winter

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.

Blurred Lines

/ J. F. Riordan / 2 Comments

Last night, just after dark on Ash Wednesday, I took the dogs out for a little ramble. The first thing I heard was a coyote in the distance, and then, later than usual, church bells, signaling the seven o’clock service for the Lutherans. Each, in its way, calling the community to assemble. It was a curious juxtaposition: the two sounds, one of civilization, one of the wild, both of God.

We walked in the dark, the dogs and I. Old man Pete and I walked gingerly, careful not to fall on the ice. Puppy Auggie raced and slipped, and slipped again, joyous and without care. Moses loped ahead, making sure all was secure. It was warmer than it had been, but the wind cut, and the coyote made us watchful and tense. Pete paused to point into the dark ravine. We all stopped to look, and then moved on.

With my hood up, I could hear strange sounds behind me. With my hood off, I could hear the unfamiliar crunch of my new boots. The sky was clearing, and a few stars shone. We walked only a little way before returning to the warmth of the house to sit by the fire.

One way or another, we were not alone.

The Island by Night

/ J. F. Riordan / 2 Comments

When I am on the Island, every night, before bed, the dogs and I go out for a long walk in the dark.

There is nowhere else on earth where I could walk alone, in the dark, in the woods, and feel so completely safe. It’s true I have my dogs with me, but they are even less worried than I, and frequently slip away into the trees to leave me to the sound of my own footsteps. On a cloudy night like this, it is so dark that only the melted dirt paths of this January thaw distinguish where to walk from the white snow everywhere.

Moses, who still carries the echoes of lupine ancestors in his soul, likes to disappear into the woods, projecting my course, to silently stalk me, later to charge out onto the path in front of me, in an unnerving fashion. It is a delightful game for him.  Auggie, his apprentice, has begun to follow him deep among the cedar trees.

Their stealth is remarkable, and their ability to judge the intersection of vectors is proof that dogs understand geometry. Each has a red light-up collar: Moses with a slow blink, and Auggie with a fast one, so when they walk with me I can tell who is who. But when they dissolve into the woods and turn dead-on, their collars are no longer visible, and I cannot hear the sound of their padded feet, their bodies long and low, in stalking mode, until they are immediately in front of me, delighted by their prowess and by my praise. Their happiness shifts them from predators to pets, but there is an inner reality that is vital to remember.

These night walks are essential to their well-being and to mine. For them, it is a chance to reassess the activities of the local wildlife. The fox has been out since we walked this afternoon, and the raccoon and deer and possum. The turkeys are roosting in a tree somewhere near, and the deer are no doubt nearby, waiting for the dogs to go in before they come to feed. Their game with me exhilarates the dogs and empowers them.

For me, it is an expansive moment of the soul. Alone, in the dark, but utterly unafraid, I walk along almost invisible paths, listening to the lake, to the occasional cries of owls or foxes, and I feel that I am in my life.

Nowhere else on earth.

Idle wishes

/ J. F. Riordan / 1 Comment

IMG_6842

Over the course of the nearly twenty years we have lived here, there is a particular route I often took with the dogs, through the woods, and around an open field. It used to be an uncivilized, practically forgotten place, where we never met anyone except skunks (see preceding posts), raccoons, and the occasional squirrel with a death wish. But, sadly, the woods have been upgraded with wood-chipped paths, new signs with rules that forbid unleashed dogs, and other niceties which are not improvements. There are always people there, now, so we don’t go very often anymore. There aren’t many places where big dogs can just run free without other dogs around.

When we do go, I choose odd times of day and bad weather, hoping to improve the odds that we won’t encounter anyone, and we can flout the rules with wildly happy, romping dogs. There are a few other stalwarts who seem to take the same approach.

One is a runner whom we have met on multiple occasions. He is not a young man. He has a long, grizzled beard, twinkly blue eyes, and a deeply genial and sincere manner. He drives a beat-up old pickup truck, which I have come to know. There is a place in the trail where people coming from opposite directions can suddenly encounter one another without warning, and the first time we met, it was there. The dogs were happily rummaging and trotting ahead of me, when suddenly there was a figure running toward us.

Immediately, I called Moses, the scary one, to my side, and he obeyed. But Pete, who is deaf, and Auggie, the headstrong puppy, would not come. Auggie throws himself at life in general, but also at turkeys, deer, strangers, and me, in particular. I once looked out into the woods and saw Auggie joyously flying first at one line of turkeys–all four feet in the air–and without waiting to see their startled flight into the trees, turning to hurl himself at the other line behind him. There is no malice in it, just pure exuberance, and even after two levels of obedience, it’s a personality trait that I am having the devil of a time training out of him. He has a characteristic German Shepherd stubborn streak that makes him very different from Moses.

