tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30220254253807244382024-03-05T12:21:44.419-08:00Winter's ChildSharon Hawley flies north for the winterSharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-23959390377966483172010-01-24T18:22:00.000-08:002010-01-29T12:29:28.473-08:00Fond GoodbyeTen days after leaving International Falls, I realize I did not say a proper goodbye or convey to anyone listening that I have enjoyed your company. My going was too soft and too hard, too happy returning and too hard to leaving.<br /><br />I feel welcome here in the oasis of Pasadena. I feel a warm wind of reception as if I have brought some sense of metaphor from the cold to share. People seem receptive to ideas derived in much different air. I have given the talk twice, trying to answer the questions I posed before going. Empathy with my strange vacation has felt good, as if some people think their own lives could use a little weirdness.<br /><br />Back in November I tried to explain what sent me off alone to a cold place for the winter, where I have no family or friends, no tourist destination, no prospect of making money—and to spend Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years. I tried to convince you that it’s a budget item against available time—some thirty years—in the same way that the available money is allocated where length of life is unknown.<br /><br />I felt honored to be doing this strange thing—to have the time, the freedom, health, and tolerance for being alone. I wondered, as I talked about it back then, if Thoreau who built his own house in a far-off place, felt any more honored on its completion than I did as I began.<br />I could have gone anywhere that’s cold with a small town and cheap accommodations, but I found those conditions met in only a few places. I arrived at International Falls because it promised to be the coldest place in the lower forty-eight states and has virtually no tourists in the winter.<br /><br />I expected to spend a lot of time outside, learning to survive extreme cold, feeling and finding insights. I wanted to ice skate and ski and snowshoe. I wanted to become part of winter, not just a brief observer of it. And I wanted to understand the lives of people who live in these conditions all their lives, to compare, edit, write and ponder the exceeding cold and loneliness of border songs, bird songs, and the Aurora Borealis. This is what I expected, and I expressed the hope that I was wrong. For in being wrong, I would change and find childish newness.<br /><br />What I found is mostly put down in these sixty-two blog posts. It is not what I expected.<br /><br />I spent a lot of time outdoors, as hoped, and I skated and skied. I became a part of winter, not just an observer, and learned after many errors, how to dress and how to breathe. I have a little black spot on one toe, frost-nip, gained early, and it told me that to make it here I needed training. But after many days of not giving up, I can say that I have learned to survive for a few hours in most cold circumstances. While living in simple houses as the Paleo Indians did is still beyond me, living outside in the daytime is not, and if I find a warm place at night I feel quite proud to say that I can stand a day at well below zero.<br /><br />But mere survival is just the start, a kind of potty training that an infant Eskimo learns on the way to becoming fully socialized and acclimated. I learned that almost none of the residents care about these things. They walk from their houses to their cars and from their cars to the next warm place. They dress with half the insulation I wear because they do not stay outside long enough to need more. With few exceptions, they are happy living here because the interiors of buildings are warm.<br /><br />I did not associate with them very much because most of our interests differed. I walked to Sandy’s Café most mornings or had coffee with Jerry and Sandy, my landlords, and walked to church on Sundays, and that was about the only contact. The rest of the time I was alone on skis, in boots, in the woods, ice skating and generally being enthralled with the wonderful cold sparkling place I had come to.<br /><br />I made a few friends, but even they did not quite understand my coming. There was always a small suspicion in their eyes as to my real motives. Katrina at Sandy’s Cafe understood I think, but she is a free thinker on many topics. If it seems that I have emphasized the beauty of ice crystals and diamond dust at the expense of understanding the people, then you see this adventure as I do. I wish to have better communicated with them; they are good people.<br /><br />In summary, I got more than I hoped for in winter knowledge and appreciation, and less than I wanted in the lives of residents.<br /><br />Thank you for reading and for your comments.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-20779334916241018092010-01-13T17:57:00.001-08:002010-01-13T17:58:35.654-08:00All Packed<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiByhyphenhyphenMhs2PSpKFlU8sbfYBOALsqgsrH0TnLVmRssbI86ImGAIv5Ww807z4te6IxxpezUl2CuHryZwx4aw3Bi5XT8QMnflqKndqkWS2HqRgTFchI25soIXOerUnou-JdKgj0WO76Ua6Jds/s1600-h/4326.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiByhyphenhyphenMhs2PSpKFlU8sbfYBOALsqgsrH0TnLVmRssbI86ImGAIv5Ww807z4te6IxxpezUl2CuHryZwx4aw3Bi5XT8QMnflqKndqkWS2HqRgTFchI25soIXOerUnou-JdKgj0WO76Ua6Jds/s200/4326.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426408997926800098" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Tomorrow home. One last picture looking across the river to Canada.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-66174806878766200922010-01-12T15:31:00.000-08:002010-01-12T15:39:30.869-08:00In Transition<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_O0VO_Q8W2i0UGnA26nIhAMspaptLGLBuqlcA-uCa52kZBvQ6_FJ_MmTywkrUWUCBcm7Ma21amUUv0d0WRjMk2M9DUIFlapujFWjN8hSfJEFmQZCpcvXB4j2EXg8X4m_PsGU_NRYMtAk/s1600-h/4294.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 159px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_O0VO_Q8W2i0UGnA26nIhAMspaptLGLBuqlcA-uCa52kZBvQ6_FJ_MmTywkrUWUCBcm7Ma21amUUv0d0WRjMk2M9DUIFlapujFWjN8hSfJEFmQZCpcvXB4j2EXg8X4m_PsGU_NRYMtAk/s200/4294.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426002077045250930" border="0" /></a>The air is full of imminent departure. Warm, unseasonably warm toady, clear up to thirty degrees; and tomorrow is expected to do the same. The weather was warm on my arrival back in November, and now warm at the end, as if a cycle is completing. Warm at the start—then winter set in good and earnest—then warm at the end, which is a beginning. I almost hear winter saying with a sly grin, “I made it easy for you when you were unprepared, then I showed you my full hand. Now on your departure I prepared a warm transition, and say, aloha, glad you came.”<br /><br />I feel as if I have nearly proven myself indigenous in this environment, though absent for a very long time. As the wolf has established herself into modernity, where once she was made extinct in these parts by an earlier age, so I seem as one returned. The old mandate of “Subdue the earth for the good of mankind” has passed, and maybe I would not have survived that ethic any better than the wolf did. I might have become extinct too, and come back from another place only when the opinions of mankind changed. Though not completely settled in my role here, perhaps in some future mindset, like the wolf has found in this one, I might find complete adaptation. The folks here have not been hostile, but they have not understood, and like the wolf found her age-old welcome cancelled and then restored, so when the reign of poetry commences here, as the reign of environmental protection has come for the wolf, then I might be strung about the neck with colorful seeds and nuts, as necks of Paleo Indians were long before International Falls existed. Perhaps then I shall resume my ancient importance and dignity and admire myself as an oak tree does when dressed in fall regalia and sees herself in the smooth mirror of Rainy Lake. Then the news may read like the latest from Walden Pond, and I may be editor of The Daily News. I am happy to have come, and happy to be returning, the cycle swinging upward so that warm Pasadena will not be too much of a shock.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPZb10Erik722u6pdEwLeirufOW7zOYaITY4V5PHMyapVGVlJVI_D0QoFiKRxzuvMMX3k90GxEVX_PvUdFNOYwUX4EbMJ1qv9aC9_oG59HywM2732UKBdFXcuYaG6TQWbY0MEDFktyW7I/s1600-h/4309.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPZb10Erik722u6pdEwLeirufOW7zOYaITY4V5PHMyapVGVlJVI_D0QoFiKRxzuvMMX3k90GxEVX_PvUdFNOYwUX4EbMJ1qv9aC9_oG59HywM2732UKBdFXcuYaG6TQWbY0MEDFktyW7I/s200/4309.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426001823385906850" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I walked again to Canada where a raven finds water at the edge of ice.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5CCBs_OwApTXS3wDaq_3_d2G47_myz6hyphenhyphenAjcLTd-St-_HJ5JEL875KHtUO0-YJ1sE593-928yoTDXmGo8-sCqF1C26lcDOrESvbx4GmCwMkU_s0hUByT-dl32V_rR1-LoOJL1zDA4FcU/s1600-h/4306.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 126px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5CCBs_OwApTXS3wDaq_3_d2G47_myz6hyphenhyphenAjcLTd-St-_HJ5JEL875KHtUO0-YJ1sE593-928yoTDXmGo8-sCqF1C26lcDOrESvbx4GmCwMkU_s0hUByT-dl32V_rR1-LoOJL1zDA4FcU/s200/4306.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426001630525530578" border="0" /></a><br />beyond a Canadian cemetery flows a river<br />beyond the river an American paper mill<br />beyond the mill lies a town where winter held me<br />beyond the town an airport and another life<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU6qEze_UiSa8nhmofWSoQJ_cNXwBWr4PujYDPwpiv1K_73pZsT9acIGjIwR4TlLrVW_7zZpNxCZlcMCzahuwsWDtaowutPOPmgBHBkx97Kt8347bCvuCcEuxNBvD91xdPGO8_zb7mD14/s1600-h/4319.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU6qEze_UiSa8nhmofWSoQJ_cNXwBWr4PujYDPwpiv1K_73pZsT9acIGjIwR4TlLrVW_7zZpNxCZlcMCzahuwsWDtaowutPOPmgBHBkx97Kt8347bCvuCcEuxNBvD91xdPGO8_zb7mD14/s200/4319.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426000900164634594" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAEgDPUy1a1NyW46V2rwewU3z3HEI47Exytkfk3WkItdedFo215vP1Ba1BPgmw-5EUXElpfDkD38PtlYxqJsZFZbCb13L9Xkh6ZGpYFztRKHUqL8GXTz8WKPVPX4O_1XczYhoK8Umyn0o/s1600-h/3156.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAEgDPUy1a1NyW46V2rwewU3z3HEI47Exytkfk3WkItdedFo215vP1Ba1BPgmw-5EUXElpfDkD38PtlYxqJsZFZbCb13L9Xkh6ZGpYFztRKHUqL8GXTz8WKPVPX4O_1XczYhoK8Umyn0o/s200/3156.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426000779291269842" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The same fruit that I saw on November 20 (right) hangs in there today, a bit more withered.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-17244466986618605912010-01-11T15:42:00.000-08:002010-01-11T15:56:20.030-08:00Ranier to Remember<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-a1uYWcGfHk639-ctDpKQDBaoKp4QaioY484u-xkBWIbW5GNHZwqjyc39QCH0aKLyYVAEsVNr1Zf9RxPALN4X_-pSZJIBKdr3_DN50RKFMTafez1LtXjyEoRxNfZ8SQWcOVG7BHKWpwY/s1600-h/4272.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-a1uYWcGfHk639-ctDpKQDBaoKp4QaioY484u-xkBWIbW5GNHZwqjyc39QCH0aKLyYVAEsVNr1Zf9RxPALN4X_-pSZJIBKdr3_DN50RKFMTafez1LtXjyEoRxNfZ8SQWcOVG7BHKWpwY/s200/4272.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425634192147303810" border="0" /></a>With only three days remaining, I walked to Ranier for the last time. I unzipped my jacket and took off my gloves on the way home because the air rose to plus ten, and I felt warm. This seemed strange because on those California days at Mt. San Jacinto when it was around twenty I was thickly bundled. Something has changed inside as if antifreeze now runs through my veins.<br /><br />It’s a fine sunny day, and I even see traces of diamond dust in the morning at these higher temperatures. I can’t resist taking pictures of the illusive sparkles, trying to show them as they are, against snow in its many forms. Boulder and desert snow, tiny stars in the boulders, shimmer of water in the desert.<br /><br />I still see deer tracks, squirrel, others too I’d like to meet. I hear the familiar sounds—the whistle of the driverless train bringing wood chips from Chip Mountain just a quarter mile to the mill, the squeak of tires on packed snow, and the call of a raven.<br /><br />I am the object of this writing, this novel; I have no protagonist. Being here is so much like an image of something real, not reality itself, that it makes the whole experience seem already made into a poem or a painting. The need to make metaphor and impression seems not as strong now. I have called relationships together in these missives and drawn attention to the things back home as likenesses of things here, but now it’s like the ending of a life where what has been done is final and only recall remains.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid3AXEAGzcG-p27Hq-FowsJHzDa3hsbOr_Mt-_S2ffW5EPs85aOER3pzBXA_mvNfK4_BWvqn21332AuF64cAO1BbIoQ36Fh7TFtt-kP5T1Hp6NFJYYAPNVbQQFfevqw9zNc1Q_xAgmc_o/s1600-h/4282.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid3AXEAGzcG-p27Hq-FowsJHzDa3hsbOr_Mt-_S2ffW5EPs85aOER3pzBXA_mvNfK4_BWvqn21332AuF64cAO1BbIoQ36Fh7TFtt-kP5T1Hp6NFJYYAPNVbQQFfevqw9zNc1Q_xAgmc_o/s200/4282.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425633910601950194" border="0" /></a><br />Birch trees with their horizontal lines and vertical strength, bark that sheathes canoes, roofs dwellings, bark that heats the paper mill, their wood from which I read a book, write a letter, eat a bowl of soup, and set the bowl on, these adaptable, bendable, and recoverable trees are on the level and they measure up. I can’t get enough of them.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxAXRoMZIyfgcbPvw8xjxCt_9I1RWAolmoD6fJ6lbAP0VepcfJP71CNMm6KjcADJWxbx_-_XOXhimXJ3pKjlR_B374EO85ieZluoHOXYnbDjmPj3fjLd7PguHH-fTN1UJfdRzGohPLP78/s1600-h/4276.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxAXRoMZIyfgcbPvw8xjxCt_9I1RWAolmoD6fJ6lbAP0VepcfJP71CNMm6KjcADJWxbx_-_XOXhimXJ3pKjlR_B374EO85ieZluoHOXYnbDjmPj3fjLd7PguHH-fTN1UJfdRzGohPLP78/s200/4276.