Softly grow the wilds

Oxeye daisy

There’s a trail I walk routinely for exercise – a five-mile loop through forested hills. But the trail features more than forests. It’s a mix of settings and scenery: meadows, river banks, old two-tracks that once served farmers and fishermen, a new foot bridge that now allows a hiker to ramble south of the river, not just north.

But its mystery and marvel are the trail’s twists and turns, ups and downs. You travel it not in a jarring way, like you do riding a roller coaster. You’re more a bird navigating the morning winds. Banking left, then right, then swooping down before – again – the climb.

No matter the season, there are visual surprises along the way – always just around the corner, it seems. In the fall, it’s the brilliance of the once-green leaves now bright red, orange, and yellow. In the winter, the white, fluffed canopy of snow-laden trees, arcing over the path. In summer, the crisp blue of the river surrounded by now-tall, thick grass and vine.

And in the spring? It’s the season of the wilds … nature’s annual gift of Monet-like colors scattered at your feet. 

I’d not paid much attention to wildflowers until this spring. Given I’m a couple of years shy of my seventh decade, that’s shameful. For one who seems to love nature so much, I know little about it. I know the call of a chickadee and a piliated woodpecker. Maybe a robin. But that’s about it. (Ducks and geese don’t count.) I can tell you what oak and birch bark look like, but not maple, or ash, or hickory, or cherry. I know catfish but only because of the whiskers.

Meadow Buttercup

About wildflowers, I knew nothing until this spring. I guess my newfound interest started on a hike Cindy and I took along the Jordan River Pathway, an hour’s drive north of us. The snows were long gone, but there was little green except in the pine branches. And yet, Cindy would spot the occasional wildflower, just emerging, and insist we stop and observe.

I bridled at first. I tend to walk the trail fast, eager to see what’s around the next turn. But her point sunk in. What are you missing? I asked myself. How much have you missed?

A few weeks later, I was hiking a different path with buddies Bill, Bill, and Keith. We four make a point on our regular walks of looking for nature’s tell-tale signs – the beaten-down beaver trail that descends from woods to water, the fox track cast in mud, the feather from a hawk … or was it a buzzard?

On such a question, we might discuss and debate at length like four crusty Supreme Court justices. It’s not unusual for us, for example, to surround a pile of scat and comment favorably about its size, then argue about its source. But, we always agree on a verdict after a few minutes and move on.

On this hike, though, one of the Bills – Bill Stott – came equipped with a new phone app. Called “Picture This,” it can, in seconds, analyze a photograph of any plant and tell you its name, species, botanical name, and genus. Plus, other things: its behavior in the forest, for example – an invasive? – or helpful facts like whether it’ll kill you if served up in a salad.

Canadian anemone

The app is frighteningly accurate, which – provided in other forms, on other topics – might eventually render we Justices moot. But on this day, we used the app with abandon. We spotted the fringed polygala, a small, purple plant reminiscent of a violet. We were fascinated by the spring starflower, with its seven, distinct, bright-white points. (So much of nature seems symmetric, but not this flower.)  About every quarter mile or so, we’d stop to classify a colorful bloom along the path.

Needless to say, I downloaded the app as soon as I got home. And I’m hooked. Now it’s Cindy who bridles a bit on our walks as I stop and stoop to get the best angle for a photo, then wait for the analysis.

“It’s a meadow buttercup!” I shout proudly, my triumph echoing down the trail. 

“Yes, dear,” she responds, glancing ahead and behind to make sure we’re alone.

Still, I know she appreciates this newfound interest. My job now is to retain this knowledge. I’ve always been impressed by true, tough frontiersmen who know every bird call, every animal track, every tree leaf, every smell that wafts in a forest breeze. They aren’t afraid to shout “meadow buttercup!” into the woods. Just imagine how alive their walks must be. 

Starflower

Yesterday, I took my usual five-mile hike. Typically, it takes me an hour and 25 minutes to do the loop. This time, it was 1:35. Those 10 minutes were spent capturing the oxeye daisy, the Philadelphia fleabane, the Canadian anemone, and – yes – the starflower and meadow buttercup. And a few more.  

