There’s a thing called hubris, and even before the Sin of Pride it was punished by the gods. Remember my blithe dismissal of problems with the power grid? Well, it is healthy and well-maintained, but when your neighbor’s pine tree falls on it, there’s not much you can do.
We were out for our evening stroll with the dogs last night, and as we were brushing snow off lilac branches by the road, we heard a crack, and one of the 40 foot pine trees across the road just snapped off at the top and crashed to the ground.
We gathered the dogs and went inside.
I texted her to let her know, and while she and our other neighbor were outside to check it out, they found that the second neighbor had also lost a big pine and a Crabtree. And what was that bright light overhead?
Arcing power lines are no joke. So the fire department came, and after dealing with the emergency got stuck in first neighbor’s driveway.
We knew it would be moments before our power went out. I had time to fill a bathtub for flushing, plug in phones, gather flashlights, and turn on the gas fireplaces. About five minutes.
This morning it’s still dark. But we are warm, and the trusty vintage stove will make coffee for us and our neighbors as soon as there’s a bit more light to rummage in the cupboard for the French press coffee pot. Maybe those frozen croissants will be nice, too.
Meanwhile, we have an individual line that goes from the main source to our house, and although it’s dead now, it has many branches hanging on it. So even when the power comes on, the power will go right back out. I’m on hold with the power company as I write.
Meanwhile, we have lots and lots of beautiful snow, and warm, happy dogs. But the power company people are working outside in the dark to get us up and running again. Feeling lucky.
We woke to steadily falling snow. The wind is whistling through the eaves like the sound effects in a particularly corny old movie, and the predicted snow totals have risen to a minimum of nine inches. We already have at least six, and it’s supposed to snow all day.
The dogs are in the kitchen, lying on their tummies to better savor their breakfasts of turkey bacon and eggs. There is a fire here, and fresh tulips on the mantel. My cup of coffee steams nearby.
People are stranded on the local highways, and I am betting the blowing snow makes the rural roads impassable. Semis are unable to make their way up minor slopes on the freeways. I hope they will all be merely inconvenienced.
I had planned to run out this morning on a minor errand, but that seems unnecessary. I cancelled the electrician, thinking that standing on a ladder working on light posts seemed unpromising in this weather. He seemed to agree.
Very soon I will need to bestir myself to accompany the dogs on a morning walk. Eli will not go without me, but I don’t mind. I have boots and a good parka, and sufficient inner child to find it fun.
I may have to spread the 160 pounds of bird seed I bought yesterday a bit sooner than planned. I saw the deer chewing on brush yesterday, and things will be harder now. Another child’s adventure.
The local weather guy says we may or may not meet the specific criteria for a blizzard, but why quibble?
Seems like a perfect day to stay home and design new cocktails for Roger. If you know, you know.
I don’t know why you’d live in Wisconsin if you didn’t like winter. Because I must say that the recent—and upcoming—storms have brought me a great deal of happiness. I know winter-hate is a thing, but I don’t really understand why. First, it’s beautiful. Second, there are no bugs. Third, NO BUGS. Fourth—but most important—it transforms the whole world into a different universe. In other words, it’s the closest thing I know to magic in real life.
Today we woke up to a couple more inches. It is a warmish snowfall, so it clings to the trees and rooftops, and everything is beautiful. We’re expecting hoping for nine more inches tomorrow. Ohyayohyayohyay….Then, next week, we are expecting the usual January cold to set in, with temps around ten below zero (Fahrenheit, for my international readers).
There is much to do. I have more than a hundred pounds of bird seed to buy to help the turkeys, deer, squirrels, songbirds, possums (and anyone else who’s interested) keep warm, and then it has to be hauled down the hill in the snow, one twenty-five pound bag at a time. As I have noted previously, I do not normally feed wild animals, but in weather like this, I think it’s inhumane not to try to help. And, for that matter, it’s a good time to send an extra check to the homeless shelters, where human need is heavy.