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425633590146098930" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Whenever I have gone to Ranier, I have taken a picture from this viewpoint. This final entry into that sequence.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpd3s4xc7gdQmJgDm39QsY08GCR2EzQ1wDNg0Dth9xIZiT-3IkfIz6k2_JTvR23YUuFmjwdc9GAxC4hETTcjayYtVRKn46n7rhHw319fzsBN-_Fok3ZmomKwcU169fKMQm0vicJGexyk8/s1600-h/4262.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 138px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpd3s4xc7gdQmJgDm39QsY08GCR2EzQ1wDNg0Dth9xIZiT-3IkfIz6k2_JTvR23YUuFmjwdc9GAxC4hETTcjayYtVRKn46n7rhHw319fzsBN-_Fok3ZmomKwcU169fKMQm0vicJGexyk8/s200/4262.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425633332496792274" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Diamond dust and boulders<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc8DW3Q1QpHQHAsK7K7otkaOjY44H3jjUQbmUiWAUJ9XeYfboDpL13p6hMzYhyLOHy2gumkeOhrJsmZoQ1x0q1cg0kJ97ZtnhTzIE9eR6C21cm5ARP7qZDsQFkc0-OKedMiRcwyL5sYH8/s1600-h/4292.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 166px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc8DW3Q1QpHQHAsK7K7otkaOjY44H3jjUQbmUiWAUJ9XeYfboDpL13p6hMzYhyLOHy2gumkeOhrJsmZoQ1x0q1cg0kJ97ZtnhTzIE9eR6C21cm5ARP7qZDsQFkc0-OKedMiRcwyL5sYH8/s200/4292.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425632155255695266" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicH850rFn_q7XePbCYOcDeyLjuM9IGaIj06aJ4wmZas2saTUiyc0vJMEyl7Y9_cGHSHIuG6ywL_-QhvV9yr5V4OLIbqF-6amEVYGlxECWqOQYwo8X-YqTcEJYl56hyXz4FmJRwEPmp9zU/s1600-h/4264.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 196px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicH850rFn_q7XePbCYOcDeyLjuM9IGaIj06aJ4wmZas2saTUiyc0vJMEyl7Y9_cGHSHIuG6ywL_-QhvV9yr5V4OLIbqF-6amEVYGlxECWqOQYwo8X-YqTcEJYl56hyXz4FmJRwEPmp9zU/s200/4264.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425632524786289282" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDCcNtdbQjt22uq-KirzQsczlLkMxtOX_N-WZuKqYKKOybSyz5q3HC1KORquu1xRfxtp3yiqiXw1U9SYKQ61EXp5UutIRA74Ntg79KHqX_b33I3OA42b9XtEYKhsYgROs6wO6ppzOOFns/s1600-h/4270.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDCcNtdbQjt22uq-KirzQsczlLkMxtOX_N-WZuKqYKKOybSyz5q3HC1KORquu1xRfxtp3yiqiXw1U9SYKQ61EXp5UutIRA74Ntg79KHqX_b33I3OA42b9XtEYKhsYgROs6wO6ppzOOFns/s200/4270.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425633097626529378" border="0" /></a>Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-69072156053639954552010-01-10T14:36:00.000-08:002010-01-10T14:38:22.947-08:00Cold Facts<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaGOCjyxP1xTT8LUuoMFt5jRjqtWIAhWuryJB2HH2eXEpl650gwM4ndsNdgVj7xPmqAA_F8NCcP7jZ-9iTzYiuQ04DLOd60f6fSCSrePRJkFaedQrssykzvdRufKGkXbl6rReAyGXH3AU/s1600-h/All+Highs.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 178px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaGOCjyxP1xTT8LUuoMFt5jRjqtWIAhWuryJB2HH2eXEpl650gwM4ndsNdgVj7xPmqAA_F8NCcP7jZ-9iTzYiuQ04DLOd60f6fSCSrePRJkFaedQrssykzvdRufKGkXbl6rReAyGXH3AU/s200/All+Highs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425244043948583954" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfjRR_wckXTng6Emsvbu-clkKTf9x_8DRFDFzftPI8hyphenhyphenXW8wNfkd4Sy-ROLGjhi073tqzTewd1IwLExUlGrk5iV2SrmqyUovqGwLQvaHEOu4dFimk6KQxGjPoiFZNo93QFI86NHHsNmvs/s1600-h/All+Lows.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 188px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfjRR_wckXTng6Emsvbu-clkKTf9x_8DRFDFzftPI8hyphenhyphenXW8wNfkd4Sy-ROLGjhi073tqzTewd1IwLExUlGrk5iV2SrmqyUovqGwLQvaHEOu4dFimk6KQxGjPoiFZNo93QFI86NHHsNmvs/s200/All+Lows.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425244118849174706" border="0" /></a>Today, as I sit inside watching big snowflakes sashay downward, meandering in from Canada, I thought I’d review the temperature history of my winter. Each day, I recorded the morning reading from a thermometer hanging outside my door, and also the high for every day. These I compared to the averages for the past 110 years from Weather Bureau data. I put this very-personal information into an AutoCad routine I wrote many years ago for the plotting such fascinations. I include here even the next three days, but of course they are not accurate, but taken from the forecast.<br /><br />I expect everyone will enthrall with wonder at the concision with which I present my winter—the unseasonably warm November, the December Plunge, the record cold of early January, and finally a warm spell at the end—all shown as a physicist might prefer.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-34152423849464109532010-01-09T14:53:00.000-08:002010-01-09T15:06:13.278-08:00Five more Days<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjekusIa7EctDDEW-vsAxMt-hHyAm-s8H2YlXtz3q6tHul7qoxwfOSyjqJ7sWhM3VkBXfVwfrc7vGK0I5tGvo0kRoGdB5-G-IGC4GHsGmILkPYWuvsvU6NzhA-OnNljJgSblhUU_jtf8EM/s1600-h/temp.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 137px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjekusIa7EctDDEW-vsAxMt-hHyAm-s8H2YlXtz3q6tHul7qoxwfOSyjqJ7sWhM3VkBXfVwfrc7vGK0I5tGvo0kRoGdB5-G-IGC4GHsGmILkPYWuvsvU6NzhA-OnNljJgSblhUU_jtf8EM/s200/temp.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424878314739911762" border="0" /></a><br />Another chilly morning with temperature and wind chill well below normal. With the days winding down and only five remaining, I wonder how to proceed. I still have not found the mysterious bicycle rider, have not used the snow shoes except on one day, have not walked on the lake, except for one of its small inlets, have not gone ice fishing with Jerry, and have not Nordic skied with the two women who wanted to. Other obligations have consumed their time, while I have repeated treks in the same woods, to the same windswept fields, stores and cafes. I have experienced all that I wanted to, on a plan that evolved and changed as the days went by.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCrm48Hiz5UbE2RDq9kHqfZvNtFGIpsLoW6uAc_yjcwdPJ1sJBdvs93beN7Z-vILGxFDS7Q9oZ7lyhbcnafy5HyKEDdyNRDV_0dc5Dhw-stUHNv3GuCOj_SfemC7cz37_AF1p0mmu3lL4/s1600-h/4244.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCrm48Hiz5UbE2RDq9kHqfZvNtFGIpsLoW6uAc_yjcwdPJ1sJBdvs93beN7Z-vILGxFDS7Q9oZ7lyhbcnafy5HyKEDdyNRDV_0dc5Dhw-stUHNv3GuCOj_SfemC7cz37_AF1p0mmu3lL4/s200/4244.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424878488056357106" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyhL7T5xMrd7-okQjojCXY4VrJU1YRzc5AZ9I01wMkciwQS-yAA-v7HmumGpg85uIxsOry4ERDM0GNh_YAlLfJjrD2PO9QFoVFeCewmYCUzE9wglybAfYnXGqtpyHqlowXnsA-YCFlLCA/s1600-h/4239.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyhL7T5xMrd7-okQjojCXY4VrJU1YRzc5AZ9I01wMkciwQS-yAA-v7HmumGpg85uIxsOry4ERDM0GNh_YAlLfJjrD2PO9QFoVFeCewmYCUzE9wglybAfYnXGqtpyHqlowXnsA-YCFlLCA/s200/4239.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424878743503753266" border="0" /></a>Today I walked five miles in chilling conditions that would have scared me indoors on my first day here. Fortunately, winter came on slowly, giving time to learn and acclimate. Most working people can’t do that, but stay inside except for perhaps ten minutes at a time to perform some outside duty. I can confidently say that I am better prepared physically for winter than most of the people who live in International Falls.<br /><br />I feel fortunate to have been allowed to come here, to enjoy winter, and to do so without feeling that I have shirked some duty. I am fortunate to have good health and enough money, but I am also fortunate for mental ability to live frugally. It is not by will power that I have a small apartment in Pasadena without even a kitchen, but rather an innate lack of need for comfort. I am fortunate because this mental state allows me to use what I have to go and experience, rather than to stay home and feel secure. It seems an inherited trait, and not some great choosing on my part. I blame no one who chooses comfort, and sometimes I wish for a desire to settle down.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeIkxd08g41bfIm3QNHP3d_xLcCHXU_6XMiLcHjmulP6FnoiJOhEL9y9CMuyZO61fhw4A4UngJ8MzZ3qNKQT7Ox_YHDjfHQdgM1_dpnZ2c2FV_oeG0vwgBqs1ddq38n_KBn6zTwggfGHg/s1600-h/4257.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 116px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeIkxd08g41bfIm3QNHP3d_xLcCHXU_6XMiLcHjmulP6FnoiJOhEL9y9CMuyZO61fhw4A4UngJ8MzZ3qNKQT7Ox_YHDjfHQdgM1_dpnZ2c2FV_oeG0vwgBqs1ddq38n_KBn6zTwggfGHg/s200/4257.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424878100946134210" border="0" /></a>And so today I report seeing more snow, more sparkles, more crystals of growing ice, and kids playing hockey. Once I was one of them, on the ice at Pasadena Winter Gardens. Now, with just as much free time, I am open for ideas on where to go next. The desire to settle down is still only a wish.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-73678162843235740042010-01-08T20:14:00.000-08:002010-01-09T06:55:01.747-08:00Ludicrous Art and Absurd Theology<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf1Es4OIpi06JezogSqOLk7bFC1CkRZqa6EOxhJpBdD6pWhT5_5ixZmMy0a7vS4PC9uH0p1eSQdysEYfCn5_2xsdtOW0kiBjeZYLwLsDZXVPa8iu6j0fKUFtP8ZQtVit_blfYx7Qs8Bvs/s1600-h/4209.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf1Es4OIpi06JezogSqOLk7bFC1CkRZqa6EOxhJpBdD6pWhT5_5ixZmMy0a7vS4PC9uH0p1eSQdysEYfCn5_2xsdtOW0kiBjeZYLwLsDZXVPa8iu6j0fKUFtP8ZQtVit_blfYx7Qs8Bvs/s200/4209.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424591769988124514" border="0" /></a>Last Sunday I reported seeing tiny sparkles in the air as I looked in the general direction of the sun, but not in other directions. They could not have been falling snowflakes or wind-raised snow on that calm and clear day. They refused to land on my glove and did not show up on my photographs. Yet they glistened for flashing moments, hundreds of them at a time, like tiny fishes turning their shiny sides to the sun in a great blue ocean. Could I have just imagined them, having become cold-crazy as we do at the onset of hypothermia?<br /><br />On Monday I reported my internet research: Tiny fog-sized droplets of water do not freeze even when the temperature falls well below the freezing point of water. Unless a particle of dust enters a droplet to start the freezing process, the droplet remains super-cooled down to minus twenty or thirty. But in extreme cold, droplets turn to ice and glisten in sunlight. They are called diamond dust. I was encouraged at finding that what I saw was possibly real, and I hoped to find some way to photograph it.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgmvh-lemLQPuV_yGg3AD4Ruwm7wrtSisOIUmN7xpbfD7oIXvseC7tmYmSIK_uxJ9g2WY4vYfkI9Plg-UPX6M9LBRmPlvO-ehvpDm61nCIsBMAUKT6h2vKgZO0DN-8IkxqyLeBtL884mY/s1600-h/4204.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 197px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgmvh-lemLQPuV_yGg3AD4Ruwm7wrtSisOIUmN7xpbfD7oIXvseC7tmYmSIK_uxJ9g2WY4vYfkI9Plg-UPX6M9LBRmPlvO-ehvpDm61nCIsBMAUKT6h2vKgZO0DN-8IkxqyLeBtL884mY/s200/4204.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424591018365151490" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNG0cZmZHIv35HFdxsP7wcE2dNPAHe5zDiqeMeq0RDCSJgZMuK6WdebpE3wlqK1axVoTwyhw7r3U_7KzfCAz-3Bem70VpN5GnYZp0I9x0vCVCyO0gvX24CY4RwE1lwKQtUmzjYQS9pgg4/s1600-h/4213.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 198px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNG0cZmZHIv35HFdxsP7wcE2dNPAHe5zDiqeMeq0RDCSJgZMuK6WdebpE3wlqK1axVoTwyhw7r3U_7KzfCAz-3Bem70VpN5GnYZp0I9x0vCVCyO0gvX24CY4RwE1lwKQtUmzjYQS9pgg4/s200/4213.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424591525233828338" border="0" /></a>On Tuesday I saw the sparkles again, seeming to come from a vertical rainbow-like column of light which stood beside the sun and glistened with tiny stars.<br /><br />The next two days were cloudy with no sign of diamond dust. But today I saw it again: unique flashing of minute points, like stars, in the sunlight. As before, the column-rainbow stood in the same position relative to the sun. I was determined to get pictures to prove that I am not cold-crazy. My attempts are shown here. I tried to catch diamond dust against the dark background of a road, the tan color of a car, the white of snow and the blue of sky where they are most distinctive and beautiful. But my pictures are like child’s drawings compared to the real phenomenon. The white spots in these pictures show my sparkles about as well as milk drops might represent stars.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBfU6wUPWFJWGUT3V-jeVcBcVOMoDkkc0Ams3UbHeyKzbjipzrFskJgMtp6Atemr9AqMLUYvwkLaXhcLL5yKFOTYC_gjFmEqu5G7N6snGkFPDvJnqbgz9gHOKCHgjWASnFcsf8SqSKFGM/s1600-h/4217.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 140px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBfU6wUPWFJWGUT3V-jeVcBcVOMoDkkc0Ams3UbHeyKzbjipzrFskJgMtp6Atemr9AqMLUYvwkLaXhcLL5yKFOTYC_gjFmEqu5G7N6snGkFPDvJnqbgz9gHOKCHgjWASnFcsf8SqSKFGM/s200/4217.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424591263419820418" border="0" /></a>I must ask you to take my word about this marvelous thing that I have seen. None of these pictures do my vision justice. I feel like Moses when he came down from Mount Sinai with tablets of stone in his hands, saying “Look! These are not my carving, they were given to me by God!” And the people said, “Yeah, right. Looks like ordinary carved stone. What’s the big deal?” So Moses, in dismay, broke the tablets, went back up the mountain and carved nicer ones by himself. I feel like going back to carve my own pictures, to render in some way what I have seen, perhaps exaggerating my sparkles to show what I feel they are, rather than how they appear in photos. Then folks might say, “She has become enthralled with these sparkles of hers and wants us to think she really saw them.<br /><br />Is this the fate of art?—that unless the viewer has seen firsthand the real thing depicted, the art is good only as abstract rendering of some feeling within the artist? If, after rendering my wonderful sparkles in some art form, I am told that I have made a nice fantasy, then I might fall into sulking and think that the sparkles I remember were not really what I saw, but what I wanted to see.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeakxtaa-Yn2LrG3HXR6KTzT64uPl6ULMBmHQ2wCClmaCv9d_hAi3VkvzKTcD9khNpmSw3cViNiaiMjYLDxhmT1D8J4wrZgrDZEgy3I9i3AbfDchj1E6hsvtJ39MQJjeflM5fHMr7Np3E/s1600-h/4226.