For the past several days a northwest wind has been racing down from the Arctic across the frozen tundra of Canada, sailing across Lake Superior past my house in a rush of winter. Its mission? To freeze everything in its wake. It is a cold, dry wind sucking up water from the relatively warm lake, turning it into snow. Looking out the window you see nothing; looking out the window again you see a streaming mosaic of white. At times the flakes are so dense you cannot see the trees; at other times it's all as flimsy as fishnet stockings.
Mostly the snow sallies on past, leaving just a smattering of its brethren behind to hold court on the north side of each tree and structure while the vast horde of it hurries on to somewhere else, somewhere around Trenary, Traunik, or Sundell, the so-called highlands where the ground rises up to meet the wind and the wind stalls, abruptly dropping its load with a thump.
This is winter, and it feels like we've started smack dab in the middle of it. Half of the wood pile is protected by a tarp, but half is yet uncovered - except by snow.
The snow shovel is out, but then again it was never put away. The snow scoop leans up against the house next to the rake.
I've switched on the lights in the pump house and crawl space to help keep the water mechanicals warm, and I've plugged in the heat tapes that prevent the water pipes from freezing.
On the radio, the local news begins with school closings.
I've run a pail of water and loaded up on candles, matches, and batteries for when the electricity goes out.
The ice scraper and snow brush have moved from the back of the truck to the front, I've filled the window washer reservoir, the flashlight in the glove compartment works, I've got four new tires (!), and maybe I'll throw in an extra jacket and some snow pants.
In the house, I've lit the small propane wall heater on the far side of the kitchen that helps to keep that end warm. The wood stove is hot, and except for early in the morning the house is toasty. I begin each day by stirring the stove's sleepy-eyed embers and piling on logs and maybe some crushed newspaper. I wrap myself in a blanket, huddle around a cup of hot tea, and wait, listening to the roar of the waves and the wind, a roar that always seems louder in the dark. Snow pellets ping against the window. In each corner of the sofa a dog is curled, and the cat hunkers down in front of the stove. Eventually, flame, and then a fire takes hold. Eventually, we begin to warm. Eventually, someone stirs, and a ripple effect of slow movement ensues. The light comes up outside. With a few extra layers of clothes to put on and boots and a hat and gloves and the one dog's jacket, preparing for the morning outing takes a bit longer. Then, as we step outside, the wind smacks our faces and we wake up.
Mostly the snow sallies on past, leaving just a smattering of its brethren behind to hold court on the north side of each tree and structure while the vast horde of it hurries on to somewhere else, somewhere around Trenary, Traunik, or Sundell, the so-called highlands where the ground rises up to meet the wind and the wind stalls, abruptly dropping its load with a thump.
This is winter, and it feels like we've started smack dab in the middle of it. Half of the wood pile is protected by a tarp, but half is yet uncovered - except by snow.
The snow shovel is out, but then again it was never put away. The snow scoop leans up against the house next to the rake.
I've switched on the lights in the pump house and crawl space to help keep the water mechanicals warm, and I've plugged in the heat tapes that prevent the water pipes from freezing.
On the radio, the local news begins with school closings.
I've run a pail of water and loaded up on candles, matches, and batteries for when the electricity goes out.
The ice scraper and snow brush have moved from the back of the truck to the front, I've filled the window washer reservoir, the flashlight in the glove compartment works, I've got four new tires (!), and maybe I'll throw in an extra jacket and some snow pants.
In the house, I've lit the small propane wall heater on the far side of the kitchen that helps to keep that end warm. The wood stove is hot, and except for early in the morning the house is toasty. I begin each day by stirring the stove's sleepy-eyed embers and piling on logs and maybe some crushed newspaper. I wrap myself in a blanket, huddle around a cup of hot tea, and wait, listening to the roar of the waves and the wind, a roar that always seems louder in the dark. Snow pellets ping against the window. In each corner of the sofa a dog is curled, and the cat hunkers down in front of the stove. Eventually, flame, and then a fire takes hold. Eventually, we begin to warm. Eventually, someone stirs, and a ripple effect of slow movement ensues. The light comes up outside. With a few extra layers of clothes to put on and boots and a hat and gloves and the one dog's jacket, preparing for the morning outing takes a bit longer. Then, as we step outside, the wind smacks our faces and we wake up.
