Don't blink

Cause when your hourglass runs out of sand
You can't flip over and start again

- Kenny Chesney

TRAVERSE CITY, Mich. – I just put a new pot of coffee on – Leelanau’s best – then filled the Donald Duck mug to the brim.

“Really swell!” says the mug.

Outside, the snow banks swell.  Eight inches of the white in the last two days.  Not a bad thing.  This was always part of the bargain – snow would arrive in buckets, and we’d just learn to warm up to it.

But snow here, I’ve quickly learned, is a different beast. It reminds me of Bellingham, Wash., where clouds of moisture hug the shore like a thick blanket, while a half-hour’s drive east could yield sun.

In Traverse City, at the tip of Grand Traverse Bay, it’s the same.  Although here they call it the “lake effect.”

In the winter, “lake-effect” can function more like frigid, scattered thunderstorms, dumping a foot of snow in your neighborhood while leaving barely an inch down the road. That uncertainty – of both location and amount – makes predicting snow here a challenge.

But that’s the beauty of this place.  We left what was predictable to discover what is not.  And so the snows come.  And we adapt.

Tomorrow the nation marks its annual, collective celebration of thanks.  We’re joining in.  Yesterday, we picked up our Amish turkey from Maxbauer’s Meat Market, our pumpkin pie from the Grand Traverse Pie Company, and enough other fixin’s from Oleson’s grocery up on Hammond Road to feed every snowplow driver from here to Grand Rapids.

There will be just three of us eating, though, not counting the dogs: Cindy, son Zach and me. So we’re counting on Zach to be hungry. 

Zach is driving up from Manhattan, Kan., to join us, and we’re eager to see him.  He just finished a whirlwind business trip to New York City and Washington, D.C. – doing video work for his employer, Kansas State University.  Zach will be bringing his dog, Koa.

Daughter Meghan and son-in-law Eric are spending T-Day with Eric’s folks in Iowa.  Their new dog Whidbey is aboard, and Meghan texted us just south of Buffalo, Texas, that Whidbey had thrown up … but it was no big deal, she said.  

Of course it wasn’t. We Weavers are dog lovers to a fault, and we allow our dogs much leeway.  Plus when we gather, it’s always fun to share throw-up stories.  Now we have a new one.

Per usual, I will cook our turkey outside, on the Weber grill.  I have an old cookbook that came with my first Weber, and it shows a beautifully browned, crisp turkey atop the grill.  Surrounding the Weber?  A thick winter carpet of snow.

The photo always reinforced mybelief that winter makes the barbecue sweeter.  I’ll test the premise again tomorrow.  Given our new latitude, it should be sweeter still.

On the way home from Esch Beach a couple of weeks back (see prior post), I caught a discussion on the radio of a recipe for “Skeleton Soup.”

It’s rather simple, really.  After dinner, save your turkey carcass, drippings and unused items (like the bird’s neck) in the fridge.  Then on Friday, plop this into a big pot with some cut-up onions, celery and carrots, and a half bottle of white wine. Cover the carcass with water so there’s about an inch above the bones.

Then let it simmer – at a very low boil – for six hours or so.

Strain the liquid to get out the bones, then put the mixture outside to cool so that the fat rises.  Skim off the fat and, ta-da … Skeleton Soup.

It’s not a remarkable recipe.  Multiple generations have used the carcass to create turkey stock after Thanksgiving.  But this will be a first for me.

Unpredictable events, and firsts, often go hand in hand up here.  Which gets me to the Chesney song, “Don’t Blink.” 

Sure, some things up here have hardly surprised us. 

Nellie loves the snow. We knew that. 

I’m pushing around a pretty big snow blower. I saw that one coming months ago.

Uncle Bud’s giant Christmas wreath would somehow hang outside.  We knew that, too; it’s now high on the house’s east side. (Bud, Cindy’s departed uncle, loved Christmas.   So when he passed on many years ago, we kept the massive funeral wreath of grape vine and re-purposed it as a Christmas wreath, lights and all.) 

Oh … and my work, despite my being a telecommuter, has remained pretty much the same.  Ditto. Knew that.

But we're encountering a lot of firsts, some unforeseen. 

Our minivan seems more content to sit at the bottom of the snowy driveway than climb to the top.  That’s a first.

We have wild turkeys bumping into each other in the backyard, and occasional deer gliding by in the front.  Both firsts for us. 

We're about to eat an Amish turkey for the first time.  (Why Amish?  To me, the Amish exude rural vitality.  So should their turkeys.) 

We’re preparing to buy snowshoes – and even put them on.  Two more firsts.

And life continues despite the absence of a fireplace, which is unprecedented for us. (Okay, yes … I’ve resorted to purchasing the “Fireplace XL” DVD from Amazon, which includes hours of high-definition sights and sounds of a real fireplace at work.  But it’s almost like being there … really!)

The good news is that we’re embracing these happenings with eyes wide open.  There’s much more to know and to learn up here.  School’s just started.

So, tomorrow is a day for family, turkey, Skeleton Soup and gratitude … a thankfulness, in part, for the time we each have.

As Chesney suggests, that time can move so very, very fast.  So go chase those firsts.  And don’t blink.