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 190px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeakxtaa-Yn2LrG3HXR6KTzT64uPl6ULMBmHQ2wCClmaCv9d_hAi3VkvzKTcD9khNpmSw3cViNiaiMjYLDxhmT1D8J4wrZgrDZEgy3I9i3AbfDchj1E6hsvtJ39MQJjeflM5fHMr7Np3E/s200/4226.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424590578610968930" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />There was only one solution on this bright sparkling day—go to the vacant rink and skate.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-43962974361199737542010-01-07T17:19:00.001-08:002010-01-07T17:27:32.317-08:00More Snow<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPdgfz7H5YCgHvBEkeZYOvWBxdjmrVf9I4-45Ib8o3wzeAn39v-tXiJstn3stGpSHZo2tYNkcKPRw3gFgXYfmSbShWHsZnjrdcWKwPzbhjAx3Zr-e6xohFFq3QhdhVj85mMCghN918nBE/s1600-h/4195.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 123px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPdgfz7H5YCgHvBEkeZYOvWBxdjmrVf9I4-45Ib8o3wzeAn39v-tXiJstn3stGpSHZo2tYNkcKPRw3gFgXYfmSbShWHsZnjrdcWKwPzbhjAx3Zr-e6xohFFq3QhdhVj85mMCghN918nBE/s200/4195.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424173446419632770" border="0" /></a>Five cars stand idle in the cleared and frozen parking lot at Sandy’s. Three of them puff white breath from their exhaust pipes. I never considered leaving the engine running while I go shopping or read a book with a morning omelet, but here the risk of car theft apparently underweighs the discomfort of a cold car. Larry turns his engine off at Sandy’s, but about ten minutes before he is ready to go, he presses a button in his pocket and assures me that his car has started. He offers me a ride, but it’s only four blocks back to my room, and this time I decline. He honks as he passes; I wave, and feel just like a native.<br /><br />Jerry is busy with the plumbing again today. My room is on the second floor, and a deck runs along all the upper rooms with a stairway at one end. My room is nearest the stairway, and I use a broom to clear the deck near my door and stairway of snow. The rest of the deck has a foot of snow and no footprints. For several weeks, I have been the only person up here. Jerry, who owns the place, discovered a leak during the night before last, which he traced to the baseboard hot water heating system in the second floor. He keeps the heat turned on in the unrented rooms, but still, a pipe froze during the extreme cold we have been having. When it thawed, some of the first floor rooms had minor rainstorms, including the one Jerry, himself, lives in. My room was not affected. Any room left unheated can have frozen pipes within an hour at thirty below zero. In this case, it was a heating pipe in one of the vacant rooms that froze where it passes close to an outside wall, and once it froze, the heat stopped. Jerry would have had a major flood if he had not noticed the problem early. He went about with a hair dryer, blowing warm air on cold pipes. Today a plumber came to repair the break. “We have these problems every winter,” Jerry says.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxeGBIDbif1-jLwGBFjuT0q5qM8WuiO8j7iI3Jh53tYNlzSawVLFh3vbsPpnQguxpGXLEr9OnUxem83sM5yhE5RA05Z8cnTBLkiu1fLoQWBYp9fj0gBfUUbHDS6X2PmZ3RaDXae1P5M0Q/s1600-h/4186.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 170px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxeGBIDbif1-jLwGBFjuT0q5qM8WuiO8j7iI3Jh53tYNlzSawVLFh3vbsPpnQguxpGXLEr9OnUxem83sM5yhE5RA05Z8cnTBLkiu1fLoQWBYp9fj0gBfUUbHDS6X2PmZ3RaDXae1P5M0Q/s200/4186.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424173159739343762" border="0" /></a><br />Today it is snowing, and that makes it a little warmer, minus five and remaining about the same all day. This is the first snow, other than flurries, in about two weeks. The old snow has settled and crusted somewhat, so that walking on it, I usually remain on top where it sounds like walking on an empty oil drum. But sometimes the crust breaks and down I go, two feet to the bottom, or farther if the snow has drifted up. These holes are where I fell through while following a snowmobile track, which had packed the snow and made the going easier.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEO9Mv-5Kjc5692Oa-1S-OOZTisM5MNYjfp3JU5exEFWVfhQRjO2EUcWIKDJ2hGeVE_ib2iMRgqSmJSTl0zwbDFFq3Yec30OzBAuCSTFVr9l4T4y3FS2FpymvXeQOgS3oQpovj_-9sczo/s1600-h/4200.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEO9Mv-5Kjc5692Oa-1S-OOZTisM5MNYjfp3JU5exEFWVfhQRjO2EUcWIKDJ2hGeVE_ib2iMRgqSmJSTl0zwbDFFq3Yec30OzBAuCSTFVr9l4T4y3FS2FpymvXeQOgS3oQpovj_-9sczo/s200/4200.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424172684550799234" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFh-n2rQYWGawmDQiAc764kvFAsCo-BrjOpy-OFPDwObL8UxarYKnbycfbutLJbAWdzwTspmOw0jFGeQVm6G5Uj6GJ-3MRLPK358LOaxM3i64feIwvLgH8dmwFFEQBCtJyXo1CewQP-3E/s1600-h/4193.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFh-n2rQYWGawmDQiAc764kvFAsCo-BrjOpy-OFPDwObL8UxarYKnbycfbutLJbAWdzwTspmOw0jFGeQVm6G5Uj6GJ-3MRLPK358LOaxM3i64feIwvLgH8dmwFFEQBCtJyXo1CewQP-3E/s200/4193.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424172850564179010" border="0" /></a>These deer tracks show that the deer are falling through too. Their small hoofs put more pressure on the snow than my boots do. They cannot run very fast in this kind of snow. Wolves, with their broader paws and lighter weight, can usually run on top of the crusted surface. It must be a nervous time for deer. Maybe that’s why these tracks lead into town where wolves seldom go.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-43932375113317964092010-01-06T15:11:00.000-08:002010-01-06T15:19:10.914-08:00Walking Thoughts to Ranier<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFIVN1w7pO_v0Y3IxnTJBRi5ovTxNCRwL2YJstpcP7AkqjWxgGiOBedv5o6NytxG71POLOwHD7NmLf3QOQaHM3lWE4aObnBIq_gujBX_d-LcdTqV7hPmYmqD6_hteHW78pEomkHabf0PE/s1600-h/4112.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 102px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFIVN1w7pO_v0Y3IxnTJBRi5ovTxNCRwL2YJstpcP7AkqjWxgGiOBedv5o6NytxG71POLOwHD7NmLf3QOQaHM3lWE4aObnBIq_gujBX_d-LcdTqV7hPmYmqD6_hteHW78pEomkHabf0PE/s200/4112.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423769159728117170" border="0" /></a><br />ice and tree will hold<br />a skater like me<br />no shadow of doubt<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhinORiygmzx7jxe8nOscxmGjpck3jE_MDIhavJ3KfQ5T-cCIpngV17VEmYyz-4AXifWTrK1m9jTjQXsOgYQwq8dqN2GvVhppREG1wx4E7ICrq0UOWkkuDcJVA9VBKHM0HKhXuHQhNupxk/s1600-h/4169.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhinORiygmzx7jxe8nOscxmGjpck3jE_MDIhavJ3KfQ5T-cCIpngV17VEmYyz-4AXifWTrK1m9jTjQXsOgYQwq8dqN2GvVhppREG1wx4E7ICrq0UOWkkuDcJVA9VBKHM0HKhXuHQhNupxk/s200/4169.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423769383956960978" border="0" /></a><br /><br />cushions ready<br />footstool set<br />relax enjoy the show<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeC0NasBQWlKsL3vc_YvFJ0uTGR-IkxH_JYUoFzIeAHwlqNQbC5aCMrtm_JERyX0kGhVvDOPZdvPmHsKSyjhD-A3RqwcLDJLc6Hy5BlAp2D3fMrFye79nPEipF3maTHTGUrxMGrzV1Ovo/s1600-h/4148.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 144px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeC0NasBQWlKsL3vc_YvFJ0uTGR-IkxH_JYUoFzIeAHwlqNQbC5aCMrtm_JERyX0kGhVvDOPZdvPmHsKSyjhD-A3RqwcLDJLc6Hy5BlAp2D3fMrFye79nPEipF3maTHTGUrxMGrzV1Ovo/s200/4148.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423769614010476930" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi73xSs6uG4Qetd-SpapIEmP2IpyUptBNldjxzY19LoFHSurKwqgIKmH-M8V7yLPtjvRL4ZLFzTtp2rUGGp-M41rRyrZUAza3z2sfU7dlJXiH9s4cM6DiF2iibGA9z6Yv7vhyBL1qc1Jzo/s1600-h/4177.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 154px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi73xSs6uG4Qetd-SpapIEmP2IpyUptBNldjxzY19LoFHSurKwqgIKmH-M8V7yLPtjvRL4ZLFzTtp2rUGGp-M41rRyrZUAza3z2sfU7dlJXiH9s4cM6DiF2iibGA9z6Yv7vhyBL1qc1Jzo/s200/4177.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423769806740698786" border="0" /></a><br /><br />arrows set<br />bows drawn<br />winter’s ready<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfV_h74cWaIesDTHQzAhbiYxPXgFCwKtu2XDlKSoaa51fHF6bQ_dTyoFL3l5f7UpSAF0s9zzENwV6wN8Q5AuxA9-RRB6g8duXG-bNprAUuAqpEXiNEqb3azir01P2fdwpO3iN07_M8uN4/s1600-h/4184.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfV_h74cWaIesDTHQzAhbiYxPXgFCwKtu2XDlKSoaa51fHF6bQ_dTyoFL3l5f7UpSAF0s9zzENwV6wN8Q5AuxA9-RRB6g8duXG-bNprAUuAqpEXiNEqb3azir01P2fdwpO3iN07_M8uN4/s200/4184.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423770071686165010" border="0" /></a><br /><br />dumped and pushed aside<br />graveyard for city dead<br />they keep on fallingSharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-52467119356496955432010-01-05T15:12:00.000-08:002010-01-06T12:18:02.719-08:00Beauty<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ7_q9AOjEp2IDXsmDWy-BJbbQ9tACR0K3pvcCzaYMqtZZWDis9bHqo_ZSIEOY_-95SUagJkYONH_qUxHUQmGY-Di8vDc4HC6qmiYUC9ZrocLf97BJsEKy27NGr6Q6VeYP0Zxr3WegKxY/s1600-h/4123.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ7_q9AOjEp2IDXsmDWy-BJbbQ9tACR0K3pvcCzaYMqtZZWDis9bHqo_ZSIEOY_-95SUagJkYONH_qUxHUQmGY-Di8vDc4HC6qmiYUC9ZrocLf97BJsEKy27NGr6Q6VeYP0Zxr3WegKxY/s200/4123.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423400015377741714" border="0" /></a>Beauty creeps from a snow-bank where it was deposited after being scraped, pushed, compacted and left to remain until spring finally melts it. It resides in solid water, and after all these days, continues to amaze me. Today it defies the snowplow and the encroachment of a town and paper mill into its domain. Beauty does not accept its sentence and creeps out from cloistered piles. It wakes in the night and grows intricate appendages, adorning itself for the opening reception of another show.<br /><br />This is not the real world, I thought to myself on the way to Sandy’s this morning. After just a few strides from my door and my heated room, I landed, like an alien in ethereal animation, inhabited by fantastic creatures. And they don’t know it. Maybe they used to know, before the great forgetting, and they ceased to be senescent, retaining the art of a bygone culture.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUSrNm_XmTK6dSUxXzQUU1AQbZNri6dMMcyiW5NYwcMCgZjTKZy5JXb0NFZsXKEuJw3Gpe6oyNwZyJrVQzsgfDlvgBrvaBU0ivmeLsxPI1wKuB3hVvn2egNPxQpSv_Bvay1jw-kKP9iGg/s1600-h/4119.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUSrNm_XmTK6dSUxXzQUU1AQbZNri6dMMcyiW5NYwcMCgZjTKZy5JXb0NFZsXKEuJw3Gpe6oyNwZyJrVQzsgfDlvgBrvaBU0ivmeLsxPI1wKuB3hVvn2egNPxQpSv_Bvay1jw-kKP9iGg/s200/4119.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423399552267851154" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZsznFtCUbhATQYbz1icKBKujobkVhKgtATsOpYuwYW414VljZ9EYkxHHd_y4wYqqj4QMgYDuTcxhRt5_eiHeMbXtMyn5TpKHQ4AA-_ZCRugRtfBgGfYRFO9OPjYQW29tkKTLsI3q2oz8/s1600-h/4120.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZsznFtCUbhATQYbz1icKBKujobkVhKgtATsOpYuwYW414VljZ9EYkxHHd_y4wYqqj4QMgYDuTcxhRt5_eiHeMbXtMyn5TpKHQ4AA-_ZCRugRtfBgGfYRFO9OPjYQW29tkKTLsI3q2oz8/s200/4120.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423399712019765362" border="0" /></a><br />Beauty stands erect beside the source, the sun, today, as if made, like it, to nurture new life. Bits of diamond dust pass from a column of light to me, imparting their sparkles. My camera sees them as white spots, but it does not know them as I do.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEN7ahuMN72H8hCbpU-1bGoImReAFT_WjV_hV9gXtr8B8mtlVAAncnf06WDUGJ3mjuhaVbhWQVW966y262y8l0B9FCuoGRPnyxs9x44W4u0QT9pFAj5Fq1s6wcegAxagdWU04g8W_aPZU/s1600-h/4137.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 121px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEN7ahuMN72H8hCbpU-1bGoImReAFT_WjV_hV9gXtr8B8mtlVAAncnf06WDUGJ3mjuhaVbhWQVW966y262y8l0B9FCuoGRPnyxs9x44W4u0QT9pFAj5Fq1s6wcegAxagdWU04g8W_aPZU/s200/4137.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423399308246332258" border="0" /></a><br />When piled up high in disposal heaps and left to die, beauty doesn’t pout, does not form dark and twisted poetry. Instead, it gathers strength and rises from the grime, forms shapes for the sun to see and reflect to me.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyxc8Q1XuAQv-m8U2JKlssKFgj2zdpZEecgrk55aXOTIZxuUaYtSW7YkdTZR42vNng6PFx0nVEDH_b4xGXdyYdj6FezzSHEd39vx4YXgPeUmrAmTt2QJRbh_EvGq_lmmtkV_AhmS1p4zU/s1600-h/4126.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyxc8Q1XuAQv-m8U2JKlssKFgj2zdpZEecgrk55aXOTIZxuUaYtSW7YkdTZR42vNng6PFx0nVEDH_b4xGXdyYdj6FezzSHEd39vx4YXgPeUmrAmTt2QJRbh_EvGq_lmmtkV_AhmS1p4zU/s200/4126.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423399046299760866" border="0" /></a><br />On the surface of its piled-up fate<br />no angry image does beauty paint<br />but grows from what it has within<br />and what it finds without<br />fronds and winged seeds and forest trees<br />likenesses in miniature<br />Or is there something else it wants to show?<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgbF1pVKVHoJzyfLiZppnjYyPXwJiZ5tldwg5S2kkbhtADZjO2tliCwCEmTIC9c6djIQnYor8GsQlzZudPYjxwz0x2DUYUdZXLDifqZXtGLviHoLtean5SPyjMo7bG0Vap0P_1c6lxxvA/s1600-h/4138.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 187px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgbF1pVKVHoJzyfLiZppnjYyPXwJiZ5tldwg5S2kkbhtADZjO2tliCwCEmTIC9c6djIQnYor8GsQlzZudPYjxwz0x2DUYUdZXLDifqZXtGLviHoLtean5SPyjMo7bG0Vap0P_1c6lxxvA/s200/4138.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423398787154552754" border="0" /></a><br />Beauty doesn’t shun<br />the dead the plow scraped up<br />and threw with it to die<br />but builds a little monument<br />above a fallen twist of grass<br />to hope and life anew<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ3iVxyxdvXWeLFBoVHn-QDJq4kotIutD20nH6txHTmL8ysWzXIytJAuRhGxDXTDfJNNTm5t4Hu9YW9bdpPAjxG8ZauGxO3eyUvwNbYHmVwhPqUBogMY80a2CghA6B4qYyllrGF7JCcxQ/s1600-h/4142.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ3iVxyxdvXWeLFBoVHn-QDJq4kotIutD20nH6txHTmL8ysWzXIytJAuRhGxDXTDfJNNTm5t4Hu9YW9bdpPAjxG8ZauGxO3eyUvwNbYHmVwhPqUBogMY80a2CghA6B4qYyllrGF7JCcxQ/s200/4142.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423398502039249202" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We make for our enjoyment, replicas of beauty, Styrofoam and frosted glass, but seldom do we place ourselves in such a cold and hostile place to see it real at Sandy’s, inside a single pane.