So, that’s my goal. I’ll start with wildflowers, then tree bark, then bird songs, then other things in nature more obscure. I will trap them in my brain and bind them tight. 

Then maybe, one day, my grandson and I will walk this trail, where softly grow the wilds. And he will learn to know me for what I know.

Grandpa Doug … frontiersman, witness to nature’s beauty; perhaps, with luck and patience, scatmaster.

Philadelphia fleabane

Bare bones

This is a first. At least for us, at this house perched above Chandler Lake. We’ve not seen anything like it in our six years here.

It started weeks ago. I could see them at work outside my office window. First a brown one. Then two, each solid black. Squirrels slowly, methodically, peeling the bark off a young, thin, maple tree. 

They started their work about midway up. After they skinned off the first piece, I didn’t think much of it. A walk through any woods up here reveals small scars on trees – shiny bone outlined by dark bark. Most trees do just fine after such an assault, because the injury is contained. Perhaps the squirrels get bored with a single spot. Like a restaurant too often visited, variety is good, so the squirrels move on. 

This, though, was different. Each morning, the squirrels would come back to this unlucky maple. The initial three squirrels grew to five, sometimes six at a time … a treetop coffee klatch. Each morning, they would peel more, working from the middling spot up, then from the middling spot down. 

Today, the tree stands bare except on its thinnest branches – a skeleton from root level to its spindly top. 

It’s sad to see, frankly. In fact, you can’t help but see it. As I write this, light snow descends, and the woods around us are showcased by evergreen branches weighed heavy with last night’s fall. But while the trunks of the other trees – oaks, other maples, cedars and pines – stand straight, tall, silhouetted like shadowy soldiers against the white, our small victim of the squirrels’ obsession is terribly easy to spot. The tree’s thin core is a slight yellow, yet the color so contrasts with its grayscale surroundings, it shouts its vulnerability.

It will die. A tree without bark is like me or you without our arteries and veins. Leaves send food, via photosynthesis, to the roots; the roots send water and minerals to the leaves. The layer of tissue just beneath the bark provides the down-and-up pathway. Our small tree has been stripped of that layer. So, its destiny is sealed. I wonder if I should cut it down, to ease the suffering.

Sad. In the fall, it was a brilliant red.

Why did our squirrels, who we know well because of their antics around our bird feeder, do such a thorough job on the unlucky maple? Squirrels strip bark to pad their nests, say wildlife experts. But they also enjoy the sugars and nutrients layered between bark and trunk. 

I can grant them the need for building material. Perhaps they see a more-severe winter ahead. (It’s been pretty wimpy so far.) As for food, though, we were bombarded by large acorns this fall, and I watched the little beasties as they buried their hoards. I can’t imagine they’re lacking nutrition. In fact, they seem a bit chubby.  

Regardless, why strip an entire tree when a smorgasbord of trees would do?

Hard to know. But it seems a metaphor for our time. Perhaps dueling metaphors. 

The convenient reach is to see it as a sign of societal distress – a stark warning like a red flare, shot into the sky. “Something is clearly wrong among you men!” the fur friends are saying. “Beware!” After witnessing beasties of another sort raiding the Capitol building last week, maybe this is the right conclusion … our squirrels are bushy-tailed Paul Reveres. This is our Liberty Tree.

The kinder, gentler reach is that Nature always has its excesses … the unusual events, the unexpected twists and turns, the seeming aberrations. As perfect and predictable as Nature often is, it’s when you take her for granted that you’re surprised. So, our bare tree is just the product of our squirrels deciding to be, well, unusually squirrely. Nature’s like that.

Ever the optimist, I’m leaning toward the second view. 

That said, now, during my usual, winter walks through the woods, I’m on the hunt for more trees like our doomed maple. Just to be sure they’re not out there multiplying – flanking our forests in ever-increasing numbers, shouting their own silent warnings. Like an army of skeletons in a cemetery parade. 

So far, so good. 

Fort 'Mater

I remember as a youngster seeing a TV sketch in which two Brits – a husband and wife – were attempting to sunbathe on a British beach. It was cold and cloudy, as British beaches can be. The two were dressed heavily despite it being summer.