There must be a trip to the grocery store for all the things, little and big, that you might ordinarily run out to the store for on a daily basis. Going somewhere to just get out of the house isn’t really a thing in this weather, and it’s nice to have a pot of soup, or stew, or chili on the stove. I like to have ingredients for all of that on hand. Also, I can almost always finagle expired apples from the produce manager, and these are like crack for wildlife.
I have to make sure we have lots of logs for the fireplace. There’s no point in having a fireplace if you don’t enjoy it in this kind of weather. We have to make sure the gas tanks are full for both cars and the snowblower. Normally, my dogs don’t wear clothes, but in a polar vortex everything changes. I need to make sure the dogs’ winter gear is handy and ready to use. Paw balm is important, but boots are useless. They tear them right off. I’ve not yet figured out how to protect a German Shepherd’s sensitive and delicate ears, which they cannot bear to have covered, or even touched by strangers. I just have to watch the timer carefully when they go out. Flesh freezes fast.
Also, and I realize this is purely idiosyncratic: I have to buy spring flowers. Nothing is more delightful than fresh flowers in a winter storm.
As I look at this list, I can imagine someone thinking: that does not sound like fun. I understand. And it is inconvenient. But there is anticipation, and a delightful camaraderie as you go about town on your preparations. So long as you can be inside (which is essential), there is little danger in a storm like this, and our state is blessed with a power grid that is both healthy and resilient. People grouse cheerfully, and feel a sense of common cause in their mutual intrepidness. This is Wisconsin, after all, and we all feel just a bit smug about it.
Yesterday, as we cleaned up from yesterday’s storm and heard predictions of more to come, the heavy clouds were a deep snow-laden blue, foretelling the accuracy of the forecasts. The bare trees were deep purple and maroon in the demi-light, and they were outlined by the snow clinging to their trunks and branches. Everywhere was the sound of plows and snowblowers, and occasionally a scraping shovel. The deer were out browsing all night, causing frequent alarms from my vigilant shepherds. This morning, as the last flakes fall, the sun is breaking through. The turkeys were in full display, and spent more time than usual in their morning confab before setting off in their military line formation. Most of the birds are hiding, but the crows and the woodpeckers are busily conversing.
It’s been long-delayed, but winter is finally here.
Today was the day we celebrated the birthdays of both Pete and Moses. The date for Moses was precise, but the date for Pete was an approximation. So we made it more festive by putting them together. We remember them with love and joy. (These dog photos are not gratuitous.)
We live in the woods, and partly because our property is contiguous with other large wooded areas, we have diverse wildlife. It is endlessly fascinating. I spend more time looking out at the activities beyond our windows than I do watching television.
But I’ve never really paid much attention to squirrels. We have approximately eleven million gray squirrels, and a rapidly increasing population of red squirrels, whose aggressive habits chase other mammals from the territory, and cause destruction to human property. You can hear them scold if you dare to walk beneath any of their trees. They are smaller than gray squirrels, but they box above their weight. All together, squirrels are the most common animals on our property, and I take them for granted. They are not mysterious and fascinating like raccoons or possums; or innocently beautiful, like deer; or showy and cantankerous like turkeys. They’re just squirrels. Always there. Always busy. Almost always solitary except during mating season. Not particularly interesting.
And yet, I recently learned that squirrel intelligence is superior to that of dogs, and this has given me a lot to think about. It certainly explains how in the dog vs. squirrel chase category, squirrels are definitely winning.
Anyway, this is not meant to be a treatise about squirrel species. It is the observation of—if not friendship—camaraderie—and, perhaps, of something more important.
I first saw a pair of gray squirrels running together in the summer months. At the time—and without paying close attention—I marveled over How. Many. Squirrels we had this year. It was like a squirrel invasion. (A circumstance due, probably, to the sudden diminution of the coyote population.) Every morning, they were running together, one after the other: racing across the lawn, spiraling up trees, and looking, to my wandering and inattentive gaze, as if they were either rivals or a mating pair. I didn’t think about them, or pay particular attention. But they were always there.
Only recently did it suddenly occur to me that they were still always there, and it wasn’t just a pair. It was a group of four. And it had always been—I realized—a group of four. There were lots of other squirrels around, but here was this…clan…running together in the clearing down the hill, foraging together, and racing across the grass to a particular tree, where they would run up the trunk and disappear.
