Snow and ice, freezing rain. When the wind comes out of the north and off Grand Traverse Bay here in Elk Rapids, the gusts can nearly lift you off your feet. It can swirl and squall down historic Front Street like tumbleweeds in a wild west town. It whistles through the eaves of my dad’s house that sits a block from the bay–I should say it howls, lifts my heart into my throat–no I’m not exaggerating.
The house was built in the ’50’s, remodeled in the ’80’s, but it creaks and groans under the force of it like it was a hundred years old, sounds like the roof might lift off. It flaps the bathroom vents to the point it can keep you awake. We don’t get the snow here that I get at my camp in the Upper Peninsula, but here, it can be more of a blizzard. There are days, though, when it’s still. Not still like the U.P., but still. Most of the tourists and snow birds are gone, and it feels intimate and peaceful.
Winter is a time to take stock, to let down, to sort and to recharge. I lived in Southern California for almost four years when I was young and though I loved it, I missed that change of seasons, that time of year you can hear your own heartbeat, do that annual soul search. That doesn’t happen in the sun and madness of life on the coast–even if the eating is easy.
In my case, since I’m a writer, winter has always been integral to my psyche. (Not that I don’t like getting out of it for a few weeks in March.)
I’ll post some pictures of Elk Rapids soon. Meantime, you can see why I chose this cover for my book.
Happy Thursday. I’m roasting a chicken, making a carnivore casserole for breakfast (maybe throw in just a mushroom or two).
Dreams: I am sure my mother was in my dreams last night. I can’t remember a thing that happened. But I make progress.