Not long for this world

“Get ready, love! Here it comes!” he yelled.

And then the sun peeked out. The two flashed open their coats, revealing too-taut bathing suits and chalky bodies, and thrust their faces hungrily upward. Then, seconds later, the sun retreated.

“That was a good one, eh, love?” she asked.

So it is with our growing season in Northern Michigan. Here, but quickly gone.

I’m a second-rate gardener. My best success was when we lived in fertile Central Illinois. Then, I could toss a few kernels of sweet-corn seed into the backyard and feed the neighborhood.

Up here, it’s a struggle. Successful gardeners do the work with panache, but they’ve been at it a long time, instinctually knowing the nuances and brevity of the growing season. Timing is everything. We almost went to war when Covid and the governor prevented folks from buying their seed and fertilizer at the garden shops. Spring days in Northern Michigan are measured in minutes.

Given my failings as a farmer, but still wanting home-grown tomatoes, I decided during our first spring Up North that we’d buy potted plants, already healthy and tall, to even the odds of success. It’s a system that’s worked pretty well … until last month.

Three's better

We always buy three plants. An Early Girl, to quickly satisfy the itch. A Big Boy, because size does matter. And one of those varieties of small, cherry tomatoes. This year, we chose SunSugar, which actually turns out orange fruit.

Our house on Chandler Lake is shrouded by tall pines and oaks. So, in our six years here, I’ve learned well where the sun most warms our lot. It’s a 10-foot by 10-foot square at the northeast corner of our house, on the walk by the driveway. It’s the only spot in the entire yard where you’re guaranteed more than a few hours of direct sun. That’s where these three plants must go … side by side, all in a row, like three football linemen.

Each May, imagining lunchtime BLTs, we visit the garden shop halfway to Suttons Bay and buy our plants. I know exactly where they are … at the back of the main greenhouse. They’re easy to spot, in giant pots and towering a leafy four feet tall. Lifting them onto our flat cart is like lifting baby elephants.

We squeeze them into the car, behind the front seats, always careful not to break the vines. Then at home, just as carefully, we deposit them in their driveway spots. “Grow, boys, grow!”  I instruct, always forgetting there’s a girl among them.

Taller than me!

This year’s season started perfectly. Lots of rain alternating with, warm, sunny days. Within a few weeks, the vines were a proud six feet tall and the fruit began to show. By July, we were picking the SunSugar and salivating as the Early Girl’s first offspring turned deeply red.

But, disaster. One morning, after making my coffee, I went outside to get the paper and check the plants. I think we’ll be picking our first today, I thought. Then I saw it. What had, the prior evening, been a plump, buxom Early Girl tomato was now a hollowed-out shell, the skin tattered and torn, the red meat almost gone. What meat was left was marred by narrow tooth marks.  

“Cindy!” I yelled to my better half inside, outraged. (If I love tomatoes, Cindy adores them.) In our six years, this had never happened. Sure, the plants had sometimes suffered too-cold temperatures, or occasional drought. But never the audacity of an animal’s bite.

I quickly Googled “deer teeth marks,” thinking the herd on the hill was the culprit. But deer don’t have upper incisors, I learned, so they tear at their food. These marks showed the precision of a surgeon – straight, deep lines.

“Squirrel, maybe,” I muttered. “Or chipmunk.”

I ruled out squirrels, figuring that we already feed them adequately from our bird feeders on the opposite side of the house.

But the chipmunk? Both our pup Ginger and I had occasionally spotted one on the drive, under the woodpile. Nevertheless, I was optimistic. This was an aberration, I thought. What’s one tomato among hundreds over a half-dozen years?

“I’ll just pick the next one tomorrow. It’ll be fine.”

The next morning, the second ripe Early Girl was gone … completely. Aghast, I quickly ruled out the chipmunk. How could such a small creature climb three feet up, pull the heavy fruit completely off the vine, and then steal it away with no trace? Knowing the might of squirrels, I reconsidered their guilt.

Truth’s moment came that afternoon. I spotted the chipmunk running from beneath the Big Boy. Ginger gave chase, to no avail.

Busted! I thought.

