Hole Up

I'm good. Really, I am. I hear from many of you who doubt that but, I repeat, I'm good.

Most of what's happening in MI with Covid-19 is in the SE corner (Detroit) of Michigan. It's pretty sparse up here in the NW corner of Michigan's Lower Peninsula. So far anyway. A few spats have broken out between the locals and people with summer cottages and camps up here. We tell them to stay home. They want to come up where they feel safer. But our meager medical system can't handle the influx. So there have been some scuffles. Mostly at the grocery store when a local notices Fred and Marge, who don't usually open their cottage until early- or mid-June, are buying up all the toilet paper. Then it's just a matter of a short time before their kids and grandkids have joined them at the cottage because nobody is working or in school. I figure when The Marge and Fred Family realize that without the lake to play and boat in (the ice is just off), no dairy bar, closed restaurants, a closed hardware where they buy the little nuts and bolts necessary to get the water running and the toilets working again, and limited internet access (certainly not at the bandwidth it takes to watch a movie), they'll scurry on back home where isolation is easier.

In and around my home, it's just me and the dog and the birds and the squirrels and the rabbits and the deer and the beaver and the coyotes. Too, the bear are emerging from hibernation and raiding known food sources and hungry as a... well, as a bear. We will have to remember to bring in the bird feeders at night.

It snowed today. I've started spring cleanup and I've managed to rake some spots around the snowbanks. Isolation is a piece of cake for me; my middle name. Another week and I'll be gathering the elusive morel mushrooms and wild leeks. Two of my favorite solo activities. And right now the river is high and the fishing is good. I won't get antsy until the 3rd Saturday in May when Walleye season opens in N Ontario and I can't cross the border. Then I'll be pissy.

This morning, first thing, I threw a log on the morning coals. As soon as the log went in and I had shut the glass door on the woodstove, I saw a big old spider scrambling around seeking an escape route. There’s really no escape when the door to the stove is closed. But as I peered into the glass I knew I had to help. I mean he (or she) survived the entire winter on the woodpile only to be burned alive!? I don’t think so. I opened the door but every attempt to catch him only encouraged him to scurry away toward the growing fire. Finally, I put on the woodstove gloves (big leather mitts) and coaxed him on to one finger and then transported him all the way to the kitchen door where I flipped him outside. Something in him just clicked and he turned from frantic to mellow. Spider Zen. Isn’t that the way it often happens, when we give in and give up, life turns around.

It’s a wacky, wacky world out there. Use your Spider Zen, find your hole, and stay under the radar.

And do send me your thoughts and news.

March Doldrums

There comes a time in a Northern Michigan March when I am a bit disagreeable. I’m stuck in the doldrums.

One moment, the very thing to do is get up and out. To turn my face to the sun, if I’m lucky, and move; move anywhere as long as my back is to winter.

But still, it is winter here in the North. We know to not be fooled. Some of our worst winter storms come in March. And so, beware you novices to Northern winters. As often happens immediately after that urge to move, you will find yourself being sucked into the couch with the duvet up to your chin. Like Mars, the Roman God of War, March can easily do battle with your desires.

I’ve seen March days so stunning I’m flying a kite over an open field with the warm sun on my face and breezes that feel almost tropical at my back. And I’ve experienced March days so cold the creek is frozen over. Most often though, the warm but heavy March snowstorms are what take me down. One day, I’m thinking I’ll not have to move another bit of snow from the driveway. All that remains will surly melt. The next day I’m thinking maybe I’ll have to finish my winter travels to and from the garage in 4-wheel drive.

Oh, March! Your “In like a lion and out like a lamb” is nothing more than a traitorous saying designed to give us hope but, instead, slaps us silly and walks away laughing, leaving us licking wounds in a pile of slush.

Under The Weather

I love the first snow. It’s coming down fast now, piling up on everything in the yard. It’s beautiful. It’s stunning. And it’s peaceful and quiet. Me too!

I’ve settled down, I’m feeling peaceful, I’m quiet, because I’m done. All the yard chores that I was hustling to finish (the wood pile, the leaves, the fire pit, the dead trees, the garden and the compost pile) are done for the season. Oh, they’re not complete. Not by a long shot. They’ll be right where I left them come April.