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEmdyvCZ9QQd1Sl8CO7yy1yDYC_cNpPvvNoXc0Jtc9lfGLW7Ei5q883Yt0reNfTxELO_x0drPGjTvtzAU5QV4xkbgd6xHSp3_6-cNhZo0ygXRhaFWGay_BoBGB4I9Ib8__5c5c3I6zntk/s1600-h/4116.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 106px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEmdyvCZ9QQd1Sl8CO7yy1yDYC_cNpPvvNoXc0Jtc9lfGLW7Ei5q883Yt0reNfTxELO_x0drPGjTvtzAU5QV4xkbgd6xHSp3_6-cNhZo0ygXRhaFWGay_BoBGB4I9Ib8__5c5c3I6zntk/s200/4116.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423398090034565778" border="0" /></a><br />When beauty encounters, in its descent, a pile of machine-ground woodchips for the mill, not a tree or child it surely prefers, it doesn’t gather there in ugly form, no patterns of contempt, but acts as beauty calls.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Isn’t life really more like stories we tell ourselves about our daily experiences, rather than hard science. Life seems more like magic or alchemy or something I don’t know how to theorize about. This solid beauteous water.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-62730588123944393902010-01-04T15:03:00.000-08:002010-01-05T05:47:55.382-08:00Diamond Dust<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS83su6vIU7X-HXJUa9UDEikUthvU68O2LnBF_Fm_Qgi_bZiwJmzPoBXAdimRAsSSlWUKqNsnDgU5QLQQlqfi-GulW0o7um4dRNoxPZ0MTE3DGuQn15H-uP9A59L0FSgrUainoDwnjqQI/s1600-h/4105.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 174px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS83su6vIU7X-HXJUa9UDEikUthvU68O2LnBF_Fm_Qgi_bZiwJmzPoBXAdimRAsSSlWUKqNsnDgU5QLQQlqfi-GulW0o7um4dRNoxPZ0MTE3DGuQn15H-uP9A59L0FSgrUainoDwnjqQI/s200/4105.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423025393730074418" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGyCqNcQLxvOid75WVlfJquXi6UbxR8EcfnFO1kG9cgLUn1M6UbtyL3uDMsvyxxGa8B5xCDOYBjL2YxQ87-HKb1rgw9G0eJHxqFBxHhwybQMO7ZG9lHzNjJcqQ7qBwwOMmsJTG_mQQvhM/s1600-h/4089.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 197px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGyCqNcQLxvOid75WVlfJquXi6UbxR8EcfnFO1kG9cgLUn1M6UbtyL3uDMsvyxxGa8B5xCDOYBjL2YxQ87-HKb1rgw9G0eJHxqFBxHhwybQMO7ZG9lHzNjJcqQ7qBwwOMmsJTG_mQQvhM/s200/4089.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423025551164183058" border="0" /></a>I walked to Sandy’s this morning and could still see my footprints from Saturday. No more than three other people have walked this way in two days. Yet, Sandy’s has about fifteen customers, and most of them drove less than a mile from my direction. At noon, I went for the three-dollar lunch at the senior center, where a dozen people were chatting about how brave they are to be out in minus twenty degrees—brave meaning they went from house to car.<br /><br />I thought I had a firm grip on the reality of extreme cold before yesterday. Forty-five days in the Icebox, outside for several hours on all of them, had hardened my body and taught my mind. My research felt complete; I was familiar with winter and with the people who live here. With only ten days remaining, I was feeling ready to come home. But suddenly, cold presented a new aspect of itself.<br /><br />Yesterday I reported seeing tiny sparkles in the air as I looked in the general direction of the sun. They could not have been falling snowflakes or wind-raised snow, for wind was calm and the sky clear. I could not catch them or photograph them, but they sparkled with amazing clarity and beauty. Something unknown was doing I didn’t know what, but it was beautiful.<br /><br />This morning, with the temperature at minus twenty-four on my deck and minus thirty-six at the airport, I see a strange fog, dense enough to blot out the sun, but only perhaps twenty feet thick. And on every horizontal surface, there is a white dusting, fine as flour, that blows away with the fanning of my glove. Someone said it is ice fog and that we don’t see it very often.<br /><br />On searching the internet, I think that yesterday’s sparkles were called Diamond Dust—tiny crystals of ice which would be fog at higher temperature. These minute droplets of water do not freeze except at well below thirty-two degrees. They can exist as liquid water down to about minus twenty, super-cooled, having no dust particle to start the freezing process. But in extreme cold, the droplets turn to ice and glisten in sunlight. As the concentration of droplets increases, they can block the sun, as they did this morning, and then they cannot glisten. Now they are ice fog and can settle on things as fine white dust of ice crystals.<br /><br />Now, I must ask myself how many things about cold are unknown to me and doing I don’t know what. I feel as much like a new wineskin as I did the day I arrived here, as much a vessel ready to be filled with intoxication as I was then, and this after all the awakenings I have been filled with. I feel almost like a tourist who steps off the bus, follows a sign-carrying guide for an hour, and says, “I have seen enough.” And inside she knows it’s only a show. There is not much support in our world for moments of revelation that come, like diamond dust, from the blue. I come in an era where a worldview of mechanical causality prevails, where insights are cast off for lack of evidence. In earlier times, stories of epiphany fared better. And for artists and poets they still do.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2G55Cjn5RXmrZ0hpSRzj0C56Anmflo4K8Qfnuj6zQroahhiU727HAOe5Xgjm6GJshrABUpYRF-Y4Z5NRZQ7y15GZ0vvCa0rhmLIBcNeRXfgq9t9LiPEUtSmHeId4zIDSZi4hDxBku-DE/s1600-h/4107.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 156px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2G55Cjn5RXmrZ0hpSRzj0C56Anmflo4K8Qfnuj6zQroahhiU727HAOe5Xgjm6GJshrABUpYRF-Y4Z5NRZQ7y15GZ0vvCa0rhmLIBcNeRXfgq9t9LiPEUtSmHeId4zIDSZi4hDxBku-DE/s200/4107.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423025034377221010" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />After the ice fog went away, everything was still and covered in white dust, like volcanic ash. When a breeze came up, it returned some of the fallen ice fog to the air—recycled.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN_4joZJGoj4twG2hlNwc1l85fKvZYzEQknxVQvrEbh-EooWVGD7kjVDZ2KEcVVTM4kNFq5TFgSJfx-HMysHeE2NE2OVjWJtVpl9iFUAs4IdYCE_9IyeJrhdQdnAqAk5fD6GcS2lJG65I/s1600-h/4116.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 106px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN_4joZJGoj4twG2hlNwc1l85fKvZYzEQknxVQvrEbh-EooWVGD7kjVDZ2KEcVVTM4kNFq5TFgSJfx-HMysHeE2NE2OVjWJtVpl9iFUAs4IdYCE_9IyeJrhdQdnAqAk5fD6GcS2lJG65I/s200/4116.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423024687685212530" border="0" /></a><br /><br />A mountain of wood chips looks like the Rockies.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-82406942422225240062010-01-03T12:42:00.000-08:002010-01-03T12:46:59.709-08:00Record Cold<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC7OLMavR2HAnJYvilD4klyQkPqhQm4m18lONb4S5mrCJMl5oCvHQwlef9wY0UZEX2qoTSEPCHT9RAxiYLCqaveSOkfyqauaZpDGW0T5qAOSvYEroH_Ft3KfC_UMCQYKbHIn6ey5-ouxY/s1600-h/4074.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC7OLMavR2HAnJYvilD4klyQkPqhQm4m18lONb4S5mrCJMl5oCvHQwlef9wY0UZEX2qoTSEPCHT9RAxiYLCqaveSOkfyqauaZpDGW0T5qAOSvYEroH_Ft3KfC_UMCQYKbHIn6ey5-ouxY/s200/4074.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422617676307158514" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidMMfkRDixHisgTaw7QSZ-cjafVw-cfTJitO6AB1jKSHDmFiJqEdSyKSApaDu-BBVIvO27njXYCkpZw52tH8EtSGMuYVtpIgq_HW2YyZgH8ohmi042WOQvPruyCELO1liXw_hCUCKsanI/s1600-h/4071.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 182px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidMMfkRDixHisgTaw7QSZ-cjafVw-cfTJitO6AB1jKSHDmFiJqEdSyKSApaDu-BBVIvO27njXYCkpZw52tH8EtSGMuYVtpIgq_HW2YyZgH8ohmi042WOQvPruyCELO1liXw_hCUCKsanI/s200/4071.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422617467886251826" border="0" /></a>On this cold morning, I see tiny sparkles in the air as I look in the general direction of the sun. I don’t see them in other directions. They could not be falling snowflakes or wind-raised snow, for the wind is calm and the sky clear. They are too small to catch or photograph, and they refuse to land on my glove. They glisten for flashing moments, turning their shiny sides, reflecting the sun like small fishes in a great ocean.<br /><br />The tops of bare trees are whiter this morning, as if they have caught some elusive stardust. They sparkle in quiet sunlight with varying patterns that seem to depend on where I stand to look at them.<br /><br />“It was minus forty-one when I left the house,” says a man in town. My deck thermometer read minus twenty-nine. The airport reports a low of minus thirty-six last night, one degree below the previous record for this date. The all-time record low still stands at minus fifty-five on January 6, 1909.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0YYDT04XpIif1ZbZAvwm_ou3UEtedcmLOFDQTlmaf_CeBvu4q4mpL9inQv6SvDwsZl8iNxPmKvHddMkh9wVICsODbN2ioAjy7L8sB725V2PHqwwEsIcghdgS9vVUazQxI46kqUiHmNQQ/s1600-h/4084.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0YYDT04XpIif1ZbZAvwm_ou3UEtedcmLOFDQTlmaf_CeBvu4q4mpL9inQv6SvDwsZl8iNxPmKvHddMkh9wVICsODbN2ioAjy7L8sB725V2PHqwwEsIcghdgS9vVUazQxI46kqUiHmNQQ/s200/4084.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422617184552080002" border="0" /></a><br />Ice is creeping under my door where a small leak in the seal allows outside air in. The small advancing glacier is a measure of cooling outside. Right now my inside thermometer reads 72, and the baseboard heating water is keeping my air 101 degrees warmer than outside.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-81533788683631639102010-01-02T16:59:00.000-08:002010-01-02T17:01:28.151-08:00Bitter Cold<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2he0k1WH0QVpzpdyK_x4KVbyx1NjaIxUkeZ0-OrUflI856OjlJvAbjyPbQPow5LYAMDiVWcOjMXSph7jhxrI8TvSUjTmK2bM5cEnWk5Nv6_B2SyOolHl57kafNp8-kdCRTLVg6UdLFZc/s1600-h/4069.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2he0k1WH0QVpzpdyK_x4KVbyx1NjaIxUkeZ0-OrUflI856OjlJvAbjyPbQPow5LYAMDiVWcOjMXSph7jhxrI8TvSUjTmK2bM5cEnWk5Nv6_B2SyOolHl57kafNp8-kdCRTLVg6UdLFZc/s200/4069.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422312307614593010" border="0" /></a>Last night’s forecast summarized today as “Bitter Cold.” It said that arctic air would pour down from Canada in the night, dropping the temperature to minus thirty-six before morning. The thermometer on my deck read minus twenty-four at eight AM, the lowest so far by eight degrees. But there was no wind, so the day should feel no colder than prior days. The airport was reporting minus thirty-six, but that is two miles south of my home, and does not get as much of the moderating affect of Rainy River and Rainy Lake.<br /><br />I walked to Sandy’s where a new waitress said she has a wood stove in the garage. This made no sense to me and I asked her to explain. “I don’t worry about carbon monoxide and my allergies like I did when it was in the house,” she said. It only made sense when she explained that the stove heats water, which runs through a pipe to the baseboards in her house. She makes several trips to the garage every evening and night to stoke the fire.<br /><br />As I write this, I see that the temperature in Pasadena is seventy degrees, eighty-seven degrees warmer than it is here.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-74982202339064178372010-01-01T14:34:00.000-08:002010-01-02T11:43:56.638-08:00Cold and Clear<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMAojM4EtTL4jzNH_cRCBej0tO58Uvi595Tomh_wK80dr0ihQmZvQC1Rd_S7T1-N2-53pgKmISwlTJPc2khwJ5oWXuo-LVS02YLbqx-iGVtEwiQXzxrjl0vPQ4TDHcmy9Pm3dWwSNhAd8/s1600-h/3289.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMAojM4EtTL4jzNH_cRCBej0tO58Uvi595Tomh_wK80dr0ihQmZvQC1Rd_S7T1-N2-53pgKmISwlTJPc2khwJ5oWXuo-LVS02YLbqx-iGVtEwiQXzxrjl0vPQ4TDHcmy9Pm3dWwSNhAd8/s200/3289.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421904427941286818" border="0" /></a>Minus sixteen this morning when I started a walk on New Year’s Day. A big bronze moon was about to set at 8:30 dawn. Last night, the same big moon had a circle around it, and the night was clear, which accounts for this morning’s low temperature.<br /><br />I walked a mile or two toward the airport and stopped for coffee. “You look cold,” said the waitress at the Chocolate Moose Restaurant. But I didn’t feel cold. “Here’s a napkin to wipe your nose,” she said. I stood in the vestibule and peeled off layers—first the thick gloves, then the under-gloves, pulled back the hood of my coat, the sweat band which serves as a nose warmer, the elastic face mask from Sharon Rizk (Where is she anyway?), knitted bogan off my head, shake out my matted hair, now unzip the coat. I walk to a table, carrying all this, take off the backpack, take off the coat, remove the under-vest. Finally, I sit.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiroAH_aImcAxlkjsoyIzZS8RwwZ3YF1wLcQk_Di1hD1wVFnatnv5LXidBtlWfFwMrziD220_oYyRse5Z8-qonlcLoq3dH2M7EIh855jJECw27eueQmeQHaH7AXhh-5f36uouh6Q4yN7yI/s1600-h/4066.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 194px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiroAH_aImcAxlkjsoyIzZS8RwwZ3YF1wLcQk_Di1hD1wVFnatnv5LXidBtlWfFwMrziD220_oYyRse5Z8-qonlcLoq3dH2M7EIh855jJECw27eueQmeQHaH7AXhh-5f36uouh6Q4yN7yI/s200/4066.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421904073753443138" border="0" /></a>I took a shortcut through a field and left knee-deep holes in the powder. It’s been a week since any significant snow fell, but thawing temperatures have not happened, and the powder stays just as it falls, unless wind comes to disturb it. But in this field surrounded by forest it looks as if the snow fell last night.<br /><br />Chocolate Mousse means the same here as it does in California, except that almost everyone but me has seen a moose around here, and they really are the color of chocolate. It’s best not to see their lanky legs and big antlers coming at you on the highway. Not that they are aggressive, they just don’t know what to make of a car.