Last Gasp

The last half-mile of my run this evening was accompanied by a blustery last gasp of winter in the form of small spitwads of snow.  There was nothing flake-esque about these morsels.  They were snowballs valiantly fighting the urge to be a commonplace raindrop.  I cheer their effort, and I cheer their eminent failure.

Thin layers of snow-clay glaze the sidewalk cracks that guide me home,
wet, brown reminders of last week's ice.
Bashful hints of green tease a handful of tree limbs, tiny specks of promise amidst a sea of
dirt, salt, grime.
Not a pretty season.
But a welcome one.

Sunshine Makes the Snow Almost Worthwhile

There are good days to be had, regardless of single digit temps, thanks to the sunshine that January and February generally promise.  The incessant grey of early winter gets to me, so despite the often colder months of mid to late winter, I much prefer January and February's sunshine to December's cloudcover.

We traipsed around Elm Creek Reserve in Champlin on Saturday and snowshoeing tends to keep the heart rate peppy enough to avoid chills, but it doesn't safeguard the face from the biting wind. My cheeks were chapped enough to cause tears (below 10 degrees and my eyes can't hack it, they water like mad) to sting the skin. I didn't need blush for church this morning.

But negative wind chills notwithstanding, I will always be grateful for the promise of Spring inherent in a bright, blinding Sun.

The Merits of Cold

This blog is full of references to my general disdain for all things winter-related.  I've complained a bit here or there of my complete confusion as to why perfectly logical human beings choose to settle in a place where subzero temps are too commonly the norm. I'm perpetually cold in my apartment, I sleep with six (6!) blankets, and the 5:40 a.m. trudge to the busstop with double digit negative windchills has inspired a number of quasi-homesick postings.  I try not to whine (so unladylike).  But I believe it's fairly plain that I miss my South-of-the-Mason-Dixon upbringing, and New Orleans in particular, quite vehemently.

That being said, there is merit to the chill. I spent this New Year's Eve dashing about a friend's backyard broomball rink (that's me in red behind the rink's owner, Adam, who's clearly more skilled than I):

It wasn't the first time I'd played broomball, and I know it won't be the last as I've signed up for a church team starting up in the next few weeks.  It's a nutty, spirited, occasionally vicious game that always leaves me with a random bruise here or there and the sneaking suspicion there are muscles in my butt that God created strictly for the sake of broomball.

After the final round of play, a couple of us ladies plopped onto the rink and made snow angels, rolling around like 8 year-olds, with hair falling out of ponytails, skin kissing ice, giggling as we skidded and reveled in the last evening of 2010. The night was cloudy and starless, but as I rested on the ice and stared skyward, the wind gusted and blew snow off the trees, sending tiny pinpricks of white to swirl and shimmy to the ground. 

It was a happy moment, made happier by its brevity and the promise of hot mulled wine and good friends inside. I can appreciate that simple, visceral experience of coming in out of the cold, entering a warm home with the soft glow of expectant hugs, the ripping off of cold socks, the wrapping 'round of a well-worn blanket.  I love that slow, subsiding ache as the cold, inch by inch, leaves my fingers.  And I love to hear the hoot and howl of wind as it begs to enter every nook and cranny and every nook and cranny politely says, "no."

The cold is an evil, hateful thing if you're alone.  And I imagine the extra hours of darkness and the bite of ice are made more miserable without the company of dear souls.  So while I ache for Home (and the aching is that much deeper when you have no immediate plan to return), I am grateful for warm spiced wine, specifically perfect hugs, rosy-cheeked laughter, fellow snow angel makers, and the myriad opportunities to make the most of the frozen part of God's creation.

The NOEL was in the Cupboard

I do not remember a Christmas without the ceramic NOEL. Four greenish, redish ceramic letter candleholders that would grace my Grandmother's piano in Mullins, South Carolina and now hold court on top of the wood cabinet beside her refrigerator in Columbia. 

