’s not that bad.

Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at emmetmeara@msn.com.