2017 Jan 28^th

I have had a computer glitch so today’s political blog must wait until tomorrow. As a replacement here is a piece I did a few years ago about living for the winter in a summer cottage on the banks of the Little Manistee River just south of Irons. Politics can wait until tomorrow.

The Winter of Our Discontents…

 Shakespeare meant the phrase as a figure of speech; I mean it quite literally.

Summer is splendid; it is warm; it is relaxing. Bodies are bared, many of which add to the delightful beach scenery. If they detract from it, don’t look at them. Five o’clock cocktails on the porch are followed by grilled brats on the barbie followed by Alka-Seltzer. The dog looks for shade. We wear straw hats to protect us from the dermatologist. Hours can be spent quite profitably staring at the small river as it quickly carries a few awkward canoeists past our riverbank chairs and then mercifully down-stream and out of earshot. Then we reach into the ice bucket for another cold drink. We love summer and we know that we deserve every minute of it.

Then the leaves turn a darker shade of green, apples ripen, the days are less muggy. Leaves give up their deep green for a yellowish tinge and then turn orange. The camera comes out to catch that final blaze of color. Spent leaves swirl about in eddies of the little river and begin to hide the grass on the lawn. Soon we can see the neighbor’s house; our leaf screen is gone. It will be back in six months. My tractor pulls a box vacuuming leaves up from the lawn so the grass will survive and will need to be mowed again next summer; cycles, always cycles. These cycles simply transport us around in circles. The Mayans had it right. What else?

Mornings now need a fire and last winter’s split wood is nearly gone. I find the fifteen-pound steel-handled splitting maul, take off my shirt, pull on my leather gloves and whale away. Red oak splits beautifully and the tannin is a fine perfume. The fire needn’t last past noon; just long enough to lose the early chill.

Soon the chill stays all day and then snow flurries come, followed one afternoon by a little sleet. The next morning the sight is spectacular. Overnight it has rained cotton balls. Wet white globs cover every twig. Small hemlocks and cedars are bowed over the path we take to walk the dog. They make a wet, white obstacle course. But shake a branch and the little hemlock sheds its burden and jumps right back up again. The dog loves his snow shower. He lies on his back and rolls back and forth ecstatically in the snow.  We take pictures for this year’s Christmas cards and congratulate ourselves for not joining our neighbors in their annual southern migration. “Wouldn’t have missed this for anything,” says my wife. I have doubts.

The snowblowing tractor emerges from the pole-barn with me in the driver’s seat. I must clear the hundred yards of two-track to the main road and then shovel out our mailbox so the mailperson can reach it. Groceries are needed so the 4X4 SUV will come in handy as the roads haven’t been plowed yet. This is a poor county with little in the road maintenance kitty. The local wisdom seems to be, “There will either be more snow tomorrow, or what’s out there will quickly melt. Either way plowing today would be foolish.” This results in the wet snow packing down into an icy glaze on which one could more safely ice skate to town than drive.

Nighttime has dropped another six inches of wet snow and then about dawn temperatures drop to the teens. Icicles hanging from the eves do not drip and the snow accumulation seems permanent; the roof rake is called for. The roof rake is not designed to rake leaves off the roof; its purpose is to pull snow from the roof before the weight of wet snow exceeds the roof’s carrying capacity. Since we don’t know the roof’s carrying capacity it’s probably better to err on the side of caution. The wide plastic scraper is attached to a twenty-foot long pole. Standing on a ladder, I push the rake as far up the roof as I can, then I pull. Unfortunately the snow on the roof has formed a crust so I must lift the rake and slam it down into the snow to break through the crust. Then I pull mightily, barely managing to stay on the ladder while avoiding a cascade of wet snow sliding off the roof. Thus is a pleasant two hours spent in this beautiful winter wonderland.

It has warmed slightly overnight and we’ve had a freezing rain. The view from the window is spectacular. All of the tree branches, down even to the twigs have grown crystals. As the sun edges out we see sparkle and glitter everywhere. My wife goes for the camera to immortalize this spectacle. We shall surely remember it even without the photographs for the power lines are down. “Who cares,” my wife says, and pulls food from the useless refrigerator. It will go into boxes and be stacked outside on the screened porch. Our two kerosene lamps allow us to read and we have the fireplace for heat and we have a gas stove for cooking. Our only losses are the microwave, the TV set with its fall football games, and the computer; a trivial price to bay for the beauty of those crystals…my wife says.

Morning finds a fresh four inches of snow and frigid temperatures. The dog is reluctant to take his morning walk. He is happy to roll in the snow next to the porch but he is not so happy to walk in it.  Every thirty feet or so he crouches down gnawing furiously at his paws. Ice balls form in his paw pads so it must feel like he is walking on marbles until he can chew them loose. It is time consuming to complete his usual half mile walk.

A day or so later we rejoice in the return of our electricity and all that it implies. The additional snow means that I am once again on the ladder pulling snow off the roof. Two feet of snow on the roof followed by an unseasonal rain, which the snow will absorb like a sponge, can lead to a very legitimate anxiety attack for those living beneath. The snowblower is needed again as well and the mail box needs attention again. This is now a bi-weekly chore. Wood splitting also requires about an hour a day.

We are now well into late February and we’ve had many, many days with nice wet snow clinging to our tree branches. In spite of the numerous opportunities to record this beauty, the camera is not much in evidence. Its next outing will probably be when the snow melts. If that happens suddenly we’ll want to record just how high the water gets in the small river at our back doorstep. It can rise about six feet before….Oh well, why borrow trouble? I prefer to enjoy the beauty of our northern Michigan winter.