I quickly Googled how to protect the plants from chipmunks. Home Depot carried some bird netting that just might work, I read, so I bought two 14-foot x 14-foot sections. Plenty of material to double-cover the threesome.

“This just might work,” I told Ginger as I draped the netting over the vines, making sure I allowed plenty at the bottom to confuse the chipmunk. “I don’t think he’ll get through this.”

That night, I went out to fire up the grill. Ginger tagged along. Then it happened … within seconds. Just as I stepped on the driveway, Ginger dashed toward the tomatoes.

“He’s back!” I yelled.

The chipmunk, under the Early Girl this time, instantly saw the threat and shot toward the woodpile. But he snagged himself in the nets, thwarting his own escape.

Ginger lunged for the chipmunk but also got snagged.

Then everything seemed to move in slow motion, like a Sam Peckinpah movie … the chipmunk, dog and the three towers of bountiful summer fruit went tumbling in a confused mess of black netting, green vines and underripe tomatoes.

It was a tornado, twisting, turning, wiping out the farm.

Just as I reached the scene, the chipmunk somehow bolted free. Ginger tried to give chase, but she was anchored by the nets and now-tipped pots, each weighing about 30 pounds. Barking, her legs churning, she only compounded the problem, getting deeper into the snags and shaking the vines. The vines, having fallen like dominos, bounced up and down, tangled, now at a less-proud six inches off the ground.

“Ginger!” I yelled. “Stay! Stay!!”

I grabbed the panicked dog, yelled to Cindy for assistance, and we slowly unwound the netting from the carnage. Delicately, I lifted each vine, inspecting what remained and what was lost. The cherry tomatoes survived the maelstrom relatively intact … they remained on the vine. But the Early Girls and Big Boys were a mess.

   

The victims

There were fourteen victims in all, each of substantial girth and promise. Uttering a quiet, disgust-filled f-bomb, I softly placed them in a plastic bowl. I already knew their fate. We’d made fried-green tomatoes before, but I’d never been good at cooking them. It’s such a pity that the green ones don’t work well between bacon and lettuce.

Northern Michigan gardeners must be resilient when Nature strikes, so we quickly strategized about what to do. The growing season was still young, and while some vines were broken, many were not. Brought to their right height, we assumed there’d be fruit ahead.

Cindy suggested that instead of draping the netting down from the top of the vines, we drape it up. That is, we set the heavy pots atop the netting and gather the fabric together at the top. That way, the chipmunk couldn’t slip underneath.

Made sense, so I quickly agreed. But I was fearful nonetheless. Thinking now we needed to tightly circle the wagons, I pulled the three pots together. So, what was once a row of fearsome linemen was now sadly and depressingly defensive-looking – three disheveled survivors, hunched back to back, waiting for the next assault.

I imagined Custer and two other doomed compatriots at the Little Big Horn.

We made one more calculation: If we used just one 14-by-14 netting to cover the plants from the bottom up, we could surround the base with a bunched-up version of the other. So, turning the second net into a wide but loose, many-layered rope, we circled the trio with the net, then weighed it down with rocks and branches. Imagine thick barbed wire without the barbs, or a fabric moat.

“Get through that, you sucker,” I challenged the chipmunk, who I knew was watching from a distance.

Fort 'Mater

Today, I’m pleased to say that Fort ‘Mater has held up just fine. We’ve harvested some fine specimens. Better yet, of the fourteen victims, a half dozen or so turned red in the kitchen. We used them for BLTs and just straight eating. The fried-green tomatoes were just okay.

Next year, I vow to bring back the linemen, though with bottoms-up netting from the start. Meanwhile, the trees already are starting to turn; a swatch of yellow and red has appeared on the maples across the lake.

Like other gardeners up here, I know the growing season will soon end. All things considered, I'm still optimstic ... confident I'll be able to say in October, as I store the pots:

“That was a good one, eh, love?” 

Survivors ... tasty!

A Sad Addendum:

Okay, now I blame Trump, the pandemic, and global warming. 

Two days after I posted the above, I went to check the tomatoes' progress. To my dismay, nearly every Big Boy and Early Girl was marred with deep divots ... like someone had used a sand wedge to pitch them into a neighbor's putting green. Worse, my nearly ripe, orange SunSugars were gone. All gone.