At nine months Auggie was already well over ninety pounds, and once launched, he is a projectile who can take a person down. Now–to my horror–in his customary expression of puppy enthusiasm, Auggie ran to the man and joyously flung himself at the his chest, paws first. I was expecting threats and anger, but instead the man laughed gently. “Hello, puppy!” he said, and kept running to the sound of my increasingly urgent commands mixed with profuse apologies. “It’s okay,” said the man as he ran past. “I like dogs.”

Since then we have met several times a month. Never at the same time. I take care now to take a different route so we can’t accidentally encounter anyone. When I see the runner, I call the big dogs and keep them off the path until he passes. He thanks me each time.

On Christmas Eve, on one of our solitary walks, we met him again. There was a little bit of fresh snow on the ground, and the dogs were filled with energy and eager to run. We went off on our different paths, and all was well. We were almost back to the car when I heard myself being called. The runner was coming toward me with his hand extended. “You dropped one of your leashes back there.” I thanked him, surprised that he had come all the way back, out of his way, to do this nice thing.

The logistics would have been tricky, and it would probably have been a little odd, but I would like to have given him a Christmas present.  He’s a fairly random stranger, but I feel as if our encounters are important. Life’s texture comes from these small things.

Christmas Story

/ J. F. Riordan


We had a baby born to our family early this morning. The first of a new generation on my side.

It is a muddled winter dawn. I lie in bed pondering the miracle of birth and feeling grateful for the health of mother and baby, as two great horned owls sing to one another in the woods.

There is joy in all creation.

Merry Christmas.

Signs of Life

/ J. F. Riordan

IMG_1191

In Wisconsin, snowdrops normally bloom in March, and, true to their name, burst through remnants of snow. This year, the only snow left is what has been plowed into mountains at the edges of driveways and parking lots, and even those are nearly gone.

But the snowdrops are here all the same, though rather early. And none the less welcome for that.

I’d rather have flowers than almost anything. Except, perhaps, snow.

 

Special Giveaway: North of the Tension Line

/ J. F. Riordan / 4 Comments

Tension_Line_rd4

It’s cold out. There’s not much to do, so why not enter a contest to win a free autographed copy of North of the Tension Line?

Submit a comment to this post explaining why you should receive a copy. Wide readership and/or a willingness to be a shameless shill are highly recommended.

Winner solely determined by the author’s whim. All decisions are final.

TNBBC’s The Next Best Book Blog: Where Writers Write: JF Riordan

/ J. F. Riordan

Exile desk

TNBBC's The Next Best Book Blog: Where Writers Write: JF Riordan.

TNBBC is a blog that features small press and indie books and their authors in varying playful question formats. Among these is the request for writers to show where they write. I was pleased to be asked, and was deeply tempted to discuss the drinks of choice for the characters of North of the Tension Line, but in the end I settled on a photo essay on where I write. I recommend heading to TNBBC for the chance to meet some great under-appreciated writers and their books. Believe me when I say we will all be grateful.

Big Fur Hat

/ J. F. Riordan / 2 Comments

In her last years my mother was always cold, and she complained about it regularly. She always admired ladies she saw with mink hats, and since she rarely asked for anything, a few years ago, I decided to get her one for Christmas.

After some searching I found a company called–Big Fur Hats. I spent a ridiculous amount of money–had she known, my frugal mother would have been horrified–to buy her one. I was pretty pleased with myself when I presented it to her, but I could see instantly that she did not like it. Gamely, she tried it on, and I think she wore it once or twice, but she hated it, I could tell.

The Big Fur Hat (BFH) is mine now, and it is an essential part of my equipment on Washington Island. I don’t care what I look like there–which is part of the fun, I admit–so I wear it when the dogs and I go for our walks. I look ridiculous. Nevertheless, it is a lifesaver, especially when the wind is blowing. Without it, I would be forced to shorten our walks, the source of the dogs’ joy, and my inspiration.

There may be lesson here, but I’m not sure what it is.

Big Fur Hat

A few weeks after blowing all that money on the unloved BFH, I found a vintage mink hat in a consignment store for $12. My mother loved it.

That’s mine now, too.