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE_zJJoBdTRQWInswKU9LBFoGve6eUC4wrPeZ1wTCKcRiz7eutMTtXli1AbZQiwxSJWwMLC8wUQ01U89lnB8EVvlgGQ1u1i93zLPB3x3XggbSH8UMZqT7J8mo4XaTAUIzxjp_FlWT53e0/s1600-h/3486.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 174px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE_zJJoBdTRQWInswKU9LBFoGve6eUC4wrPeZ1wTCKcRiz7eutMTtXli1AbZQiwxSJWwMLC8wUQ01U89lnB8EVvlgGQ1u1i93zLPB3x3XggbSH8UMZqT7J8mo4XaTAUIzxjp_FlWT53e0/s200/3486.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421903815409907746" border="0" /></a>Standing under icicles like these can lead to a very bad poetic experience, as shown by a man who died from a falling icicle in Devon, England. They put this on his stone:<br /><br />Bless my eyes<br />Here he lies<br />In a sad pickle<br />Killed by an icicleSharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-38734097999355466012009-12-31T15:35:00.000-08:002009-12-31T19:48:45.954-08:00Snow Art<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvD4oe5H6pcPQ1QfyV4ec2wEqnI0gCR2z0gCh7I-AvikRTGMSka_XnvJ3ipKQSS16WNv2h5DY6wVGvwcoyztLC_J6_OA4rhwSF1Cr0IQjGjlR0ydGE-cSWIQmbvKGLF8Y9z9jXzMEJ3GE/s1600-h/4055.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvD4oe5H6pcPQ1QfyV4ec2wEqnI0gCR2z0gCh7I-AvikRTGMSka_XnvJ3ipKQSS16WNv2h5DY6wVGvwcoyztLC_J6_OA4rhwSF1Cr0IQjGjlR0ydGE-cSWIQmbvKGLF8Y9z9jXzMEJ3GE/s200/4055.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421549396384347970" border="0" /></a><br />Snow blower<br />tool for clearing paths<br />maker of a mazes for pleasure of kids<br />paintbrush on white canvas<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRt3-Ct6WXWJWHLJvKRZqYt9lhV0rflmDnEn-SPkFPYEUQIUBdoMt7pJdpsLZs8CXn_qU_aCxFn2rj-GnLO2RumcRwMZiq8PBR2uf_Zon4cITcikmB4HcelpWPyXMr-XM4X2mOmjBILIA/s1600-h/4058.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRt3-Ct6WXWJWHLJvKRZqYt9lhV0rflmDnEn-SPkFPYEUQIUBdoMt7pJdpsLZs8CXn_qU_aCxFn2rj-GnLO2RumcRwMZiq8PBR2uf_Zon4cITcikmB4HcelpWPyXMr-XM4X2mOmjBILIA/s200/4058.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421549180211237570" border="0" /></a>A few days ago I reported finding no snowmen, no carrot noses or cabbage ears. So I set out to correct the oversight with the rolling of a big snowball on which my plan called for two more. But no matter how hard I tried to compact the loose snow, I couldn’t even get it a foot in diameter before it crumbled. Could it be, I thought, that in the Icebox of the Nation snow is too cold for snowballs? Is warmer snow required for compaction? I gave up and kept walking. I don’t know how the artist did it, but having tried and failed I appreciate the result.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvW9enNsWzuzSwCOvVjUw_18q1_vQP4UD-b1VfwCzsgbTYDpdEsNmz9VlSvBL2YE8EvNv08P8QWIkuWAnJWOHc5t19nxgKFkNb-oUunfLkeB6RSuVucXf0PzlXNkW2kgpgdVK3FBOzvAg/s1600-h/4062.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 115px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvW9enNsWzuzSwCOvVjUw_18q1_vQP4UD-b1VfwCzsgbTYDpdEsNmz9VlSvBL2YE8EvNv08P8QWIkuWAnJWOHc5t19nxgKFkNb-oUunfLkeB6RSuVucXf0PzlXNkW2kgpgdVK3FBOzvAg/s200/4062.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421548954566664754" border="0" /></a><br />A truck driver with logs this long, approaching a turn this tight, is like an artist with brush in hand, approaching a canvass with confident sense of form.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggdhJuCwKbrirIebxkAtW3xRnGXdlIFnY6gN-xYKyv8K1NcgSIZGqOLtYGfW3NSlbm1FOgkbDmVn_kuo6DIwMBqgZ1PcBG2Luj1gclYyAPcePEjVKwDFduObESokri7E5HXTI0kJ2-Pko/s1600-h/4034.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggdhJuCwKbrirIebxkAtW3xRnGXdlIFnY6gN-xYKyv8K1NcgSIZGqOLtYGfW3NSlbm1FOgkbDmVn_kuo6DIwMBqgZ1PcBG2Luj1gclYyAPcePEjVKwDFduObESokri7E5HXTI0kJ2-Pko/s200/4034.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421548654658405778" border="0" /></a><br />A small isolated town is not a place for animosity, hatred and bad manners. You see your townsfolk nearly every day and deal with them whether they are nice or not. So you learn how to get along. This too is art—bending your lines of personality to enhance the town canvass. The water tower represents cooperation, necessity of nourishing the whole, and the importance of community. Big cities don’t paint this way.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjs7YhAyzNf88wSV3KQGzaBDIS8l6GPqU7bqGV9grua4rOuRsnGZngiIdyEzrr3oUQa26vuD533MwKMY162rRqH8TM4ODe9inBOZPLEyK3zuEcABCElVjryCgcrOn7Oh9Ynm00sOmBT_M/s1600-h/3985.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 113px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjs7YhAyzNf88wSV3KQGzaBDIS8l6GPqU7bqGV9grua4rOuRsnGZngiIdyEzrr3oUQa26vuD533MwKMY162rRqH8TM4ODe9inBOZPLEyK3zuEcABCElVjryCgcrOn7Oh9Ynm00sOmBT_M/s200/3985.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421548409560315714" border="0" /></a><br />You don’t put a sign like this on a road entering Pasadena. You get laughed at if you do, and jokes are flung. Here too it brings some quips, but everyone understands it, and they think it better to have the sign than not to have it. This too is community art.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-86999165396854282502009-12-29T17:24:00.000-08:002009-12-29T17:51:05.684-08:00Crossing the LineRainy River, a boundary between countries, has a bridge with a pedestrian lane that is like walking through a factory. The bridge is just upstream from the dam, which makes electricity for twin paper mills—ours and the Canadian. Short trains cross the bridge trading wood chips and bark with Canada. A noisy conveyor pipe carries more chips and bark, equalizing supply between friendly countries. And trucks carry more supplies. A pedestrian must weave among the industrial shapes and stay within white lines which are under white snow. But few pedestrians cross this way, and I am always a kind of novelty for the customs agents on both sides. They always ask why I am crossing and then why I am staying so long in International Falls. I answer as honestly as I can, and they always say something like, “That’s a new one.” They search my pack, sometimes my coat, and say, “Have a good day.”<br /><br />Walk with me through the industrial maze of borderland, through pictures taken in order from US to Canada, left to right, and again, left to right.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvpwfL-5iFiXO0I4nGtIT9Isz9TdEVH1uLeTTBfxdWDY5GPvlaoNX3BB5ORwmMQg8XTicT8vSB6dOqs6wXBJ8znQ08ok4lCpltGMTMjpPXj-xpoEC6YO7UZfXAQCBdtJAE8uWkWiI7szs/s1600-h/4035.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvpwfL-5iFiXO0I4nGtIT9Isz9TdEVH1uLeTTBfxdWDY5GPvlaoNX3BB5ORwmMQg8XTicT8vSB6dOqs6wXBJ8znQ08ok4lCpltGMTMjpPXj-xpoEC6YO7UZfXAQCBdtJAE8uWkWiI7szs/s200/4035.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420837963175469458" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQcvCgixeAPjIgYziFZ4_TlIEPk328XlCNnpBziaoh2L374kiDhAp12VMcECpRd0HGV8R-WoYTitCxKx-VDVcDRZG5mMNVQXxgpL7JAjPP8TV_kIvtPGoR3KPDnsKvxofv2-uhdcf8LIo/s1600-h/4038.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQcvCgixeAPjIgYziFZ4_TlIEPk328XlCNnpBziaoh2L374kiDhAp12VMcECpRd0HGV8R-WoYTitCxKx-VDVcDRZG5mMNVQXxgpL7JAjPP8TV_kIvtPGoR3KPDnsKvxofv2-uhdcf8LIo/s200/4038.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420837720087150034" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFNdlP_eifDJfdQgsOlwTNxnnbrAX9eBIu_j-94PQGYhyphenhyphenPIvtJMswlFM2QL8MvwgM9_8FTE8l_kn8ImCeyc88iCAD4XGsU4H6UX9e_ewioH5T6sembWO7xC3SnS2DnZGfOtAvHpVoAzxI/s1600-h/4036.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFNdlP_eifDJfdQgsOlwTNxnnbrAX9eBIu_j-94PQGYhyphenhyphenPIvtJMswlFM2QL8MvwgM9_8FTE8l_kn8ImCeyc88iCAD4XGsU4H6UX9e_ewioH5T6sembWO7xC3SnS2DnZGfOtAvHpVoAzxI/s200/4036.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420837839333532466" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiny9PVOiGSccnwY2vnpi-H7FwICdHelIfc9Ey1SSK9hABqOOypPqZliWLPHVj-iaz37Se97K5AfhJuHxSMCCF7ViF8FaQS8fxQqjr5jDtEwZ0eavIwU8uZBMQBcoMHhSGqVFXnW0yFw48/s1600-h/4039.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 116px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiny9PVOiGSccnwY2vnpi-H7FwICdHelIfc9Ey1SSK9hABqOOypPqZliWLPHVj-iaz37Se97K5AfhJuHxSMCCF7ViF8FaQS8fxQqjr5jDtEwZ0eavIwU8uZBMQBcoMHhSGqVFXnW0yFw48/s200/4039.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420838823862605074" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrUSDrTza0tSgPoBiPypDn9SWdrRvMAarJr9F_OBzM8YWn8RGwaFNkipwdzLPTqYlCwLmatW4GCBIHZZ9yJPT1AeOuEMBH4OMMMHLFWMQhmnMMAonFsrjjMMDtW0Yip9x5_nCzIVqVLNQ/s1600-h/4043.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrUSDrTza0tSgPoBiPypDn9SWdrRvMAarJr9F_OBzM8YWn8RGwaFNkipwdzLPTqYlCwLmatW4GCBIHZZ9yJPT1AeOuEMBH4OMMMHLFWMQhmnMMAonFsrjjMMDtW0Yip9x5_nCzIVqVLNQ/s200/4043.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420834933544574546" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEkVT-_0nWCS6WOOs6SkA8Xxub_cRT7RjR-1MJDP08bWdiaaJEYGlOPgQzse0G-jRT8-Yngt7jMmVx_qgr1BY11c0BtQub2ssxCJcITjYTXVAKAFjHMquaEMJnrtH42JkCrZLrjZxynko/s1600-h/4040.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEkVT-_0nWCS6WOOs6SkA8Xxub_cRT7RjR-1MJDP08bWdiaaJEYGlOPgQzse0G-jRT8-Yngt7jMmVx_qgr1BY11c0BtQub2ssxCJcITjYTXVAKAFjHMquaEMJnrtH42JkCrZLrjZxynko/s200/4040.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420835063082429074" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqAABE9PpVLWkNYYE3uHJ3wVuTlld2uOlA9AqMjPeT9V1wfjE50SWY1sJHUc018CgLIRnHMbxaiGnNgQyLsTGc_OXhFdWURQCnaUwj4GC_pMWWplsZqo2iov79NEdyjkizCFFHoIIl4Dg/s1600-h/3981.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 176px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqAABE9PpVLWkNYYE3uHJ3wVuTlld2uOlA9AqMjPeT9V1wfjE50SWY1sJHUc018CgLIRnHMbxaiGnNgQyLsTGc_OXhFdWURQCnaUwj4GC_pMWWplsZqo2iov79NEdyjkizCFFHoIIl4Dg/s200/3981.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420834577770798514" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Christmas lights designed to look like icicles, now encased in real icicles.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNzl0dEvUB__am-rnwUJyx7xU4AF0ZSshcyELoiaBrYjnWhc933teU63b2BYnPvxMYRHkFzQ6iTOGxLRh3y2jsVUbE8Laxk25sHB5e5UiR-do0Jvw6S0Zgwm2y3jkYOB0vp0bWJn-EORQ/s1600-h/4051.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 182px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNzl0dEvUB__am-rnwUJyx7xU4AF0ZSshcyELoiaBrYjnWhc933teU63b2BYnPvxMYRHkFzQ6iTOGxLRh3y2jsVUbE8Laxk25sHB5e5UiR-do0Jvw6S0Zgwm2y3jkYOB0vp0bWJn-EORQ/s200/4051.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420834366035032546" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />A tree just inside Canada, still celebrating Christmas.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-22174681930916811042009-12-28T17:44:00.000-08:002009-12-28T17:58:53.247-08:00Windy Cold<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgisNeNSDq6bnTXRaOpgDpjMRKmU2MRrxOx97o76CTisnUDxy-BoAY43aqcF9U-HFYw65OIpWHoOxqxr23CU2HOgUemyYC9uV9dQIupnf-3TTz-KDrf5whPnZd5POooHzRFdj9fYtA4j8E/s1600-h/3998.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgisNeNSDq6bnTXRaOpgDpjMRKmU2MRrxOx97o76CTisnUDxy-BoAY43aqcF9U-HFYw65OIpWHoOxqxr23CU2HOgUemyYC9uV9dQIupnf-3TTz-KDrf5whPnZd5POooHzRFdj9fYtA4j8E/s200/3998.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420470152739216066" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEjIAI0J6rTb6-bPX7aGOTszYH4w0qF0CiGbCBuPa3JEqjY0tKcw9d2rU3WM8B7wmWA4tuNjH787rzWEcpEyq0gOrZC3Bmc7Qlj0o-HZ4jt1coek8CE5SNojQnN1VaJcPBCuoQO6pHm0k/s1600-h/4030.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 141px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEjIAI0J6rTb6-bPX7aGOTszYH4w0qF0CiGbCBuPa3JEqjY0tKcw9d2rU3WM8B7wmWA4tuNjH787rzWEcpEyq0gOrZC3Bmc7Qlj0o-HZ4jt1coek8CE5SNojQnN1VaJcPBCuoQO6pHm0k/s200/4030.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420469969442622466" border="0" /></a>After forty days in the Icebox, I have come to believe certain things. These are not the same as things I observe, measure and record, nor things I deduce. No, there are some things of which I say, “I hold these truths to be self evident.” Upon such belief, I proceed to build a life as America built a nation. If you prove me wrong with science, I will smile and acquiesce, but my beliefs will not change. They will comfort me and guide my actions far longer than mere reason or science.<br /><br />One such belief is that “cold” is not just the absence of heat as science says, but is instead a real quality, more real perhaps than heat. Aristotle called it “primum frigidum” and has been “proven” wrong. But I know he is right because I know cold.<br /><br />Now, you will respond by saying, “Define cold.”<br /><br />As soon as I try to define it, something goes haywire, so I say that it can’t be defined. And I hear you say, “But definitions are the foundation of reason. If you can’t define “cold” there is no way you can say it exists.” Please forgive as I have this dialog with you, writing your thoughts with my fingers, I do enjoy it; but defining “cold” is like defining art; it leads to wonderful schools of experts who determine where each artist succeeds or fails. Some things are best left undefined.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg92Sm2VpKhm0q_isbqXnnmfaymCEURuel9_EPimGCSqUIAnnrEOAwTobT5B1pTOlC9A3fQl5_8NCd0SAMVxFCdSqpjh7OIxxBajax95yQOdJ5Q-oySQqFLPJyNlTy-qzWhnw1Vq5kcjAU/s1600-h/3987.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg92Sm2VpKhm0q_isbqXnnmfaymCEURuel9_EPimGCSqUIAnnrEOAwTobT5B1pTOlC9A3fQl5_8NCd0SAMVxFCdSqpjh7OIxxBajax95yQOdJ5Q-oySQqFLPJyNlTy-qzWhnw1Vq5kcjAU/s200/3987.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420469640067229426" border="0" /></a>I can single out aspects of “cold” such as pinpricks, numbness, shivers, icicles hanging from glasses, creaking sound of a frozen coat, squeak of boots. But these do not substantiate its existence; and it does exist. With definition blocked, I view “cold” as a romantic, undisturbed by thought structures. Without cold, poetry about it would disappear, since it has no practical value and seldom makes sense.<br /><br />When I am Nordic skiing in a wind chill of say, minus twenty, I see the world as a trinity of cold, mind and matter. The past exists only in memory, the future only in plan. Present and cold, the only reality. Cold is the parent of mind and matter, the source of all subjects and objects. And now you are about to say, “This is preintellectual and unimportant in light of science and reason.” Or maybe I have convinced you; it doesn’t matter. Today, I met cold again, my ski tracks left in the past.