The mystery deepened when I noticed critter poop on nearly every branch and leave. And that many of the leaves were also gone. Branches stripped bare.

Then I spotted a caterpillar – green, bulbous, as fat as a middle finger after a bee sting. Then I saw another ... and another. Three altogether. Like the three horsemen of the apocalypse. I'm sure the fourth had been there but moved on once the feeding became spare.

Daughter Meghan quickly learned the culprits were tomato hornworms. The "horn" refers to the worms' horn-looking tail. These guys can decimate the heartiest plant in just hours, which explains the massive amounts of poop. Each worm's innards are like a finely tuned manufacturing line.

I placed two of the caterpillars into glass jars so we could view them like jurors. (The third one had died on the vine.) We researched the species and marveled at how beautiful they become as moths.

Because of that potential grace, it didn't seem right to judge them harshly ... to kill the surviving two. So I let them free in the lower yard.

"We'll see if they climb the stairs and return to the plants," I announced.

Meanwhile, ever hopeful, I disposed of the sand-wedge tomatoes, trimmed the leaves discolored by the poop, freshly watered the pots, and re-draped the lot with the bird netting. Tomorrow, I will watch for deer, squirrel, chipmunk, and worm.

I will also wish that this tomato season ... and all of 2020 ... be quickly gone.

River's Bend

What’s marvelous about summer life in the north is the weather, of course. As our kinfolk collectively bake south of us, we stay cool. Even after some warm days here, the promise of relief is always just days away. We know the Great Lakes will soon send crisp winds ashore.

So, this morning, I write at a table outside. Last week was warm. Today, it’s only mid-July, but it seems to sniff of Fall. It helps that a northwest breeze rustles the trees, and the sky’s dark-rimmed clouds seem laden with rain. Also, acorns are falling, bouncing off keyboard and head, making the wakeup coffee less necessary.

I promised myself last night that I would write of the trails this morning. Trails are also what’s marvelous up here. There are so many, so close.

So … there was a moment early last week when I’d ventured out, seeking relief from the office, to a favored hiking spot. The trail is a single track – rooty and rocky, lined with tall trees, mainly, but tall grasses in its meadow spots. It follows closely a crystal-clear river of maybe 4-foot depth and 50-foot width.

I planned to put in four miles of hiking or so. It was uneventful, to the extent that striding through Nature’s deep-north majesty can seem routine. That changed at the bend in the river. I’d hiked down to the valley, at the west end, and followed the river’s route east for about a mile. The trail then reached a fork. The path most traveled went straight; the narrower path, almost obscured by grass, went to the right.

The river here is horseshoe-shaped, looping south before returning north. The straight path cuts across the meadow at the horseshoe’s base. The trail turning right follows hard along the river’s loop, meeting up again with the main path.

Hearing Frost’s whisper – “I took the one less traveled by” – I hung right.

The tall grass was still damp from the night, swaying slightly, heavily, in the breeze; my hiking poles shook the dew loose, dampening my boots. White and yellow wildflowers hovered above the grass, glistening as I glided by. The river’s quiet rush could be heard now, the high waters from yesterday’s rain splashing over tree fall that had floated downriver from the nearby woods.

A meadow trail is much different from a forested one. The latter, at least up here, promises not just roots and rocks but lots of ups and downs, twists and turns, and the occasional limb across it. You must look at your feet as much as you look up to avoid the stubbed toe or twisted ankle. I know of hikers, myself included, who grow so fixated with the ground that they miss seeing the low-hanging branch at eye level. The sound you hear is the thump of a ripe melon.

In the meadow, though, the path smooths and straightens, and your sight is set free. It seems, at least for me, that this is when my mind truly absorbs the splendor of this place … this place called Up North; now, after seven years, also our place.

As I looked up, the sun was just breaking over the ridge; pines, oaks, maples, and birches lined the river’s south bank, their leaves and branches dancing in the fresh shadows. The river’s silver top moved by swiftly … a flowing, glass ribbon. Just above the trees flew a hawk – silhouetted, likely a red-tailed – swooping north, then south, scouting for prey, or perhaps just enjoying the winds of the morning.

