Adventures

Emergence

/ J. F. Riordan / 12 Comments

After a full day of work, I dragged myself out of my writer’s hole around 9:30 this morning to eat something and breathe some fresh air. Auggie was already racing, and even Eli oozed out the kitchen door for a little walk and some time with his green ball.

On our walk we discovered an enormous tree deep in the woods that had been completely uprooted and lay like a fallen giant. In the process it had taken a few neighboring trees down with it. Some of the daffodils are six inches high and others are popping up everywhere amid the hostas—which are also poking up. The blossoms on one of our big sugar maples have already opened—a record— two tiny blue scilla are blooming at the bottom of the hill where the turkeys gather, and a cluster of snowdrops are thriving among last year’s leaves.

Here in the midwest we’d usually call this False Spring just before Third Winter, but even though we have Lake Michigan to keep us fairly cool for a while longer, I don’t think Actual Spring is far off. At least I hope it isn’t because a heavy snowfall on our blossoming maple tree could bring it down.

It was a short winter for us, but at least we got some snow along the way.

A little bit of drama

/ J. F. Riordan / 31 Comments

It was very windy yesterday, and normally I am conscious of the dangers of being among trees in those conditions. But it was sunny and warm, and I was restless from writing, and Auggie was restless from being himself, so we were outside when a big tree came crashing down before our eyes, very close to where we had just been.

It was far enough away that we were not in any danger, but close enough that the wood dust flew into our eyes. We went indoors to find the bedroom doors blown open, and small branches on the floor. Eli, who had refused to come outside, was hiding. After that we waited for sunset, when the wind tends to die down, to go out again.

Life is precarious, so this dog photo isn’t really gratuitous at all. Eli insisted on resting his head on Auggie’s flank. After some pointed stares and couple of noises that were more groans than growls, Auggie permitted it. For a little while.

We have another big dead tree close to the house I had planned to ignore for a while. I guess I’d better call Johanna, our tree climbing, chainsaw-wielding arborist.

The day after Valentine’s Day

/ J. F. Riordan / 45 Comments

We woke to three inches of new snow, coating the branches in the magical way that reawakens childhood. There’s a fire in the fireplace, and a big snoring Eli on the couch. It feels very cozy and pleasant, and much more like February in Wisconsin.

I think the pandemic created a sense of the loss of time passing, and maybe that’s why I began assembling little Valentine gifts every year for my friends. They are never anything important, just a little token whose preparations feel festive. This year I read somewhere about a grandfather who always gave the writer candy tied up in a handkerchief, and the story was accompanied by an embroidered Valentine handkerchief that could be purchased for a ridiculous price. I wasn’t going to pay $40 for a handkerchief, but it gave me the idea.

So I began a hunt for vintage embroidered handkerchiefs. Soon they started arriving in little envelopes from all over the country, some with handwritten thanks. I paused over the note from one woman who wrote that she had been collecting handkerchiefs all her life, but now, as she was older, she wanted them to go to people who would enjoy them, rather than leaving them to her children who would just toss them out.

They were all white, with pink or red decorations. Some of the embroidery was by hand, and some was not, some were trimmed with lace. The combination of the different designs made a cheering jumble. They were all beautifully ironed, and some still had their original labels. I bought red and pink foil-wrapped chocolate hearts; foil-wrapped chocolate lips in pink, purple, and gold; a big spool of red satin ribbon; little white boxes; and heart stickers.

I suppose it’s all a little silly, but in the end, we are all children at heart. And who doesn’t miss the fun of valentines and a snack of Hawaiian Punch and cookies?

Incidentally, the grownup version of Hawaiian Punch is Ina Garten’s Cosmopolitan. Mix 2 cups vodka; 1 cup triple sec or Cointreau; 1 cup cranberry juice; 1/2 cup of fresh lime juice. Chill. Serve on the rocks in frozen glasses. No need to wait for next year’s Valentine’s Day. But be warned: too many Cosmopolitans can lead to the writing of terrible poetry.

Would “dangling with a chain saw” make a good book title?

/ J. F. Riordan / 30 Comments

Our property is almost entirely wooded, and the trees have a way of creating their own little ecosystem. It can be warm and sunny elsewhere, but when you turn in our driveway the shade envelopes you, dropping the temperature, delaying the melting of ice and snow, and, in the summer, providing sanctuary to far too many flying insects.

The shade in our house is so ubiquitous that I have chosen the color schemes to maintain a warm coziness, lest the leaves turn everything inside green in summer. In winter, the bright sunlight is a welcome change.

Maintaining this property is a bit like managing a park, and sometimes it means making some hard decisions. This week we are having to take down a healthy sugar maple—which truly pains me—but it was leaning perilously over the house, and after our recent heavy snow and ice, it became clear that it was us or the tree.

Enter Johanna. She runs a small tree care company, and recently won a state championship for her climbing and cutting skills. She is not someone we call for the minor things, but I trust her implicitly with the big stuff. Her calm cheerfulness is warm and reassuring, even as she is dangling from a rope and holding a chain saw.

She has colleagues who manage the ropes, feed the chipper, and help to make sure she is safe, but she does the climbing. Her team will be here for at least three days, felling the tree, cleaning up the storm damage, and cabling another big sugar maple to ensure its stability.

Whenever she is here I am distracted by a compulsion to watch her work. It isn’t something you see every day, and, frankly, her courage dazzles me. So, today may not be a very productive day, but it will certainly be an entertaining one.

Eli’s excellent adventure

/ J. F. Riordan / 31 Comments

Every morning for many years, our dogs went together into the woods for what we referred to as their morning ramble. Everyone went along: First Reggie and Pete; then Moses and Pete; then Moses, Auggie, and Pete; Then Auggie, Eli, and Pete. They would be gone—usually within sight—for ten or fifteen minutes, and then all return together on the run, jostling happily back into the kitchen smelling of fresh air, or sometimes of some foul thing they had all rolled in, and expecting their treats.