But for now I can stop feeling underneath a pile of chores because that pile is buried underneath a blanket of snow. Sometimes what we see is not the truth of the situation. But sometimes, just sometimes, it is. At least until Spring.

Living Out Loud

It's the day after Christmas. Sometime during last night, I was awaken from my post-Christmas stupor by thunder and lightening. That's not normal for Northern Michigan in late December. Now, during midday, the temperature is surpassing 50 degrees. We were just far enough into winter that the dog and I were adjusting to the silence.

I live in the woods, you see. So when winter throws its white blanket upon us, there's a soft sigh as the noise lessens, and lessens, and lessens. Like dropping a bouncing ball, winter noise becomes a high-pitched ping, a softer boing, a few little bouncing rattles and then settles into silence. And that's it until sometime in March.

Now the dog can't shut up. Only a month ago, what sounds like racket to her now, were just normal wood noises and did not warrant barking. Now she's protecting me from every twitter, chirp, chatter, drip and rattle. Dried leaves and branches brushing against almost bare trees on this windy day sends her into courageous lunges at nothing. "It's not normal!" she insists as she adds to the cacophony.

As her barks echo off the high banks on the other side of the creek, the birds and squirrels and deer could care less. They are claiming the ability to do more than just seek food. Oh, they're eating for sure. But the woods around my home is more like a noisy diner than an intimate restaurant. They're sliding out of their quiet booths and coming together on stools at the counter.

Winter will be back soon. There are promises of cold and snow on the way. High winds and whiteouts are just west of me and heading east I hear. We'll see. Right now, it does not even seem possible as I step out into this temperate weather.

But we in Northern Michigan know better than to expect any kind of weather to last. So for now, we're all living out loud.

Appreciating Apricity

This has been the most amazing winter. Cold. Bone-chilling cold at times. Snow to depths I have not seen in years. It has taken me quite some time to get his article completed. We've had so very little of that which I am writing about. And without the sun, I can't seem to find my inspiration. And you don't need to hear me whine.

I'm looking forward to Spring, which will happen soon enough. In the meantime, I'm apricating as often as the sun allows. Cheers!

Appreciating Apricity

"I'll give you a winter prediction: It's gonna be cold, it's gonna be grey, and it's gonna last you for the rest of your life." ~Phil Connors from the movie Groundhog Day.

Apricity. I loved the word before I totally understood its meaning. It's a short word with a lot of melody and could easily be sung on those days apricity inspires us. As a child my favorite words were "insulated underwear" because I could sing those two words in multiple ways. Like insulated underwear, apricity deserves to be sung; most especially, this time of year as the sun starts to peek above the treetops around my home if even for just a few minutes.

Apricity means "the warmth of the sun in winter," which is a rather simple definition. Yet there is a depth to that definition that other words cannot boast. Apricity conjures up feelings long forgotten until this very time of year. Beyond the intellectual understanding of the word, your senses must be engaged to fully appreciate apricity. You don't know apricity until you feel the cold on your face from subzero winter temperatures and, at the same time, the unbelievably incredible warmth of the sun on that same face. Apricity demands that you cannot feel one without the other.

For me, there's also a smell to apricity. One minute I'm inhaling deeply the smell of bitter cold winter, which is almost no smell at all but nonetheless distinct. Those of us who live in winter and snow and cold, know that smell. And in that very same moment, the sun beating down on an oak tree that has not yet lost its leaves or a dead log or an early patch of dirt, sends to me a whiff of warming leaves, wood and dirt. This too is the contradiction of apricity.

Now before you tell me that you personally appreciate apricity on a beach in Florida in February, for instance, I counter that winter is as much a condition as it is a season. Apricating means you must experience the contradiction of cold and warm at the same time much more than simply experiencing the warmth of the sun in a warm climate during a winter month. Apricity cannot exist in its fullest sense while lying on the beach in January. Unless, of course that shoreline is on a frozen northern lake. Apricity is earned.

Peace and Love
Deb