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZBGeMyZGPASO73CdAW1tCgn3vKy5nlbICzxedXviEFyQhQJiFfK4WzwZXBb0p8x6_z9agMXsajqI0x7hSpIBTGP-x2P-1595GdeMwcm-638qsCPTAchZRtEiRHST-it5tFh-cb9V6QFA/s1600-h/4015.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZBGeMyZGPASO73CdAW1tCgn3vKy5nlbICzxedXviEFyQhQJiFfK4WzwZXBb0p8x6_z9agMXsajqI0x7hSpIBTGP-x2P-1595GdeMwcm-638qsCPTAchZRtEiRHST-it5tFh-cb9V6QFA/s200/4015.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420469130772162754" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFHnqqQCLwAA6WnuxoSlMBdXsq4HXfvl3cYSIRqIxS9qh1b-ZXSSNZvgaZ3dlv2gn_Mki-tjniXCa2B5KqkLOm6hO2FT8lBpvWtJ8gtMn1mYx0NDDi4V5KmSHYFbaxNSPGeDtiM1diawI/s1600-h/4013.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 191px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFHnqqQCLwAA6WnuxoSlMBdXsq4HXfvl3cYSIRqIxS9qh1b-ZXSSNZvgaZ3dlv2gn_Mki-tjniXCa2B5KqkLOm6hO2FT8lBpvWtJ8gtMn1mYx0NDDi4V5KmSHYFbaxNSPGeDtiM1diawI/s200/4013.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420468961201966258" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Oak leaves die in the fall as do birch, alder and lilac leaves. But unlike its peers, the tree holds onto a few of its summer memories. They flutter brown and brittle far into the winter. Only in a strong wind do they detach and land on snow as the only memories of summer.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGm27kxoiOyk2Jk67aj0Y-YDtuXqEKguINkZ3zsFXgbukSVJGOGIiYHyOQWkLYPLq17cLa-rpZhdNH4mPhwcVFHNpI7OcGajSTeAK-vUtXnZuUX8DFmGES_5sRGFutRcKBjEFAFvyfGdg/s1600-h/4006.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 129px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGm27kxoiOyk2Jk67aj0Y-YDtuXqEKguINkZ3zsFXgbukSVJGOGIiYHyOQWkLYPLq17cLa-rpZhdNH4mPhwcVFHNpI7OcGajSTeAK-vUtXnZuUX8DFmGES_5sRGFutRcKBjEFAFvyfGdg/s200/4006.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420468685470643298" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Dry and not much growing<br />desert wind from the arctic<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDZhqWqzptErRvvBMlPamjD-5Q6PwCpWiiUaXYAgyqmEx945Y3zXtc0tq1R8PCXSJ6qPY7MijEKwy11BHuuNyLn7DRYGyjlBg6fuPbedcbnNdp8Ggl0nCNAaeN9R3PD0Z8tjXeBrCrQgM/s1600-h/4021.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDZhqWqzptErRvvBMlPamjD-5Q6PwCpWiiUaXYAgyqmEx945Y3zXtc0tq1R8PCXSJ6qPY7MijEKwy11BHuuNyLn7DRYGyjlBg6fuPbedcbnNdp8Ggl0nCNAaeN9R3PD0Z8tjXeBrCrQgM/s200/4021.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420468434041638498" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Some folks are not much into snow removal.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-30340927603943640872009-12-27T17:20:00.000-08:002009-12-27T18:00:11.991-08:00Map of the World<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSbGGSt6lcYZvEm9x9VgrZCEYxWC3t44F7yXwz32CnKBsXyHMdfLDzIJZlJ0njrmYkQ41WEGn0sWzLpVPBg-2VCuJzBE9vuwwZi1qTZgU3eVx-kC44HOIj3W-3bCjKnyCduzJT6l-_75E/s1600-h/3971.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSbGGSt6lcYZvEm9x9VgrZCEYxWC3t44F7yXwz32CnKBsXyHMdfLDzIJZlJ0njrmYkQ41WEGn0sWzLpVPBg-2VCuJzBE9vuwwZi1qTZgU3eVx-kC44HOIj3W-3bCjKnyCduzJT6l-_75E/s200/3971.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420099211000791378" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcxcY_uPDQsL1hawC2v8AHor73IA9A28f10VXTKcvwYLC_CxJd1EK-hZtVuv5-T0SpmU_5YMPR6Vn1I6EiZJ3tk_wGbTU4w7LWYgmPHn34vaefJwwbSxKdnG1eXuOd6BXuvgF09CRZNwM/s1600-h/3955.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 197px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcxcY_uPDQsL1hawC2v8AHor73IA9A28f10VXTKcvwYLC_CxJd1EK-hZtVuv5-T0SpmU_5YMPR6Vn1I6EiZJ3tk_wGbTU4w7LWYgmPHn34vaefJwwbSxKdnG1eXuOd6BXuvgF09CRZNwM/s200/3955.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420099388325984114" border="0" /></a>Stop for passing trees! Look up to admire them along Sixth and Seventh Streets in the Nation’s Icebox—trees posed against a gray, still-snowy sky, a day after the first big snowfall.<br /><br />“I just love the outline of bare branches. Seems to be a map of something I don't understand but am drawn to” –Liz<br /><br />“Bare branches against the sky—a mysterious map” –Kathabela<br /><br />The paintings on the right are by Toti O’Brien from her Map series, posted at:<br /><br /><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/poetsonsite/TheArtOfTotiOBrienInTheLivingRoomGallery#5401231225419451618">http://picasaweb.google.com/poetsonsite/TheArtOfTotiOBrienInTheLivingRoomGallery#5401231225419451618</a> by Kathabela.<br /><br />My poems between the trees and the paintings were inspired by two kinds of maps.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj97JWedkWCyFMgS-adXhdRneyNh6PYHZ6dgcyCOfhSM3durTVeJ8QoQvZ5DzIq7wATzbyPgqmXtzDFqEoG1ghw7T786kuXnPMad2-2KJE9vY-P0TKO2Zbow_uu2JD4Ut76wdspVBasZhk/s1600-h/3963.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj97JWedkWCyFMgS-adXhdRneyNh6PYHZ6dgcyCOfhSM3durTVeJ8QoQvZ5DzIq7wATzbyPgqmXtzDFqEoG1ghw7T786kuXnPMad2-2KJE9vY-P0TKO2Zbow_uu2JD4Ut76wdspVBasZhk/s200/3963.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420096956364839122" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKrGQ7pG7ienSvBL7NFR4MRkbFDAKfNAHMIIr27kN5-N-hqO54_WSq9S7nEjwR_M5fblvrHmrVHb2kYneCHrvCvfShB2PZ5xiUTGXs41DIDiMxyUUA2Ep-411Vv7xIyKjtxvmrJ1_kbrg/s1600-h/Toti+Map+6.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 154px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKrGQ7pG7ienSvBL7NFR4MRkbFDAKfNAHMIIr27kN5-N-hqO54_WSq9S7nEjwR_M5fblvrHmrVHb2kYneCHrvCvfShB2PZ5xiUTGXs41DIDiMxyUUA2Ep-411Vv7xIyKjtxvmrJ1_kbrg/s200/Toti+Map+6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420097090583402706" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);font-family:arial;" >Follow That Tree</span><br /><br />I judge each branch by look and feel<br />like buying fruit from unknown trees<br />like choosing roads from maps<br />but after holding, feeling many<br />I sense the tree has grafted limbs<br />each unique, but from a whole<br /><br />trunk and branches, twigs<br />their bent and pretty form<br />how they spread and seem to aim<br />pointing upward in a general way<br />though roundabout with interest<br />my tone is altered by their form<br />in seeing things unseen by them<br />partly through tree eyes I see<br />a tree across the street<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvPEUD7UYLFpMZzSP1XZNuXU50JOm6GLjiMCPMVEO9iO_5_WC-tiS9qa-y84vzSsuRirIp8zhTzsWLhN9XBOqd1vzNomt2EkRUp13wdpe5RTYslOkZvgHKLKGkVBYfexOqebkbuQJ2-T0/s1600-h/3982.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvPEUD7UYLFpMZzSP1XZNuXU50JOm6GLjiMCPMVEO9iO_5_WC-tiS9qa-y84vzSsuRirIp8zhTzsWLhN9XBOqd1vzNomt2EkRUp13wdpe5RTYslOkZvgHKLKGkVBYfexOqebkbuQJ2-T0/s200/3982.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420096348823360978" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMoYoaTRRKU-07yV0_liNYSfyo8eZDY5t4Acatyf1wTeLtqd_gyRdsXurFDzqx56wLKK_8QHgGD7dqRgWZfqbWxnw8w_VEJGNKolCElwAgyek90Zt75Cx4hnvJh1jKRWoPY7SObFlpwOo/s1600-h/Toti+Dream+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 151px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMoYoaTRRKU-07yV0_liNYSfyo8eZDY5t4Acatyf1wTeLtqd_gyRdsXurFDzqx56wLKK_8QHgGD7dqRgWZfqbWxnw8w_VEJGNKolCElwAgyek90Zt75Cx4hnvJh1jKRWoPY7SObFlpwOo/s200/Toti+Dream+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420096476762839234" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);font-family:arial;" >Come, Climb on Me</span><br /><br />I decide to stand awhile<br />let feet take root<br />wet earth between my toes<br />moss creeps my legs and arms<br />leaves sprouting from my hair<br />maybe a child will climb me<br />find his way along my paths<br />perhaps that boy I saw last summer<br />throwing pebbles<br />to an empty fountain<br />afraid to join the baseball game<br />too much wisdom for his age?<br />not made for worlds like this?<br />I want to say —<br />If not you, who?<br />give him comfort<br />like trees can<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNQFrUGifuIXSmjPpc5ftbGeXM-j9UfUfDEg0k-Zb7DI74PLadxGTdrUSqq3eUKhgLFoIwdrmeC4iBvR4kbI-SteTa39vz7lr8svDTjSkylja436ZTP6LKIEruee-C2UmVs4BM_eyH0fw/s1600-h/3960.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNQFrUGifuIXSmjPpc5ftbGeXM-j9UfUfDEg0k-Zb7DI74PLadxGTdrUSqq3eUKhgLFoIwdrmeC4iBvR4kbI-SteTa39vz7lr8svDTjSkylja436ZTP6LKIEruee-C2UmVs4BM_eyH0fw/s200/3960.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420095815433716098" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1PCBjgx8fOk4tiKc5wS0qwDVbBYtJ3tqJY8vzFr3yYVCgX5FSo-DIgE4tiGQDJ3TNho2fiJF33o6zeN9vlW7QoIxVLVfaItSckW00-lALlKqBxH1PRfhQK16D9fPr7MFUSUz-7ZnvAf0/s1600-h/Toti+Map+5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 188px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1PCBjgx8fOk4tiKc5wS0qwDVbBYtJ3tqJY8vzFr3yYVCgX5FSo-DIgE4tiGQDJ3TNho2fiJF33o6zeN9vlW7QoIxVLVfaItSckW00-lALlKqBxH1PRfhQK16D9fPr7MFUSUz-7ZnvAf0/s200/Toti+Map+5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420095941814194802" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);font-family:arial;" >The Easy Way</span><br /><br />A tree with crocked branches<br />brushes gently on the wall<br />smooth siding of a human home<br /><br />suggesting to whoever listens<br />how very different<br />men and nature build<br /><br />nature trembles in the breeze<br />stretches asymmetric<br />yearns, adjusts, and bends<br /><br />human houses, measured, plumb<br />concepts mapped, bold and true<br />lines on paper, expressed in walls.<br /><br />mankind strives<br />for straight and level<br />more special than we are<br /><br />the tree looks on<br />at perpendicular<br />and asks how that is better.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMuw4M4O8lWn2tNII6b_CE2MPCuIDMMK7YT2NzQ15Bj9VkrQYGCxWUiSugEf0KAmIn_gy9uh2yVN_lc7geQr5sFO_EHZWtgsZoWKfOimQ9FkXXlo8HCmwKYATgHKvvhrrqH1CxIFRhkuc/s1600-h/3959.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMuw4M4O8lWn2tNII6b_CE2MPCuIDMMK7YT2NzQ15Bj9VkrQYGCxWUiSugEf0KAmIn_gy9uh2yVN_lc7geQr5sFO_EHZWtgsZoWKfOimQ9FkXXlo8HCmwKYATgHKvvhrrqH1CxIFRhkuc/s200/3959.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420094972636328498" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1MQ2M7NGaszxotRpTfRioRkHg_c9c81BOEDekukONpImGpR49S24iTI9rhvDCacqq-yE7riZlEbgmkkQFGs-6lh0wF74fmW38hSB-nir0SxjwrvFSQQJFid5wtKb4RTynp_spNKif9NI/s1600-h/Toti+Map+02.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 184px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1MQ2M7NGaszxotRpTfRioRkHg_c9c81BOEDekukONpImGpR49S24iTI9rhvDCacqq-yE7riZlEbgmkkQFGs-6lh0wF74fmW38hSB-nir0SxjwrvFSQQJFid5wtKb4RTynp_spNKif9NI/s200/Toti+Map+02.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420095077025895010" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);font-family:arial;" >Content, But Lacking</span><br /><br />I was once a tree<br />void of leaves<br />naked and brittle<br />cold hardened<br />to outlast winter<br /><br />you fell gently on me<br />like a snowflake<br />not needed, but warm<br />like a spring leaf<br />with a faulty map<br />come when leaves must die<br /><br />you rested softly<br />repaired a breach<br />where I knew no lack<br />restored forgotten paths<br />created a place to dwell<br /><br /><br /><br />Here are more trees, map-like, to follow in curious directions, but always leading upward to their tips. Buds surviving winter will lead onward in spring.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP9HsW2_v79mjyzCOFJRyDDVQ39S6JAD45NlV6EetsqkYgcjD1US1UHydRLJ3EfmVUKEIh1gi3zFEFb2mqLIK6ZndxSbsk0r15hI79dAXN_mWtmsjqFj4UauIA4tgBszyL1xEPYoEaD-c/s1600-h/3957.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP9HsW2_v79mjyzCOFJRyDDVQ39S6JAD45NlV6EetsqkYgcjD1US1UHydRLJ3EfmVUKEIh1gi3zFEFb2mqLIK6ZndxSbsk0r15hI79dAXN_mWtmsjqFj4UauIA4tgBszyL1xEPYoEaD-c/s200/3957.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420093632007130418" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlZbKmnLFarMMj5FCib6vLmhDoy3KeLwAkdXxr95StJS3Z6WMiNqHZ2y7JPMRtEOQ3r1aSoAE9sCZ9mlhDvkelIeV1_Al___Jk2QqflzSTafMuFwp8IfWQRQAadkjHu5vcqm7naoN1wIQ/s1600-h/3962.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlZbKmnLFarMMj5FCib6vLmhDoy3KeLwAkdXxr95StJS3Z6WMiNqHZ2y7JPMRtEOQ3r1aSoAE9sCZ9mlhDvkelIeV1_Al___Jk2QqflzSTafMuFwp8IfWQRQAadkjHu5vcqm7naoN1wIQ/s200/3962.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420093239347325826" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Whyqt0QOWtqIkwMN2-9ThjnAyQl0w_Wd7Pkj5Cm6jA-Npck9jmJ7ZvDGDHRxsjXW-9RWIChrHCAfIvTewBGwIVxKyVNf0ILzi0kQkkZOeChUEBTveciZJDkNr6ujrnWu2YvVFNOL7gk/s1600-h/3961.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Whyqt0QOWtqIkwMN2-9ThjnAyQl0w_Wd7Pkj5Cm6jA-Npck9jmJ7ZvDGDHRxsjXW-9RWIChrHCAfIvTewBGwIVxKyVNf0ILzi0kQkkZOeChUEBTveciZJDkNr6ujrnWu2YvVFNOL7gk/s200/3961.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420093427255193202" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifN09h3_5-1wzbsXt6zorP-1HkN2r_exJEp7fBTFHdJFxKN3gXY9-PXwTwJ-SJgDJgzvqarIGe6un3TA_SNPWLlyC8WHP7AGRrH3oXARjg0whqJ8VyuAO2B-66MVQmGCMb-5E3xWNTCBY/s1600-h/3976.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 81px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifN09h3_5-1wzbsXt6zorP-1HkN2r_exJEp7fBTFHdJFxKN3gXY9-PXwTwJ-SJgDJgzvqarIGe6un3TA_SNPWLlyC8WHP7AGRrH3oXARjg0whqJ8VyuAO2B-66MVQmGCMb-5E3xWNTCBY/s200/3976.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420092324419443666" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDeeL4_RGag1YqineY8Or3m3VcbmiepIEckGouVdxpBJJXgjNEAGnUd1HM9A_NG7PS4tXyYC-7Bk0mlK_2gp-c-tohi6fUvHcc8rmkfvYGSabmNdJCK-mK4zM8-PC_5erTeyMjAXOA_gE/s1600-h/3965.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 82px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDeeL4_RGag1YqineY8Or3m3VcbmiepIEckGouVdxpBJJXgjNEAGnUd1HM9A_NG7PS4tXyYC-7Bk0mlK_2gp-c-tohi6fUvHcc8rmkfvYGSabmNdJCK-mK4zM8-PC_5erTeyMjAXOA_gE/s200/3965.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420092594184082818" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGY50rdiBh8YQCwJvdgRBtbIT74gaxtmHuNUUs_YDL5x5sIM9lCR9lg1WG5xXJM_IY0U46Ovfp9wjwAxIQ7cvsgm3sAYhPStnc-RugpS-ZziXXUlpJZ43quKcwQfMt5kZ4tGNTvnIi7dI/s1600-h/3975.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 110px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGY50rdiBh8YQCwJvdgRBtbIT74gaxtmHuNUUs_YDL5x5sIM9lCR9lg1WG5xXJM_IY0U46Ovfp9wjwAxIQ7cvsgm3sAYhPStnc-RugpS-ZziXXUlpJZ43quKcwQfMt5kZ4tGNTvnIi7dI/s200/3975.