It happens time and again, that I board the ferry to Washington Island in dreary weather, but as we cross Death’s Door, there comes a glimmer of light.
(The title here is a quote from the poet Yusef Komunyakaa.)
Red Sky in the Morning
“It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live.”
Marcus Aurelius
Washed by Time’s Waters
What no one tells you is that the lake sings in winter. It makes a peculiar thrumming, like the sound effects of a space film, and it is the sound of the ice in the lake cracking and shifting. Sometimes you can feel the ground shake. It is strange and beautiful, as if the whole lake were a musical instrument, and it makes you know that life is mysterious and magnificent, and beyond our power to understand.
Feeding My Dog
Someone once said to me: ‘Buy a dog, get a tragedy’. It’s true. But it doesn’t change anything.
My husband kept his last name when we married; only our eldest dog, Auggie, chose to hyphenate. Augusta Matson-Johnson does what she wants.
“It’s a good sign when the dog who knows you best connects with your new wife,” I explained to my husband. He agreed. He and Auggie are the best package deal. Like Auggie, I have imagined so many ways to get through the banalities and indignities of daily life. Until a few years ago, I never could have dreamed of sharing it with a man as good as her owner, and her.
Mornings are exciting. After feeding the baby, I walk the dogs, then feed the dogs, then take a shower, then feed the cat. No one waits patiently for me to do this on my own timetable. Two labrador chins rest on my side of the mattress while I nurse, Auggie wanting her walk and Joon…
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View of the Lake Michigan from the Washington Island Ferry, first run on a winter morning.
The Mirror Cracked
Winter sunrise on Washington Island.
Winter Sea
Life in the North
Another manifestation of winter in Wisconsin today, with 6 more inches of snow expected. Most people don’t like snow, but it always delights me. This picture from a trip to Washington Island one February captures the beauty of the winter light at dawn on the frozen lake.
A Word About Pete
People who have been reading my blog (both of them) have asked me about Pete. How is he? Has he adjusted to life with his enormous brother?
And so, lest anyone think that a youthful, high-energy German Shepherd has completely stolen the show, a word about our smaller, auxiliary dog.
Pete is now officially the old man of the family. His white face and love of the couch are in contrast to his youthful self, when he leapt and ran like the coursing hound whose blood is somewhere in his veins. He loved to run, and when he soared over a low-lying bush to give chase to some trespassing creature, he looked exactly like the side of a bus.
He rarely shows this side of himself now, unless there are squirrels involved. He eyes the antics of Moses and his puppy friend with an air of skepticism, occasionally joining in the chase, but only briefly. He is more likely to bark and chase them down, rolling them onto their backs as he shows his teeth, just to show who’s boss. Remarkably, Moses, who outweighs him nearly two to one, rolls over timidly, submitting to Authority.
Pete is a snuggler. When he sleeps with us in the bed, I will frequently wake up to find his face lying delicately against my cheek. He is difficult to budge in the mornings, preferring the warmth of blankets to a brisk excursion in snow and cold. If you are busy and not paying him proper attention, he will nudge your hand with his nose insisting that you pet him, even if your hand has a cup of hot coffee or some good bourbon in a hand-blown glass.
There aren’t many photos of Pete, but this is because he has a horror of cameras. We don’t know much about Pete’s early life, because he came to us at 10 months old, or so. We know it wasn’t entirely happy, and we also know that it involved something bad with cameras. When a camera comes out, Pete slinks away or hides under the table. In the photos we do manage to take, Pete’s expression conveys the idea that he’s in a hostage situation. IPhones seem to have made a difference, but haven’t completely eliminated the problem. I think maybe it’s the high-pitched hum of digital flashes. My husband believes that someone posted an unflattering picture of Pete on Facebook.
In this unusually cold winter, both dogs have been getting less exercise than they should. Our daily walks in the woods after work have been curtailed by sub-zero temperatures and early darkness. I love these walks as much as they do, but the dogs are able to run easily in the deep snow of the woods, while I can only trudge along in big boots. Pete, on the trails, becomes his old self, and Moses sprints behind with his own equine grace, but he is less nimble and with a higher center of gravity.
The other day, they both started at the chuffing snorts of deer nearby, and in a split second they took off to give chase, Pete in the lead, and Moses leaping behind. They were gone for nearly five minutes, and I ignored it, knowing the deer were safe, that the dogs would be doubly tired when they returned. After a reasonable period of time, and before they made it to the next county, I whistled for them, and I heard them charging back long before I could see them.
This is our routine, and in it Pete returns to his younger days, while Moses simply blows off steam. The dogs bounce back to the car, panting, snow-covered, and happy, and then, in my own tribute to lost youth, we go up the road a bit to practice bootleg turns in the snowy parking lot of the golf course.
You have to make your own fun in the winter.
The Perils of Public Music
There used to be a lot of mockery about Muzak, that bland public music that took popular tunes like I Can’t Get No Satisfaction, removed the drums, and added violins and a zither. Its mediocrity was intended to soothe, but for people who actually like music, it served mostly to irritate. I don’t know if Muzak still exists. But if the corporate entity has faded, its inane heritage carries on with a vengeance.
Public music wears on the nerves. Airlines have decided that their passengers want to hear it as they get on and off the plane. Perhaps they believe that the hostilities going on as passengers hunt for space to shove their carry-ons will be somehow mitigated by jazz. I admit to being amused by the contrast of the activities going on above my head while saxophones pretend that everyone’s having a good time. Maybe the airline executives have a previously unsuspected sense of humor.
Hotels play music in their public spaces, and the selections are clearly chosen to set the correct tone of Fashionability and Chic. At the last place we stayed—iced-in while the airport was closed for two days—the effect was surreal. A colleague described it as Bollywood on acid. Even at 4 in the morning, during a discussion with the desk clerk over whether the gym was open, the empty lobby resonated with a strange undulating sound that created a vague feeling of nausea.
In the public rooms outside of a conference, the tinkling sound of wind chimes and synthesized chanting interferes with serious thinking, and creates a mental discord between the reality of work and the unattainability of vacation.
At resort hotels, the soothing sound of surf is covered up by the incessant beat of techno-funk. Inside the hotel lobby, however, you can hear the sound of waves, but only embedded in the Tibetan chimes of corporate spa music.
Travel, particularly business travel, is stressful. You are away from home and family and dogs. The TSA has put its hands all over your self and your stuff. Your feet hurt. You packed for the wrong climate. You haven’t finished writing your speech when the leading expert on the topic will be on the panel. Your flight is delayed and you may miss a conference call with your boss. Your cell phone battery is low. You are breathing stale air from plane, airport, and hotel conference rooms. You’re eating unhealthy food, and the gym was closed when you tried to work out. The airport announcements blare at you, and neon signs invite you to eat delicious unhealthy things. At times like these, you need your thoughts to yourself. So a word to people who control the volume: Just turn it off.
Please.
Big Scary Dog: A Moses update
We started out here
and here
and ended up here
and here
Moses is nothing like a golden retriever. He is gentle, yes, and he is loving, yes. But he is not a teddy bear. He is highly sensitive and always alert, like a finely-tuned machine. He loves, not by cuddling–although he loves to have his tummy rubbed, and he gives big kisses–but by watching. His focus is forever on you and with you, and he will wait, and watch, and shepherd faithfully, and with his whole being. The vet told me recently than no one on earth will ever love you the way a German Shepherd does.
I think she was right.
J.F. Riordan 