They aren't an exciting piece of Christmas decoration.  My Grandmother and my parents each own much more impressive nuggets of frivolity to ring in the season.  But these letters are a small sliver of family experience that remains important.  They've been in the family for over 50 years, having been a gift from a family friend who used to babysit my dad when he was a toddler. They're simple and unremarkable, but it's hard to picture Christmas without the NOEL.  Or the LEON.  Or the ELON. Or the NOLE. Or, my personal favorite, the LONE.

Rearranging the letters was just something everybody did.  You did it preferably when Grandmother's back was turned.  Maybe she was digging in the pantry for the cookie tin of fudge.  Maybe she was adding pepper to the chicken bog.  Maybe she was sitting in the living room, crossword puzzle in hand.  But if you walked by the letters and they happen to be spelling their intended word, well, somebody needed to rectify that.

My dad poked around online and found out that these dear letters are not, in fact, a novelty.  They are everywhere.  So we are clearly not the only family with this tradition and I like to wonder how many other kids grew up rearranging the ceramics to Grandma's chagrin.  My dad bought a set for each of us kids and he gave me mine last year.  A small gift, but a very important one.

For the life of me, however, I could not remember where I tucked them.  My apartment is very small, so there really are few places where anything of a decent size could be lost.  Under the bed? Nope. In the closet? Nope. Forgotten rung of a bookshelf? Nope. The infamous drawer-that-shall-not-be-opened? Nope.

I was rather heartbroken by the loss and had even begun to search online for a replacement. (Note: For those of you who want one of these, I recommend waiting til after the holidays.  Somebody out there is jacking up prices on these bad boys and I just don't condone black market ceramic peddling)  But, in the midst of a baking escapade yesterday and the pursuit of a long lost wire whisk (never found it), I opened a cupboard that never gets opened as it requires a chair for me to reach.  And there they were, spelling L-O-N-E all on their own.

They're sitting on my window sill now.  And while the broken window blind, cigar box,  and #1 Lawyer mug may surround them with a bit of non-holy non-Christmas reality, I believe they look right at home.

The Garden Level

When I was looking for a new apartment over a year ago, I heard anti-garden level apartment shpiels from everyone.  The level most likely to be robbed.  The level with the least sunlight.  The level most likely to be burdened by backed up sinks, noisy upstairs neighbors, and crappy heating. 

I've never been robbed (and honestly, I think the bars on my windows are kinda pretty).  I get plenty of light.  My sinks have been fine (notsomuch the occassional toilet issue).  My next door neighbors are the noisy ones, courtesy of a boisterous toddler.  And my heating issues were copious until I called my landlord and said, "well, I'm cold. And the heater sounds like a cat stuck in a washing machine." 

I really love my little home. It's ridiculously small, yes.  But I'm only one person and have no need for large amounts of space.  I'm walking distance from my favorite brunch place, my favorite bluegrass place, my favorite coffee place, my favorite lake, my favorite spring roll place, my favorite ice cream place, my favorite place to buy milk and peanut butter, and my favorite place to buy and sell clothes.  In short, I could survive quite happily without ever getting in my car, which is ideal.

And now I've discovered a new benefit to garden level urban living in Minneapolis.  When we get a doozy of a snowstorm, I'm as cozy as can be thanks to the igloo-erific view of snow drifting up my window. 

A ribboned and tinseled silver-stemmed tree Perches on the edge of my 2nd hand desk
And the smell of butter and sugar and sugar and sugar
Warms the kitchen in its Christmas-themed mess

The warmth of my oven can't reach the window
Can't free the ice 'round some neighbor's squealing tire
But it toasts my insides, roasts them from within,
Replaces the snow drifts with a cushion of fire

My first near-blizzard, in my favorite nearly-Home
Builds bricks of winter against iron-graced glass
And as the wind whips it higher, encasing me in white
This sleigh-bells-ring-are-you-listening? oatmeal cookie heat must last.

Cold, Interrupted

I'm typing with half-frozen fingers so I imagine this post will take me an annoyingly long time to write. I dived into Cold this weekend and spent a good deal more time outside than normal. As a certifiable cold wimp, this is a big step for me.

I ran outside for the first time in ages today. The sun was too pretty and the day windless enough to assume I would not keel over and die. I was correct. No death. But my Madonna-inspired hot pink fingerless gloves really have to go. They may be perfect for blustery fall days, but they do not cut it when it's freezing outside, sunshine or not.