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420092445618241090" border="0" /></a>Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-65005653581770241772009-12-26T14:42:00.000-08:002009-12-26T15:14:07.016-08:00Mountains of SnowLast night, we sat together at The Roadhouse Night Club, two miles east of I-Falls, on Christmas. “Why would anyone cook for Christmas at home,” said a speaker of consensus, a jovial man who stopped by our table to bring holiday greeting. The dinner was free to everyone, and we could drop a donation to charity in the box if we so desired. The food was donated by Super-One Foods and the nightclub did the cooking. So many people came out in the snowstorm that parking became precarious.<br /><br />I sat with two athletic women—a triathlon competitor and a searcher for ancient petroglyphs. When I mentioned the bike travels, they wanted details, nuts and bolts. We agreed to do some Nordic skiing together before I leave.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_wGELIG4EpRL32W4iAtmgQTWf3z2GbquJYGKXMCkNOGdRGjPQwo25CxbvXabebX0qamLpi2xs5WLTTG9itj4kGHndg9uqmfs61jCA4ekscsow9Z-OBJ1-ng2599FIwINWJ3rtlk__NFc/s1600-h/3904.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_wGELIG4EpRL32W4iAtmgQTWf3z2GbquJYGKXMCkNOGdRGjPQwo25CxbvXabebX0qamLpi2xs5WLTTG9itj4kGHndg9uqmfs61jCA4ekscsow9Z-OBJ1-ng2599FIwINWJ3rtlk__NFc/s200/3904.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419682925336572002" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9oXweK3VaUfeTcJMQzxG__RV2DmC6iLtzt9Fi2-ZALQ5UrN4CNRQVsKy9uAhCjvEWp19EzOOAVF5a-g5APUYJXGgWtn9Opn8yfjCBLcPBUBVqn43WrO1QTGsLPfwzdWQgyuPOaYVy3JE/s1600-h/3905.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9oXweK3VaUfeTcJMQzxG__RV2DmC6iLtzt9Fi2-ZALQ5UrN4CNRQVsKy9uAhCjvEWp19EzOOAVF5a-g5APUYJXGgWtn9Opn8yfjCBLcPBUBVqn43WrO1QTGsLPfwzdWQgyuPOaYVy3JE/s200/3905.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419683060433259698" border="0" /></a>It snowed all night, and in the morning I had to sweep away snow just to get across the deck and down the steps. It was the first morning that I really saw a need for snow removal. Once outside, I climbed over a four-foot-high ridge of snow that the plow left along the road. Nobody will get in or out of here by car until somebody removes this snow. I walked to Sandy’s, trudging in knee-deep new snow, around piles of pushed-up snow, and along a narrow walking strip between the cleared driving lane on the road and the bank of snow that the plow left. Nobody was in Sandy’s except me and Katrina. She got stuck driving, but somebody gave her a push, and she made it. “All the streets in town are impassable except a few plowed ones,” she said, “and for those you have to shovel your driveway.”<br /><br />The snowshoes were not much help as I left to see this for myself. I sank all the way down to solid old snow, just as I did in boots. And since they are harder to pull out of the snow than boots, I decided they need to wait for stiffer snow. I set out along a plowed road to see a snowstorm, as heavy snow continued to fall, Jack frost nipping at my nose.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrhTZRCB_nYcQ98uD0EBgJ4Fu5Z51MbDdaM_2bKG3h7MMX31iSL8fCfwjlkEDcAvVR2m1FrR9dqLwLvIhxOLmEF6VfTd0vJ8FSZE8RcNou1S_72nLt1OuOssPqZyq2Sdr2oaoF9vNNVkc/s1600-h/3913.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrhTZRCB_nYcQ98uD0EBgJ4Fu5Z51MbDdaM_2bKG3h7MMX31iSL8fCfwjlkEDcAvVR2m1FrR9dqLwLvIhxOLmEF6VfTd0vJ8FSZE8RcNou1S_72nLt1OuOssPqZyq2Sdr2oaoF9vNNVkc/s200/3913.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419682376440990162" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />I decided not to skate on the ice rink today.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmyGjG3wzUF6ZtTd_lDI3NRX4q8ERUrG12tjskFgiYqIYPwkf9kuJ7-X0KhzEOWWOsQt4xR_mhtcxrCBHIlrfSDweTRO_ebNWy7G9TV6AVN8TuYfuUs4qxq6lbujfYDhE4PjBX7A5P-Z8/s1600-h/3918.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmyGjG3wzUF6ZtTd_lDI3NRX4q8ERUrG12tjskFgiYqIYPwkf9kuJ7-X0KhzEOWWOsQt4xR_mhtcxrCBHIlrfSDweTRO_ebNWy7G9TV6AVN8TuYfuUs4qxq6lbujfYDhE4PjBX7A5P-Z8/s200/3918.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419682103013384834" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Limber ladies, intertwined<br />bend their boughs and share the load<br />this too will slide away<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzeKSi-N-1wUHM9SnejSjqxOwQFEhn-Zp-ga6xhRgcfnu-Wvr1zCDH-WAiwWFgpTxQzzChubIruIYjNyc47FtDjN_LdcRYGIqA1KBqwmIkG38uXqKfl2QFNmSoBo3VoD3MqEQ4X6dbFVY/s1600-h/3919.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzeKSi-N-1wUHM9SnejSjqxOwQFEhn-Zp-ga6xhRgcfnu-Wvr1zCDH-WAiwWFgpTxQzzChubIruIYjNyc47FtDjN_LdcRYGIqA1KBqwmIkG38uXqKfl2QFNmSoBo3VoD3MqEQ4X6dbFVY/s200/3919.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419681683255096130" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Stronger<br />able against the wind<br />because we have each other<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF_MR7IwEtWBbgKI87HEMZUdKbek52pQnHfnn-y3rSAKDEYvlFEVaq37Cr2Z1yITe7p9T1Zz-7Rq-WmHU6k1iJdhcDZ3FwQHor7VE-T60dnQs4d9sijM5yS2D3qIFr7c-dhuwcWq8DeWc/s1600-h/3924.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF_MR7IwEtWBbgKI87HEMZUdKbek52pQnHfnn-y3rSAKDEYvlFEVaq37Cr2Z1yITe7p9T1Zz-7Rq-WmHU6k1iJdhcDZ3FwQHor7VE-T60dnQs4d9sijM5yS2D3qIFr7c-dhuwcWq8DeWc/s200/3924.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419681369276449314" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Seventeenth Street is the southern leg of a triangle that encloses most of International Falls. It’s two miles across, and today I think it was easier walking than driving.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhujae7_Z99laKSMfrneEiHi_iv-uUkK6RcGWErz4VIALslFnviLSZksg0UUthUkdUQ6nTYaCw4g7h3-dN0ZBV5h22TQ0NlZjLSIMw2Kq0twDWaBH5mY1NsjhM7MSUdlGaxscOhnkZFfyg/s1600-h/3936.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhujae7_Z99laKSMfrneEiHi_iv-uUkK6RcGWErz4VIALslFnviLSZksg0UUthUkdUQ6nTYaCw4g7h3-dN0ZBV5h22TQ0NlZjLSIMw2Kq0twDWaBH5mY1NsjhM7MSUdlGaxscOhnkZFfyg/s200/3936.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419681061161342706" border="0" /></a><br />The city plows snow from the road to the side, while the businesses move snow from parking lots to the road. Where the two movings meet, a mountain of snow rises that will surely remain until spring. It sounds competitive, but is not. I hear them talking and arranging piles. It’s a community effort.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg1Q5iM6QIPDnFg71CW93ViQzNDFHRdfUAk6yGxtVocUgKGu4_hY-3vIsw2D1SzcPr3wRw6WZZGIJQroml_5ZiKc4QBgCf0iB1hVqZqZoDfx4Fn_n0lDh-WMf9NxNmCeji37TjDBExYrA/s1600-h/3940.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 164px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg1Q5iM6QIPDnFg71CW93ViQzNDFHRdfUAk6yGxtVocUgKGu4_hY-3vIsw2D1SzcPr3wRw6WZZGIJQroml_5ZiKc4QBgCf0iB1hVqZqZoDfx4Fn_n0lDh-WMf9NxNmCeji37TjDBExYrA/s200/3940.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419680806876091346" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Some people like to do their snow blowing in comfort.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRP6KowEUfp_ImUAUl-AL34cUoDZxFhapwKw13UKKmIpe51yiizPCZeswkX0CtiybHulyhFZD9yYAtM8IeSztFY-CApV2D5QfOBm9Wrl3eJM13UirrTE-qA1Tlh8sBTu9TuHN3UhJ8qqA/s1600-h/3949.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRP6KowEUfp_ImUAUl-AL34cUoDZxFhapwKw13UKKmIpe51yiizPCZeswkX0CtiybHulyhFZD9yYAtM8IeSztFY-CApV2D5QfOBm9Wrl3eJM13UirrTE-qA1Tlh8sBTu9TuHN3UhJ8qqA/s200/3949.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419679456169894226" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNbrpbV_226lVASn3TzDWll3-EO0WrDbiMoogzRcJNV-tB-tTVI0mJeIqho4obMMqzdB0_xlgN39BU33z2ECHGuFwNzkxJU1gY3858rlhENTbhTXyr9xxxwdFF5ipkg7eJeuNGlGaJBQE/s1600-h/3883.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNbrpbV_226lVASn3TzDWll3-EO0WrDbiMoogzRcJNV-tB-tTVI0mJeIqho4obMMqzdB0_xlgN39BU33z2ECHGuFwNzkxJU1gY3858rlhENTbhTXyr9xxxwdFF5ipkg7eJeuNGlGaJBQE/s200/3883.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419680474682616834" border="0" /></a><br />Looking along Third Street, the main street of town—on the left is how it looks today. On the right is how it looked yesterday. I cannot walk the sidewalk today as I could yesterday. The plows have made the street passable but hardly parkable, and if you are walking, it has to be done where the cars go.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-17829109070628188382009-12-25T16:04:00.000-08:002009-12-25T16:16:51.469-08:00A Very White Christmas<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL3jWb0MY3ogn9tvIiEdIEK34_LCU6UtImduP-Q2Kiyw_oKnefKrnCjBctf0RsEgpP4uNRiTm5_BB6x5uw3jqDvF-loXf7Q9k6Y8Su61_1jwc5bIiqY4THb8mF8JA6vMEyitjmcvRd030/s1600-h/3888.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL3jWb0MY3ogn9tvIiEdIEK34_LCU6UtImduP-Q2Kiyw_oKnefKrnCjBctf0RsEgpP4uNRiTm5_BB6x5uw3jqDvF-loXf7Q9k6Y8Su61_1jwc5bIiqY4THb8mF8JA6vMEyitjmcvRd030/s200/3888.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419330971759060610" border="0" /></a>After a night of snowfall, I walked into old town and Coffee Landing Metro, the only place open today. “No charge on Christmas,” said the owner when I tried to pay. Big flakes fall as I take this picture of the place. You can sit either inside or out.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgij5hqb33mpBZmSc5jPQ3z5EYexrIONPvmYZNaymhAttIzpnsxzn0u9E2bwC07edyHacMIOfdOHVJ0B2VLCtyhuwsYUDcoJFVLkIuomc9CbjZ6WIJOa0yO36BRzxuNrwjVd0wnPGcIEWw/s1600-h/3878.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgij5hqb33mpBZmSc5jPQ3z5EYexrIONPvmYZNaymhAttIzpnsxzn0u9E2bwC07edyHacMIOfdOHVJ0B2VLCtyhuwsYUDcoJFVLkIuomc9CbjZ6WIJOa0yO36BRzxuNrwjVd0wnPGcIEWw/s200/3878.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419330754304719906" border="0" /></a>I tried to make a snowball as I walked a residential street. Few people decorate their houses like this one. Most houses show no interest in Christmas. No snowmen either, no carrot noses or cabbage ears. So I set out to correct the oversight with the rolling of a big snowball on which my plan called for two more. But I couldn’t even get it a foot in diameter before it crumbled no matter how hard I tried to compact the loose snow. Could it be that in the Icebox of the Nation snow is too cold for snowballs? Is warmer snow required for compaction? I gave up and kept walking.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimxrAEpQHIZu4rbzCKdf_B3fq612eS_MY7_K-ssmT8k8jr8Si6lfNrMfB43nRqvkj5CbQJQ6oe7eAyE6Ex8bd1wbA9bKvtgpBFP9DjfFg91AVJmfMvVoHRadGG3vYRvsTFaM7VETbkyk4/s1600-h/3885.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimxrAEpQHIZu4rbzCKdf_B3fq612eS_MY7_K-ssmT8k8jr8Si6lfNrMfB43nRqvkj5CbQJQ6oe7eAyE6Ex8bd1wbA9bKvtgpBFP9DjfFg91AVJmfMvVoHRadGG3vYRvsTFaM7VETbkyk4/s200/3885.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419330460004948146" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The downtown street, Third Street, is nearly vacant of cars and crowded with snowflakes. They fall sidewise, and my camera catches them in its flash.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWO_r5xAkfsfZ17AhyphenhyphenpCi-MxyBzZIzV2L9aQOION7bxoZwRWs6yCt6PThmNNZpcVTt8OrFP2soYjz4yHyyASISLbfRaF04Kv-4NwJnxMe27JEzq-N3yWzq-6sWaH8nF95HBK-9q9bWmzg/s1600-h/3893.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 98px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWO_r5xAkfsfZ17AhyphenhyphenpCi-MxyBzZIzV2L9aQOION7bxoZwRWs6yCt6PThmNNZpcVTt8OrFP2soYjz4yHyyASISLbfRaF04Kv-4NwJnxMe27JEzq-N3yWzq-6sWaH8nF95HBK-9q9bWmzg/s200/3893.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419330199011058386" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />A Christmas tree seems appropriate, so I photographed this one near the library.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk599qflmi__f1ivSdoveLpKWPryE5aioalyqeZDgzfL97LCpHFuWsa3gYjyYWA94kS6JpODkqUhR-L_E22lE7BbRrVXaVr5Ajsop1FHVOK9IBl7xLWQ-5jDQK0Sm-Vj6Jm_J5IVlKgqc/s1600-h/3897.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 154px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk599qflmi__f1ivSdoveLpKWPryE5aioalyqeZDgzfL97LCpHFuWsa3gYjyYWA94kS6JpODkqUhR-L_E22lE7BbRrVXaVr5Ajsop1FHVOK9IBl7xLWQ-5jDQK0Sm-Vj6Jm_J5IVlKgqc/s200/3897.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419329952747890594" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Where is my bicycler? All his tracks are gone now. Has something happened?<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRj6nvZ3CCZcx_GvhRfu4FMnqVhgaPHoCBtkYvOa3G0wVF7b9I4hyphenhyphenYTuVE7q8bXWpHQ5g6taMrsPjtXozyYHErInkZ6NnqT4aeyzQCN3p6yAYOWA9EPYrlp81ph7_UP-wZTPv7omlunEI/s1600-h/3898.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRj6nvZ3CCZcx_GvhRfu4FMnqVhgaPHoCBtkYvOa3G0wVF7b9I4hyphenhyphenYTuVE7q8bXWpHQ5g6taMrsPjtXozyYHErInkZ6NnqT4aeyzQCN3p6yAYOWA9EPYrlp81ph7_UP-wZTPv7omlunEI/s200/3898.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419329657656915122" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Is this a road or park perhaps? Maybe it’s a railroad. If a gray squirrel has hidden nuts here, how will he find them?<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM6Rw37P1j8XW0zsp8_IU-ODsVj0_q7xLKCWQp7pWAEgEKRiKVMPK5rUQb1B7YpJTxLWylYJzEPlsYwy1eZCGHyQMXkvo2y-RhZU9Bk9YdxAwDru_R8lUQ6deuf5a645D2DXgkntilIbI/s1600-h/3900.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 124px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM6Rw37P1j8XW0zsp8_IU-ODsVj0_q7xLKCWQp7pWAEgEKRiKVMPK5rUQb1B7YpJTxLWylYJzEPlsYwy1eZCGHyQMXkvo2y-RhZU9Bk9YdxAwDru_R8lUQ6deuf5a645D2DXgkntilIbI/s200/3900.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419329431414599826" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It seemed like a good day to try out the snow shoes that I brought and have never used. Is this how snowshoe tracks are supposed to look?Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-30240867353613232812009-12-24T17:25:00.000-08:002009-12-24T17:37:49.334-08:00Happy Christmas from Frostbite Falls<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0c8iKgJKNmqGN53f9FC9nhrgg0Z7tfPIToKiNRx9V5IZjXwLebuuy7XT1r8CmLG7rj2MRjqhnjHa-D54BliNrktFA0D3uPdviWbS4GKkI6yg_SwxRU7tnw-nR3pGAtxHyAwiCivXIoPw/s1600-h/3866.