As I turned along the southern-most point of the loop, feeling the sun’s embrace, there came that moment – the moment of clarity that we all seek but seems so elusive when in Nature. Seeing the hawk soar, hearing the river’s rush, breathing in the deep freshness of grass and flower, gathering all of those senses into one split, teeming second, my heart was filled to the top, ready to burst. Out tumbled my own whisper, a plea, I suppose. “Could this ever be my Heaven? Just like this?”

I remember a few years ago, when two hiking buddies and I were nearing the end of a grueling, 10-day, 140-mile backpacking trip along Lake Superior. I asked the gents – who were, like me, nearly exhausted on this ninth day – why we hiked. Our answers ranged from “Because we still can” to “Because of the challenge.” I offered instead that, because of the remoteness, we get to see what most others cannot.

 

My reason now seems selfish.

Today, though, I think we hike for moments like this bend in the river. When, during these tumultuous, confusing days of tenacious virus and sour politics and human frailties, what’s beautiful and righteous and perfect in Nature can split your mind wide and let the good flood in.

This week, daughter Meghan, son-in-law Eric, and grandson Orion arrive for a five-week stay. Like us, they’re among the lucky ones who can still work safely, remotely. Of course, for 2-year-old Orion, life is all play. And so, these five weeks will be, for Cindy and me, a welcome distraction from the worries of work and the world. We know Orion will fill our life with his innocence and antics and joy of discovery. And the occasional full diaper.

   

I suspect Orion’s sense of place is not quite honed yet. He’s been here before, but his most solid memories of us and Chandler Lake are likely of the more-recent, Facetime kind. So, it will be sweet to see him truly come to know this place, now that his senses are at full tilt.

For Meghan and Eric, though, it is Michigan memories that are astir. Up from Texas, they’ve long looked forward to this Up North refresher. Both trail hounds, they will venture off, I’m sure, along some of the same paths I’ve traveled.

But they also may find ones I’ve not yet discovered – the ones “less traveled by.”

Maybe even along bendy rivers less known.

Maybe their Heaven ... "just like this?" 

Independence Day

It’s the season we wait for up here … the end of spring, summer’s start. This year, summer began on June 20; last year, it was the 21st. Given this past, painful spring, we should be thankful the day arrived one day sooner.

Will summer be better? Hard to say. Politics and a nation’s destiny weigh heavy. But politics can’t be one’s only concern. There, madness awaits.

So now, at the first of each morning, I sit on the deck above the lake with my coffee and try to center myself. It doesn’t take much … a soft wind, a few leaves rustling above me, the nimble chickadee at the feeder, the dodging hummingbird’s thrum. If I’m lucky, a loon’s lonely call.

Then there’s the lake. Usually stark blue. But sometimes its surface is so still and flat that the opposite shoreline stretches across to ours, leaving a verdant mirror of thick, dark-green trees dotted with the occasional white – a moored boat, a secluded cottage. On other days, the lake’s surface ripples like Monet’s brushstrokes. Irregular yet muted, vague, the wrinkles caused by the wind’s whisper.

It’s rare we get big waves on this lake. That’s because it sits in a bowl carved by glaciers centuries ago. I like to imagine that God’s hand reached down and scooped out rock and sand and mud like an ice-cream jock scoops Cherries Moobilee at our local Moomers. The valley left behind is now encircled by high, forested hills. It’s hard for big winds to dip low enough to stir the water into ripples, let alone waves.

On such a hillside sits our house. What a treat, for which we’re continually grateful. It is, literally, a treehouse, because the pencil-straight red pines and burly, broader oaks surround us. Yet the views from the deck are spectacular. The trees don’t block our view; instead, they help frame the water, hills, and sky into pastel memories.

There’s a lesson here every morning, of course. Sure, that Nature outlasts all of us. That the seasons come and go, and we’re cognizant enough to witness them, and write about them. Maybe even alter them a bit. Though Nature always wins.

But Nature teaches us much more.