I was fairly excited to run outside partly because I've been dying to test out the running capabilities of these Yak Trak contraptions, weird metal thingies that attach to my running shoes to (supposedly) make running on less-than-clear sidewalks a bit safer. For running purposes, I hate them. For walking, they are awesome, definitely better traction and no slipping around even on that solid, evil kind of ice that peppers the sidewalks around my apartment. But running is a whole other animal. The weird metal things throw the balance of each foot off just enough to make each step feel unstable. While I felt pretty sure I wouldn't slip on any ice, I was less confident that I wouldn't simply lose my balance. So I went for a brisk, long walk after 2 miles of "gonna break my ankle, gonna break my ankle" at a pace that wasn't much faster than a brisk walk anyway. Running outside did make me yearn for spring, for new races, clear sidewalks, sunlight for hours after work so I can drive to Calhoun and do 6 miles before dinner. I do miss sunlight.

But I feel like I've had a healthy dose of it this weekend, happily. I spent yesterday afternoon ice fishing with my dad. I've been wanting to go ever since I moved up here but there is something about weekends and timing and planning and parents and grown children that I think just presents an obstacle. But, luckily, this weekend I had time, my Dad had time, the weather was good, the ice was thick...the stars were aligned.

We stopped by Gander Mtn for minnows and mealwormy things (wax worms?) and then drove out onto Bryant Lake (driving out "onto" a lake still feels bizarre to me). Dad drilled the hole, we pitched the little hut, and he broke out "cute" (my word) ice fishing poles. Dad also brought some chicken breasts and canned biscuits to testdrive on his portable propane grill, which proved to be a yummy lunch on the ice, burnt pieces notwithstanding. Dad caught two fish, neither worth keeping, and I practiced my technique of bobbing the pole up and down while sipping coffee and eating a biscuit. True talent.

The cold up here is easier to take with company. And I think for an Outsider, it's nice when that company is of the not-from-here variety. My dad loves Minnesota, loves the cold weather activities, the snow, the novelty of driving across lakes, of hammering a nail with a frozen banana. I'm not entirely impressed by these things, but I enjoy them more in his company. Tucked into an ice fishing hut on the middle of a lake, it's nice to be next to someone who understands the "holy crap, can you believe we're in a little house with a heater going on top of a lake and we drilled a hole into a foot of ice to catch fish with tiny little poles?!" feeling that just kind of permeates many of my winter experiences here.

A shared adventure interrupts the cold. Breaks the chill. Warms the soul.

Walking on Water

I snowshoed for the first time this weekend, borrowing my mother's pair and traipsing down a hill, through a patch of trees, and across Staring Lake. I still can't accept this walking on water business. It seems unnatural to me, no matter how thick the ice appears, no matter how many people I see skiing across the surface, and (eventually) no matter how many trucks I see parked where I once rode in a boat. But I walked, trailing a taller, heavier-than-me fellow who I figured would fall through before me and give me some warning as to the precariousness of my situation.

Not sure if that makes me a survival-minded woman or a bad girlfriend. Perhaps a smidge of both.

As much as I like to deny any affection for my Northern home short of respect for its excellent summers, I will admit that there are aspects of winter that are lovely. The lack of sunlight, I think, makes the rare sunny afternoon a treasure, even at 3 degrees. The white of snow-laden lakes, the white caught in tree limbs yet to be shaken, the snow with ridges, like waves, where you can see the fingerprints of windy evenings; I will concede a beauty here that would not exist in my prior homes.

I have wondered lately if I could stay here longer than I originally intended. If I can tuck more sunny, snowshoeing afternoons into this 6-month doldrum they call winter, I would say it is a stronger possibility than I have maintained in the past. Louisiana still feels like a place I'd like to call home again. And Arkansas, too, sometimes. And other warm, Southern places. But perhaps that's just blood calling, and habits of homesickness. Not a habit I plan to break, but one I could set aside for awhile longer, perhaps allow myself to enjoy this Northern space and its bright, cold, quasi-miraculous, walk-on-water afternoons.