Waking to another morning of foggish gloom, even with a frosty coating of hoarfrost, was beginning to take a toll. Don’t get me wrong. There remains a blessed magic in hoarfrosts and a calm beauty within the fog and whiteness. Yet, somewhere deep in my soul I felt a need for color; to see blue sky and sense the warmth of the sun.
My son in Norway and Mary both push Vitamin D, which despite the ease of swallowing a pill lacks the verve and vitality captured from energy of the sun. One year while living in Denver there was a count of 300 plus days of sunshine in one calendar year that became utterly monotonous. I’ve even wondered how people in the Caribbean can handle having both the constant sunshine and temperatures every single day. Maybe it’s not the fog so much as it is the sameness.
Beyond the weather there is the me in me. Meaning, beyond this exterior of insufferable calmness there is a raging extrovert and exhibitionist, a hugger of rather unlimited bounds, a guy who craves social gatherings and fine dining with decent wine. Even my introverted partner claims she’s missing the social sides of our lives. This is our fourth winter together and our first of staying put. We don’t trust the masking, and even around here there is inconsistent compliance. At least here in our home surroundings we can safely cocoon while awaiting our shots.
Staying home is quite different. Two of the past three years we’ve taken long January road trips to the southern states, to the bayous of cypress and long-necked birds, to venues offering good music and have shared fun moments with distant friends and family while sharing dinners much different than deep-fried steak cubes and the mushy excuse of “BBQ’d ribs” served around here. Our shared vagabonding was interrupted a couple of winters back when I made a six week solo trip through SE Asia and Australia, which was my last experience in either an airplane or a foreign country.
We were initially planning to spend a long month this winter in Rockport, TX, where we were last year, surrounded by interesting birding experiences. Whooping cranes, roseate spoonbills, blue herons and other species congregate in interesting state and national parks along the western Gulf Coast. We further enjoyed our dining experiences by ambling across to Louisiana to visit my author friend, Roger Emile Stouff and his wife, Suze. Although it’s not sleepy country in reality, the Cajun Triangle offers shades of such in the bayous.
We briefly entertained thoughts of hooking up to travel to central New Mexico where sandhill cranes overwinter, and even considered spending a month at the old farm place in Northeast Missouri of my childhood. We’ve since learned from my nephew that a huge flock of snow geese have unexpectedly congregated on the farm which would have been rather interesting. Birds aside, our thinking was that this would be a warmer option than being here and it hasn’t appeared to have been. Plus, with the pandemic being an elephant in the room, we feared that our not being actual residents would jeopardize our getting the vaccinations. So we’re here at home with the dogs along with the Thorson’s horses and chickens, and yes, we’ve both feel fortunate to have received our first shots.
Actually, Listening Stones Farm, or Mary’s cabin on Lake Linka, are wonderful places to be. Things could be much worse! Here, if the sun is streaming through the windows of our solarium we can relax in a delightful and somewhat warm hideaway. Easing back in Dale and Jo Pederson’s comfortable bentwood furniture to watch the birds attack the feeder or to see the big bluestem ripple gracefully in a prairie wind in the lower prairie can wile away a good portion of a wintry afternoon. At the cabin, sitting in the warmth of a nice fire while looking out over the ice sheet as clouds continually fade and alter is equally as entertaining. At either place we can strap on cross country skis for some hearty exercise, which Joe Pye absolutely loves.
This fall Mary bought a hammock chair that I’ve now hung it in the upstairs of the studio next to a window ledge bird feeder. Downy woodpeckers, chickadees, redpolls and a couple of species of sparrows visit during the day, and in the mornings you can see and hear bluejays attacking the seeds with what could be mistaken as anger! If I’m downstairs working I can often hear them pounding on the seeds like a rebellious teenage drummer in a garage band! It’s the “music” I hear while I work on an upcoming exhibit of my photographs or build a couple of fishing rods, or tie flies for the spring bluegill season.
So, yes, beyond the gloominess we are doing just fine. We’re safe. We have taken time to make some significant plans for our post-vaccine lives. Perhaps in March, with decent weather, we’ll take the camper down to central Nebraska to once again experience the sandhill crane migration, and we’ve actually committed to a trip to Isle Royale in late June. Later we plan to join friends in a camper caravan to Larrabee State Park outside of Bellingham, WA, with the same folks we met up with in Western Montana last September. They’re Mary’s “Murdock girls” who have remained close friendships through marriage, child-raising and careers, folks who are incredibly covid conscious and extremely careful.
Ah, the dreams. Sandhill cranes. Moose and wolves. Traipsing across the High Plains through the mountain passes to the rugged West Coast, hopefully passing through coastal Oregon to visit old friends on the way up to Bellingham. If we were driving on one of our long winter road trips we would still be making plans wiling the miles behind us, which we’re doing now as we’re enveloped in this foggy mistiness. Meanwhile we prepare interesting meals, share some fine wine and bake a loaf or two of bread to give the house some charm and character. As a friend was known to say, “things could be worse.” Yes, and in so many ways. We’re blessed that have one another, that we’re as alive as our dreams, of which we’re ever hopeful will materialize.