Today, I saw the mama duck and her eight ducklings float past our dock. The ducklings are much bigger now. Not yet mama’s size, but teens by human measure. You can sense her eagerness to send the youngsters along with her blessing. Before, when they were mere inches long, they’d tightly tag behind her, beak to tail, in a bobbing, straight line. She’d protect them with her life. Today, she seemed to encourage them to swim ahead of her. To really test the waters. The teens were awkward, unsure of her direction, bumping into each other, the line now gone.

They will sort it out. Young ducks always have.

Mama proved anew that there’s a reason why we grow up, start thinking for ourselves, decide not to just follow the leader.

So, summer is here. Late this week, we’ll observe Independence Day. Then eventually, after summer is gone, a second show of independence, Election Day. But those are all human creations, reflecting our need to make sense of time and history and destiny.

A morning on Chandler Lake teaches me, instead, the sweetness of humility. How to be quiet, to watch, to listen. To learn. 

The Neighbor

(A very short story) 

The three friends watch. Each day, precisely at 8 a.m., they watch through the front window. It is their routine now, like the biscuit at daybreak, the walk before bedtime. The mantle clock that ticks and tocks.

Across the dirt road, up the long country drive, the front door slowly opens. The storm door shimmers, the light shifting unsteadily on its window surface as it is opened, too.

The cane appears first. Always the cane, probing, tapping, finding purchase on the low cement porch. Then she follows, stooped, her thin body struggling to free herself of the storm door’s pull. Not much taller than the cane, she is gray-haired and wears a blue robe—always the blue robe.

She reaches shakily for the short railing along the single step. The friends tense, their eyes sharpen, their brows arch. They’d seen her fall here once. Seen her misjudge the step’s length. Seen her struggle to get back up, cane in one hand, the railing’s baluster and the letter in the other.

The letter. Always a letter … square size, white-papered, gripped tight in her left hand as the cane occupies her right.

She reaches the drive—two tracks, dirt, weedy, rarely used. Rarely visited. She begins the long walk to the main road, slowly, consistently, steadily, the cane setting her pace. Cane, step … step. Cane, step … step. Like a flawed waltz. She favors her right leg this morning. The friends notice. It is not routine.

The three relax a bit, though. The drive is smooth, despite its weeds. She’s never fallen here.

She reaches the mailbox, a dull-red country box atop a muddy pine post. The friends tense again. Cane in one hand, letter in the other, she must pull hard to open the mailbox door. It’s a stubborn door. They know it requires work.

Holding her letter between thumb and hand, she grasps the door’s handle with two fingers. She leans hard away from the box, against her cane, counting on her slight weight to help her thin fingers. She leans three times; each time, a jerk rattles her small frame. Each time, the friends’ eyes widen.

Upon the third pull, the door pops down. She slips the letter, now bent and wrinkled, into the box, closes the door, raises the red flag. She begins the long walk home. Cane, step … step. The three watch her climb her porch, pull open her storm door, shakily slide inside. They relax and find separate corners to sleep. Their routine.

Later that day, the postman comes in his truck, engine growling, brakes squealing. The friends bark, whine, growl back.

Then the house is quiet again. The dogs find their corners. The mantle clock ticks and tocks.

Each day, a letter. Each day, the postman takes her letter. Each day, he leaves nothing in return. 

The Spring of My Winter

Orion Glen Hoffnagle

I have a new writing perch now. It’s in our sunroom, on the second floor, overlooking the deck that overlooks the oak and pine trees that overlook our lake. So, I can see a lot.

And from there I enjoy the show. The ducks and geese are about gone, forced to fly to warmer climes as the lake’s icy surface slams shut. But many land birds remain. Chickadees, cardinals, red-tufted woodpeckers, the occasional blue jay. All flit to our two feeders – mounted securely on the deck railing – with a sweet urgency that you don’t see in spring, summer, or fall. The cold and snow are great motivators.

Of course, the squirrels – gray, black, and red varieties – enjoy the feeders, too. We’ve long made peace with the squirrels, assuming about a third of our seed budget goes to keeping the boys and girls in the tree tops fat, warm, and happy. (Though I do wish they’d clean up after themselves before they head back up the bark path.)