Their relationship is as constant as that of the turkeys, and as I look back I realize how much their antics have been a fixture of my mornings, if only in the background of my awareness. The other squirrels nearby did not interact with them, unless it was to run off a competitor. But I think it was the other squirrels who must have been run off most often in the face of this four-squirrel brigade.
I can only guess that they are siblings, but who knows. They seem to have broken the usual squirrel pattern of solitary nut-gathering, but maybe these behaviors have been happening all along and I wasn’t paying attention. Or maybe it is an adaptation, a move to provide a common defense against the aggression of the red squirrels. Not being an authority on squirrels means I have the fun of speculation. Do they feel affection for one another? Do they feel a blood connection? Or is this merely a business/military relationship?
I have one clue—based on pure observation without anthropomorphizing. Last year, I passed a newly-dead squirrel by the side of the road, and beside it, I could see a living squirrel, frantically patting the dead body as if attempting to revive it. I wanted to stop, but there was nothing to be done. Was I going to comfort the living squirrel? Help it bury its dead? I watched for a second or two in the rearview mirror and went on in a somber mood.
It is pouring rain in the precursor to a winter storm, and the rain is just now—finally—changing to heavy, wet flakes. As I sit in my cozy library, fire crackling, coffee nearby, I see the four friends, utterly indifferent to the weather, running together up the tree, down the tree, to another tree, and jumping from branch to branch, tree to tree overhead. They don’t seem to be working, but playing. Maybe to keep warm, or maybe because the hard work of food gathering is seasonal. Or maybe because it’s good squirrel fun. I’d certainly do it if I could. Although maybe not in this weather.
I wish them safety in the coming storm.
***
Gratuitous Dog Photo
Eli doesn’t want to be out in the damp, but he watches Dad and Auggie closely from my office window.
There is a phenomenon I experience which may or may not be common among writers. It is the cultivation of an empty calendar.
This means that when I am trying to get the wheels turning with my writing, I cannot have appointments. I cannot have repairmen coming to the house. (Yes, I know, but in my experience, they’re all men.) I can’t have the cleaning lady. I can’t schedule lunches. I can’t schedule coffees. I only very reluctantly schedule dental appointments and haircuts, but this is mostly only so I don’t lose all my teeth and depress myself looking in the mirror.
This does not mean that I can never do these things. But it means that I can only do them spontaneously—the social things, anyway—after the day’s work is finished and I have exhausted my capacity for further writing. If I schedule something, it haunts me, and even when I try not to allow it, the little voice that plans what to wear and when I should leave interferes with the freedom of mind I need.
Like today, for instance, I have no intention of getting out of my pajamas until I am finished with my work. If I knew I had to go somewhere for lunch, it would ruin my morning. Because by 8 am I would be thinking: I have to stop at 10 so I can wash my hair, and figure out where my black jeans are, and is that new paisley blouse clean. Then I would have to stop, locate the jeans, and most likely dig the blouse out of the hamper to throw it in the fifteen minute cycle of the washer, and set the timer so I remember to put it in the dryer… And by then my concentration is ruined and the day is lost.
This can make friendships difficult, and I’m not sure everyone completely understands. I’m not even sure I understand. But at times like this, I tend to go dark, and although I will respond to texts or emails, and eventually return calls, I don’t cheerfully answer calls. Usually my phone isn’t even anywhere near me.
And I try never to schedule anything. Particularly not on Mondays.
On the other hand, on most writing days, by noon I am ready to venture forth, and I spend a happy afternoon rambling around doing errands, wandering the aisles of the grocery store, then coming home and arranging the new flowers and making something for dinner. If someone is available for a spontaneous something, that’s a bonus. But it’s not essential.
The end result of all this is a somewhat messy house, a somewhat frowsy personal appearance, a long list of needed repairs, and trying the patience of my very lovely friends.
It’s not ideal, but I have learned that writing a book requires several kinds of ruthlessness. And this is only one.
J.F. Riordan 