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.