Ginger, our ginger-colored pup, appreciates our tolerance. It’s almost a cliché now to watch a dog convulse at the mention of “squirrel!” But when I utter the word as a question – “squirrel?!” – Ginger convulses without showing it. She marches to our sliding door and sits at attention, the critters now in sight … her eyes tightly focused, her muscles taut. There’s nary a tremble in her sleek frame – even though the marbles in her brain must be twirling like a tornado.

Ginger eyes a black squirrel on the railing.

She’ll patiently wait until I arrive; she’ll then slowly turn her head to see if I see the two squirrels, each upside down on the feeders, nonchalantly sucking in seed like two Hoover vacuums.

On this day, I do, and the game is afoot. I whisper to Ginger, “Are you ready, girl?” Ginger tenses some more, then creeps to the thin divide between the door and the door’s frame. I very gradually grip the door’s handle, making sure it’s unlocked. As I do so, Ginger lowers her back, tightly compressing the springs in her legs. Like slowly closing the lid on a jack-in-the box, I think.

“Ready …,” I whisper, “… set …”

Now she trembles.

“GO!” I yell, jerking the door open.

Ginger shoots through the gap, hangs a sharp left – a deft move, given the snow and ice – and charges toward the eastern feeder. With a savage bark, she rears up, stretching her front legs atop the railing, forcing the eastern squirrel to scramble west along the rail. Meanwhile, the squirrel on the western feeder, seeing the commotion, scrambles east.

The two squirrels, now panicked, slam heads, then quickly realize their limited options. The tree is 10 feet to the left – even for them, too far. Ginger, growling fiercely, is closing in. The thieves jump two stories straight down to the snow drifts below, like a Butch and Sundance.

Gawd, how I love winter.

Winter in Northern Michigan is my favorite season of the four – an opinion that puts me at odds with 99.9% of the locals, I fear. But there are reasons behind the madness. The pristine snow, the quiet of the forest once that snow descends, the thinning of the crowds, the solitude afforded by areas where only snowshoes can go. Those are some of them.

Maybe now it’s also my age. Today, I turn 64. “You’re in the winter of your existence,” I told myself as I was shoveling snow, struggling to ignore the crimp in my back.

While that notion seems a bit distressing, it’s simple math, really. If I live to 85, then three-fourths of living, if done, would put me at … yep … 63.75 years. I’m now in the fourth season. (Given that the average life expectancy in this country is less than 84, I am, in fact, tilting the odds in my favor.)

Turning 64 is not a bad thing, though. Aside from having an abbreviated Christmas wish list this year – I’d like the book “Medicare for Dummies” and wool socks – I remain healthy, still love to backpack, and try to remain curious and creative each day. Cindy and I, as spouses, also strive to work hard, play occasionally, and celebrate the comfort and love of each other and good friends.

No, I think what makes the winter especially tolerable this year – in fact, amazingly special – is the blessing of someone experiencing the spring of his existence. Orion Glen Hoffnagle is now eight months old. (The middle name Glen, by the way, comes from our beloved Glen Lake, shown at the top of the blog.)

I can’t say I thought much about being a grandfather. But when it happened, oh my. You forget, by age 64, the adventures of the youngest among us. And the depth of love that ties us to them.

Orion is, to say the very least, an adventurer. We had the privilege last summer of watching him grow from three months to almost five. And during that time, Orion – nicknamed “Squeak” by his parents – went from scattered infant to focused, inquisitive, smiling, laughing boy. Those new traits matured even more during the next three months so that, at Thanksgiving, during his second visit, he was everywhere and into everything. Which was absolutely fine with us.

I promise to write more about Orion and the bond that’s grown between him and daughter Meghan and son-in-law Eric. It’s been marvelous to watch. 

Having joyfully helped bring Meghan and son Zachary into this world, I assumed being a gramps would be like hitting a replay switch on the parenting video.

But the dynamic is layered so much differently: Cindy and I are watching our child raise a child. That chain of succession has sustained the world for thousands of generations, of course. But it’s incredible that it’s now our turn.

So, welcome, Squeak. And thank you. I love you. You’re the spring of my winter. Next time you’re up here, we’ll watch the birds flit, the squirrels pilfer, and Ginger jump. And we’ll laugh together, like bubbling boys and old farts do.