Then one day, it stopped. Why? Because, as we belatedly realized, the rambler was Pete. He was the hound dog, the one with the scenting nose and the wandering impulse. Pete was also the pack leader, even in his dotage. The Germans also seemed to have an instinct to protect him, following him like body guards. For whatever reason, it was a daily ritual. And their rambling was a very good thing. Everyone went off independently, but still together, to smell smells and stake territory, and make their own decisions. I very firmly believe that dogs who have this kind of independence develop a depth of understanding that builds capabilities and personality. Argue if you want.

Eli is a particularly unrambly dog. He likes to stay close to home, preferably on the bed or couch. He doesn’t like loud noises. He thinks airplanes are thunder, and runs to hide. He hears distant gunshots and runs to hide. He hears construction noises in the distance and runs to hide. He only shows his shepherd side when strange animals or people approach. Then he stands his ground quite terrifyingly.

So, this morning, after he had interrupted me four times to go out, and I had brought him to the door four times while he simply stood at the door step and looked out, I put on my shoes, walked out six feet, and when he followed me, I turned around and walked back in, leaving him to scratch plaintively at the door. I ignored him and went back to my work.

But from the library windows, I could see, to my surprise, Eli, alone, down in the woods, and moving purposefully away from the house. I stood up to watch and followed him from window to window, room to room, as he went deep into the brush, sniffing, looking, investigating logs and holes. I didn’t want to interrupt him, but I didn’t want to lose him, either.

But after ten minutes or so, he paused and put his nose into the air. And then, having made his decision (“‘I smell something,’ said the Poky Little Puppy.”1) he turned and galloped up the hill to the house. Not fearfully, just a happy-to-be-going-home gallop.

I have no idea what inspired this, but I am happy when he’s happy. Maybe he will find it was an experience worth repeating. I hope so.

  1. The Poky Little Puppy is a children’s book written by Janette Sebring Lowrey and illustrated by Gustaf Tenggren. It was one of the famous Golden Books series, and is still in print 82 years after its first publication. ↩︎

It was another world

/ J. F. Riordan / 34 Comments

Today would have been my parents’ 79th wedding anniversary. World War ll was coming to its climax, and my dad begged my mom to come to Annapolis to get married before he shipped out. So she, my aunt, and my paternal grandmother—my other grandmother had already died—took an unheated train from upstate New York to Virginia. They were so cold they all snuggled together under my grandmother’s big fur coat.

It was war time, so there were no cabs, and they had to take a trolley to get to the Navy chapel. My mother always said that was the moment she was glad she hadn’t worn a wedding gown. Instead she wore a dove gray suit with a spray of yellow roses. My father always gave her yellow roses for their anniversary.

They all spent the wedding night together in one room. Romance wasn’t really an option in war. My mother said many times how when they kissed good bye she didn’t know if she’d ever see him again. It’s hard to imagine how difficult life was then.

And we all think we are stressed.

My dad and mom are in the middle. My Aunt Ruth was matron of honor. The name of the best man is lost to time.

You can’t be dry in the dark

/ J. F. Riordan / 39 Comments

Yesterday was a curiously lost day. It was a little bit worrying to realize how much I depend upon technology, and how lost I was without it.

It was a busy day for us, however. There were branches hanging heavily with snow needing to be brushed off or beaten with a broom to keep them from breaking. There was the driveway to clear, along with the two foot high barricade of ice from the snowplow. And there were fallen branches to remove and add to the growing bonfire pile, all to the cheerful accompaniment of playful dogs.

But once we had done what could be done, we came inside to a strangely silent house.

At one point, cold, but too grubby and unshowered to go anywhere other than the hardware store, I just drove around, charging my phone and listening to music, while my exhausted husband napped. The snow was beautiful in the sunshine.

Later, despite my hair—which made me look as if I’d just been released from the local asylum—we went to a nearby restaurant for wifi, and by mutual consent, put Dry January on the ash heap of history. We met our favorite neighbors there, by chance. They had also been caught in the clutches of Dry January, and had thrown it over the night before, when their tree took out everyone’s power line. We traded anxieties about frozen pipes, spoiled food, and what to do if there was still no power on Sunday. They, too, have a pair of big sweet dogs, which we agreed tends to make you unpopular with hotel management. Our conversation was interrupted by several recorded phone calls from the power company, dangling hope with laughable vagueness.

Nevertheless, on the way home, parked alongside the road to our house was an armada of utility trucks, and the big tree that had been leaning perilously on the main lines was gone. The dogs greeted us as if we’d been gone a month, even though it had been little more than an hour. The house was ridiculously dark and growing cold, so we settled into a very early bed, with dogs and the gas fireplace to keep us warm, buckets of snow on the hearth, downloaded movies, and a decanter of Irish whisky.

This morning, the heat is on; hot coffee was waiting when I got up at 3:30; and my computer is up and running. In a little while I will reload the dishwasher and finish restoring the kitchen to its normal cheerful order. Most important: we will be able to watch the Packers game this afternoon.

As with so many life experiences, we have come away with an important lesson learned.

January is no time to give up alcohol.

***

Gratuitous Dog Photo

Eli kept his big coat on all day.

White out

/ J. F. Riordan / 25 Comments

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.

Happy weekend!

It’s a Blizzard

/ J. F. Riordan / 29 Comments

Or close enough.

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.

***

Pertinent (as opposed to gratuitous) Dog Photos

Winter Joy

/ J. F. Riordan / 36 Comments

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.

It is pure joy.