Winter, 2004
Dear Readers,
The outside thermometer reads nine below zero this evening,
and winter is firmly entrenched here. The lake is covered in
a fresh blanket of snow, a stunning contrast to its more
lively blue summer dress. And tonight, with only starlight
and a crested moon shining upon it, the frozen tundra
beckons.
For Robbie and me, the walk to our ice shanty on this silent
and frigid night is a journey into the timeless void between
heaven and earth. |
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Cold snow crunches beneath our feet and our breaths puff
past our numbing lips (forming icicles on Robbie's beard),
as we trudge in silent anticipation. We reach the ice
shanty, set out our chairs, and sit reclined to gaze up at
the stars as we wait for the conversation to begin.
Very few people realize that
lakes have something to say. But on this crystal clear and
windless night, our lake finally begins to speak in a
language as ancient as the earth itself. It is sometimes
only a whispered snap or a muffled grunt, and sometimes it's
a long and deep and resonating moan. The lake is making ice
- cracking, expanding, shifting. It is the sound of an
awesome power that is capable of moving boulders and
reshaping shorelines.
Our chairs gently quake as a
fissure less than an inch wide splinters like frozen
lightning for over a mile in several directions. And if we
are lucky, and patient, we will hear the whistle of a crack
reach shore with the force of a sonic boom. Houses hugging
the lake will shiver on their foundations when this happens,
startling the occupants - bringing a smile to seasoned
lake-dwellers and panic to newcomers.
I have often tried to
describe the sound to others. It is as if I am standing
above a pod of whales deep in conversation - gurgles,
chatters, guttural pops, and lamenting groans echoing
through the starlit night. |
And
we have been known to talk back, just as animated and
feeling blessed to witness this gift. Growing up, our sons
would - with mitten-muffled applause - encourage the more
laudable booms and more violent ice-quakes. Friends visiting
from away, dragged onto the ice on such an ungodly cold
night, would run back to the house, shaking their heads,
thinking us strange.
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But how often do we have such
conversations with Nature? What's the point of living on a
lake if we're not willing to stop in for a visit on even the
coldest of nights? Thick clothes and a thermos of hot cocoa
are enough to ward off the chill, the sights and sounds and
ice-quakes enough to warm our hearts.
This Christmas we set a small fir tree down by the lake and
covered it with lights. It has stood there for over a month
now, and we're finding it impossible to turn off the power.
Most Christmas lights are gone by the first week of January,
but ours are still lit, still bringing a touch of warmth to
the night. By Valentine's Day, maybe, we'll have the resolve
to unplug the tree, when the days grow noticeably longer and
the weather (hopefully) relaxes its grip. Until then our
colorful ambassador will continue to soften the harsh edges
of winter and welcome anyone searching for a conversation
with Nature.
From a magically beautiful Maine...
Janet
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