Personally, it’s making me reconsider the post-turkey nappy time in front of the faux fireplace.

Coffee instead?  Yeah, but this time it’ll be the Goofy mug.

Happy Thanksgiving, all. 

Kilter out, kilter in

TRAVERSE CITY, Mich. – Many good things have come from a garage, including Steve Jobs’ Apple Inc.

My own aspirations are much more limited today. The blog calls, and I feel a need to be outside to write.  But it’s a rainy morning, with high winds and thunderstorms expected to arrive this afternoon  And although this house has benefits, one feature lacking is a good overhang or porch roof.

“Try the garage,” Cindy said.

And so here I sit.  Coffee to the left on an old cardboard box that shouts “15 Dozen EGGS.”

To my right, our snow blower, which right now is inoperable … but we’ve called Roy’s General Store up at 3 Mile Road and Hammond, and they’ve promised to swing by and take it to the shop and remedy its ills.

Time’s running short on that, I know.

Before me, the woods of our front yard, which Nellie likes to explore even in the wet.

I can tell Nellie doesn’t understand my garage perch.  Great Pyrenees are known for displaying a look that basically says, “That’s stupid,” when a human does something mindless … especially if it involves the Pyr.

And so when I beckon to Nel from inside the garage’s shadow, I get that look.

I'm convinced, though, that she doesn't appreciate the writer's call.  “It's the same as you wanting that stinkin', buried rawhide!” I shout ... to no effect.

I’ve never considered myself Mother Nature’s Son.  But the outdoors is what called us here to live, and so it inspires on mornings like this.

It seemed a long time coming, this return to Up North.  Life’s full of rhythms, and it doesn’t take much to get some out of kilter.

Almost four weeks to the day, I climbed aboard a jet at Cherry Capital Airport and flew to Kansas City. I met Zach for a successful Chiefs game. Then, on Monday, I went through a flurry of meetings before loading a truck for a book trade show in Houston.  I drove to Houston, met my staff there, we set up shop, ran the show for three days (and I visited Meghan and Eric while I could; Cindy was there as well, visiting); then packed up the truck, drove back to Kansas City, held more meetings, then organized and set up a warehouse sale before, finally, flying back to Traverse City on Nov. 5^th.

That all would be fine, of course, if that was the extent of it.  But it took me until last Friday … 10 days later … to get caught up – on sleep, correspondence, department budgeting.  Such is the blessing and curse of telecommuting. 

Yesterday, at last, was work-free, so I took the dogs to Esch Beach while Cindy did a two-hour yoga stint.  It was a crisp day, a bit damp and windy.  Hunting season had just started, and there were a few pickups in the Esch Beach parking lot.  I donned hunter orange to make sure that if bullets flew, they were headed for an eight-point buck and not Nellie or Linus.

But as we walked the beach, I didn’t hear a single shot.  Instead, waves rolled ashore … that metronome of comfort that relaxes the mind, untangles the soul, and always reminds me anew of why we’re here.

So today, I’m in the garage, the tall pines swaying like hundreds more metronomes, the winds sending a beautiful roar down from the branches.  The neighbor’s rooster chimes in across the hill; a horse whinnies behind me.

And it seems I’m in sync again.  And it’s nice.

This does become a different place in the fall.  The pace slows for everyone.  The eateries no longer are crowded; the traffic thins; smiles seem to broaden as the summer’s stress gives way to cider and fall colors.

Wood smoke drifts everywhere; a few mornings ago, a flock of 10 turkeys strutted through the back yard.  And although the days are shorter, the sunsets and sunrises seem even more brilliant.

And traditions that summer crowds know little of begin to take hold.

The local paper talks of the state football playoffs, and why local teams will again have to take a bus far north, over the massive Mackinac Bridge, to play the Upper Peninsula teams.

Roy’s advertises beer for deer camps, and – just in time – “M-16s are back in stock!”

Christmas seems around the corner, as each small town announces carol sessions, charity events and predictions of Santa sightings.

And snow stakes are everywhere – those roadside markers spray-painted with bright orange that will guide snowplows as they keep the roads clear and tidy.

Last night, I fell back into bed with John Mitchell’s rich book on the history of wooden boats in Leelanau County, and the impact they had on Northport, Leland, Glen Arbor and other ports no longer living.   More on that in the next post.

But it proved a comfort … a warm connection to the history and roots of the lands my family has traveled for so many decades.  Lands we now want to be ours, too.

Mitchell knows the writer's call.  In a year or so, I expect to have more than a garage from which to write on a windy, wet day.  A covered deck, perhaps.  A writer’s cottage, I hope.

But today, the garage proved a blessing.  This blog post is about done, for one.  A good thing, as thunder rolls in from the west.

And just now, a white cat emerged to allow a shy hello.  I know nothing about this mouser … only that it seems less skittish than my nemesis, White Cat, back in Kansas.  She comes closer, unafraid of my perch.

Maybe, I think, this chair and box and coffee cup are not so stupid.  Many good things do come from a garage.

Perhaps the two of us will get along. 

That would be nice. 

This is, after all, that kind of place.