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 116px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0c8iKgJKNmqGN53f9FC9nhrgg0Z7tfPIToKiNRx9V5IZjXwLebuuy7XT1r8CmLG7rj2MRjqhnjHa-D54BliNrktFA0D3uPdviWbS4GKkI6yg_SwxRU7tnw-nR3pGAtxHyAwiCivXIoPw/s200/3866.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418980098776042722" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpVHwcu7OpppWUWy4c5y7lwDahG1rSFNwGHSINKq5ddXZ8UMfTNXVYTILcWUJAc9daQHlQwCIJhZwKOX1OGRWfKM0e57ruTsRgznU47lm_ePg10malysWpwqe5oR4lLEk5YjOKavFmDnU/s1600-h/3871.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 182px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpVHwcu7OpppWUWy4c5y7lwDahG1rSFNwGHSINKq5ddXZ8UMfTNXVYTILcWUJAc9daQHlQwCIJhZwKOX1OGRWfKM0e57ruTsRgznU47lm_ePg10malysWpwqe5oR4lLEk5YjOKavFmDnU/s200/3871.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418979894231876546" border="0" /></a>Snow falling this morning, coming in sideways on southeast wind. I walked to the Post Office and the coffee shop in old downtown, a warm twenty degree stroll, enjoying the pleasant sting of flakes on my cheeks and their cold taps on my eyes. Everyone is outside it seems—snow shovels, snowplows, snow blowers, snow scrapers and pickup trucks with mounted blades—all seeming to have as much fun as frolicking children making snowmen and snowballs. Yet I see not a single snowman, no snow forts, no snow angels, and even the snowmobiles are silent. All such activities stop for the all-important community effort of snow removal.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqET9DunYerpVKgTsbugaF7GHrjVJ053uHnt3sZSc8AWex0I7GiL3DtNnM1XgMOlpT2pahiKIFgX2-1Y0fZwWI_OM-TRhobSYSjx0FSNmpcH-k1ItJbHHaEJhHV_EWaC-LYp0UP_bWzHE/s1600-h/3863.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqET9DunYerpVKgTsbugaF7GHrjVJ053uHnt3sZSc8AWex0I7GiL3DtNnM1XgMOlpT2pahiKIFgX2-1Y0fZwWI_OM-TRhobSYSjx0FSNmpcH-k1ItJbHHaEJhHV_EWaC-LYp0UP_bWzHE/s200/3863.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418979682273967506" border="0" /></a>A man remarks at midday that the job is complete for now, to which his eightish son says, “But Dad, I snow blowed half of it.” And another man says, “It’s not so bad with six inches. It’s when ya got a foot that it’s harder.” I felt so bad not participating that I got the broom from under the stairs and took five minutes out of important activities to sweep the snow from my deck and steps. The forecast calls for three days of snowfall. I am thrilled about this, but must restrain my excitement; everyone worries that too much effort will expend in removing snow and that the piles will get too big and too much in the way.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEYIrAaHB_dNXduARRAC0uvyjVXAKt8hiM5b3QUJaUlocgALvyTuOJCXESR5VHUvUkSnlVgz5DNFIjXuypoHXKxSUgAXXQb_s82Y2XEiY85xFQs5YTWa6MGDxCP2V_r9tNRNPMORuStfI/s1600-h/3854.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEYIrAaHB_dNXduARRAC0uvyjVXAKt8hiM5b3QUJaUlocgALvyTuOJCXESR5VHUvUkSnlVgz5DNFIjXuypoHXKxSUgAXXQb_s82Y2XEiY85xFQs5YTWa6MGDxCP2V_r9tNRNPMORuStfI/s200/3854.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418979162803317666" border="0" /></a>I did not post anything yesterday, so let me tell you about the old snow that now lies about six inches buried. It was not silent under my boots as today’s new snow is. Something about snow that has been around for several days gives it a musical quality that new snow has to learn. Walking on old snow sounds like Styrofoam boots walking on Styrofoam. It still kicks up and carries in the breeze like new snow or like dust in the desert, but it also plays musical notes. I think the tones are lower at higher temperatures. Yesterday, it screeched under my skis and squealed as my poles turned to push away—odd sounds for snow to make. It was twenty degrees, ten degrees warmer than last time I skied the Blue Ox Trail, and the difference allowed me to go without a face mask.<br /><br />This evening, I attended the Candlelight Eve at Zion Lutheran Church. I didn’t know that this tradition would quadruple the normal Sunday attendance and that everyone dresses up. Women walked through six inches of new snow from their cars to the door in pumps, wiping their feet and stocking legs with a cloth upon entering. I can only imagine how the snow felt on their feet, sliding in over tops of their pumps. I came in insulated clod-hopping boots, as always, and slid into my dress shoes on arrival. I wore nice pants and felt underdressed.<br /><br />I came early and had to ask several people if empty seats were saved. Families sit together; a son or daughter comes early to save seats. Finally I sit by Julie, also by herself. This Christmas Eve tradition is part of the unity within families, I see it on faces of children and grandmothers, love and friendship, ties and commitment.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-81031822483445634402009-12-22T16:13:00.000-08:002009-12-22T16:32:46.203-08:00A Young Town<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXsdmISCETypMq2T_83f1yiwgqoLMYF8zwXNA1iTdkUu4d11OF66jsfet7akar6V8tppowK0gRbWTBlpCJ3L8C0qO83Rk0ZzR_g3s7ldKMS4FjNnCulsso087_wqSp2OL9ERLYtP38Q9A/s1600-h/3845.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 141px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXsdmISCETypMq2T_83f1yiwgqoLMYF8zwXNA1iTdkUu4d11OF66jsfet7akar6V8tppowK0gRbWTBlpCJ3L8C0qO83Rk0ZzR_g3s7ldKMS4FjNnCulsso087_wqSp2OL9ERLYtP38Q9A/s200/3845.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418220054152656226" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqqoCnCyvwYjAp2DQXhqdwpfzE-z3V4zXPBFLrXaL9M4iOhOStoWYYvdhjHxC82WNxOj1v0q3IsTIiG6s7gC5Y6q4iV9mTG9jCUHsgFCaqCMcDA2NuIHgxFE6uUMOqz6EMZ83aktw_7-4/s1600-h/3848.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 125px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqqoCnCyvwYjAp2DQXhqdwpfzE-z3V4zXPBFLrXaL9M4iOhOStoWYYvdhjHxC82WNxOj1v0q3IsTIiG6s7gC5Y6q4iV9mTG9jCUHsgFCaqCMcDA2NuIHgxFE6uUMOqz6EMZ83aktw_7-4/s200/3848.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418219922303421442" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Snowflakes sparkle on this sunny day like stars in the night.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Frostbite Falls, Minnesota, is a fictional small town created for the “Rocky and His Friends Show.” Rocket J. Squirrel, better known as "Rocky," and his pal, Bullwinkle J. Moose cartooned their way to popularity during the 1960s. But after living here a while, it’s pretty easy to see that Frostbite Falls is a parody on the real-life town of International Falls.<br /><br />Rainy Lake and Rainy River, with their many islands, contain the boundary between the US and Canada. Near Frostbite Falls are the fictional Veronica Lake and an island called Moosylvania, of which Bullwinkle was "Governor." The U.S. claims the island is part of Canada, and Canada claims it is part of the U.S. Bullwinkle vacations in Moosylvania because "after two weeks here, anyplace else feels like Heaven."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2nRZq97ejCb8_lFLXkcRBeywBDkWvCldjd1soZdmLJgI3ROSYjudmEjpwRY3A7BrppBSF4cy-CcxcH3EdeDD9j6vVwN8OaoohObNV6jLQzMMWnWQNgWEZlmzDBdTdTwqUMvmKlkp5RrM/s1600-h/3842.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2nRZq97ejCb8_lFLXkcRBeywBDkWvCldjd1soZdmLJgI3ROSYjudmEjpwRY3A7BrppBSF4cy-CcxcH3EdeDD9j6vVwN8OaoohObNV6jLQzMMWnWQNgWEZlmzDBdTdTwqUMvmKlkp5RrM/s200/3842.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418219626184023762" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Perhaps this unnamed island in Rainy River, seen from the north end of Ninth Avenue, is the writer’s inspiration for Moosylvania Island. Perhaps gray squirrels like Rocky dart about on it as they do here on the mainland, looking for nuts they squirreled away in the fall, and can’t quite remember where.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguvdDwR0wxOaKhkoNES5S8iyXQ_ugonX3TM6GKLpGBml9aogSPEc9_UGfuTh7XPP8EIdiUARDlZXYJNesoZORrmK5uTO-_HK4IJVMKaxbtkEFUS6pviLXHB3zd1nXsb59h1RnKaxxl218/s1600-h/3831.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguvdDwR0wxOaKhkoNES5S8iyXQ_ugonX3TM6GKLpGBml9aogSPEc9_UGfuTh7XPP8EIdiUARDlZXYJNesoZORrmK5uTO-_HK4IJVMKaxbtkEFUS6pviLXHB3zd1nXsb59h1RnKaxxl218/s200/3831.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418219124249133090" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhze01LWyk59eATMRvDQPesBLxq3cqfsi9E80mgirsM5iK234EaReNZxAvlx0BQPE6uomNfIfJBGkPc-vvh0peROI2_JeXWOAdV2RW0ueFyAQxUmGHiE_feC8HRwkljrBDA7fONkKQ5rO8/s1600-h/3832.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 143px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhze01LWyk59eATMRvDQPesBLxq3cqfsi9E80mgirsM5iK234EaReNZxAvlx0BQPE6uomNfIfJBGkPc-vvh0peROI2_JeXWOAdV2RW0ueFyAQxUmGHiE_feC8HRwkljrBDA7fONkKQ5rO8/s200/3832.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418219257271390642" border="0" /></a>So much happened here before any town was—so many snowstorms, squirrels and native people—that to talk about the town’s history seems like discussing yesterday. Yet, here you have it—“old” buildings of a town that began around 1905.<br /><br />The Bauscher Brothers still have their name faintly visible on the meat market (left photo), now a coffee house. Built 100 years ago, a few of the old meat hooks still drop from the ceiling. Ice from the lake cooled the meat all summer, stored in straw. And the wood-burning water heater in the basement—well, it’s gone. But the owner likes to talk about the “old” times when the mill was young. The old ways of birchbark canoes and French-Canadian Voyageurs taking beaver skins to Europe, well, those are “really old.”<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8_lt-EvfTrKghB1Keumm7a8b7F6__SD53YJYl3AFscioFleEULX9gandiIQ0TIYIgw7QYEH3o_V4ClyGnqNTwObJZfT6zAOzm9NtRz__sfoitqQqKtO2myWF72HT64O6Fu3vcD8w7Oss/s1600-h/3837.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8_lt-EvfTrKghB1Keumm7a8b7F6__SD53YJYl3AFscioFleEULX9gandiIQ0TIYIgw7QYEH3o_V4ClyGnqNTwObJZfT6zAOzm9NtRz__sfoitqQqKtO2myWF72HT64O6Fu3vcD8w7Oss/s200/3837.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418218817851787330" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJopkqG9QrbNEGEgvuRLw6dOGGunfqLO7cmmd-PZhsc_-OFAy39hRQEkQ0XGttBZJCFYvvuBllloylP_WN5_OJtcieaLL3b-_Nfz68SjDpOpqkGtk5C-FOKKu6_PE5clbaKFQVgQDGzwo/s1600-h/3843.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJopkqG9QrbNEGEgvuRLw6dOGGunfqLO7cmmd-PZhsc_-OFAy39hRQEkQ0XGttBZJCFYvvuBllloylP_WN5_OJtcieaLL3b-_Nfz68SjDpOpqkGtk5C-FOKKu6_PE5clbaKFQVgQDGzwo/s200/3843.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418218685719190946" border="0" /></a><br />Today, the nicer houses overlook the river—Americans to the left, Canadians to the right, as you look westerly or downstream. You can view them from Riverside Drive, but don't park on the north side on odd days or the south side on even days, lest you be considered snow and heaped up along the side.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-67127107853371584712009-12-21T17:32:00.000-08:002009-12-21T19:48:08.427-08:00In Paths of Snowmobiles<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvZt-_HLJ7I_kIz9J2Q1Lgx-BCmoFMsFbSKBT1wFMQBmuGlMQhK-MbTmCRg8J1wFDjhKfT2h_oDKAoO9xGPVt0RlK9-a83f1v-nBYpfjHFAUWflI58iMTOHcmaVFguQPsI1kbFVn_q5UU/s1600-h/3828+changed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 186px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvZt-_HLJ7I_kIz9J2Q1Lgx-BCmoFMsFbSKBT1wFMQBmuGlMQhK-MbTmCRg8J1wFDjhKfT2h_oDKAoO9xGPVt0RlK9-a83f1v-nBYpfjHFAUWflI58iMTOHcmaVFguQPsI1kbFVn_q5UU/s200/3828+changed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417872505689681506" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZQBYdrHGVmQiGntclrxAs0k6mgvS7sKhYHxN3dn8UhFAY1MPEZXD0XThobJDgJnp22UDAPn0RCqG2eW7PNWksPUqnxeES_C5AzoPCYduPIaufFykbtedjmJDW0ckPLbqt91QFIm0aDB8/s1600-h/3829.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 88px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZQBYdrHGVmQiGntclrxAs0k6mgvS7sKhYHxN3dn8UhFAY1MPEZXD0XThobJDgJnp22UDAPn0RCqG2eW7PNWksPUqnxeES_C5AzoPCYduPIaufFykbtedjmJDW0ckPLbqt91QFIm0aDB8/s200/3829.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417872390935505026" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6MfAfHB7JH2J8YaUNqrlL0eKfOHqTadwbsv-FtHbUpZnNjOtAm1wEkfqgdIsRtELEvHxmsUDgw4cgYA6VyO8MQGyB3a2YXY-4gABRsFLoO4sQLe4-zw5tIkCI87XNmVrrErEAr5TgJQc/s1600-h/3752.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6MfAfHB7JH2J8YaUNqrlL0eKfOHqTadwbsv-FtHbUpZnNjOtAm1wEkfqgdIsRtELEvHxmsUDgw4cgYA6VyO8MQGyB3a2YXY-4gABRsFLoO4sQLe4-zw5tIkCI87XNmVrrErEAr5TgJQc/s200/3752.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417871868577170722" border="0" /></a>Two inches fell in the night, and I hear the rumble of snowplows in pre-dawn. They don’t have much snow to remove, so they make a lot of noise doing it. I still fail to agree with snow removal unless there is enough of it to keep cars from moving. But when only two inches fall, how is that reason for the plows to spring into action as if the town were on fire? The country roads, where plows have never gone this winter, seem just as fine for driving as the bare streets. I think the unplowed roads are safer because you know they are slippery and don’t have to wonder where the icy places are.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2-dj05WcTKt5B6nn6-ccX_ebOkA8i6WbH2yukBoEceG2ex99BV25XncziEqw8q31cWS1z-EMAtuSYa5PoFF-mIGE1iLRP8jNugwMoMM7UHXcrCTJpVuiwm-Z-7tePJXlTg8g8OxgRySk/s1600-h/3754.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2-dj05WcTKt5B6nn6-ccX_ebOkA8i6WbH2yukBoEceG2ex99BV25XncziEqw8q31cWS1z-EMAtuSYa5PoFF-mIGE1iLRP8jNugwMoMM7UHXcrCTJpVuiwm-Z-7tePJXlTg8g8OxgRySk/s200/3754.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417871984783738802" border="0" /></a><br />The city is not alone in fastidious snow removal. Larry shoveled his driveway and walk before coming to Sandy’s this morning. And Jerry has already got Russell here with his pickup-mounted plow to clear the parking lot. “Stop!” I want to scream from my deck. “You have done this all you lives, and you have not even thought about what you are doing!”<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4IP78oFf8PnFBI2aTzSBhN7fFz_JA3oLrpEM3QVp6GoCMdBojLdXFRZ2jZRFbf1hFokdU8QUB_pn0AacFC31-w3bU2DiW7-YuUozNspjBaZWobftj0PmX7GBWnRySmoKJGFBvnrva4Lc/s1600-h/3777.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4IP78oFf8PnFBI2aTzSBhN7fFz_JA3oLrpEM3QVp6GoCMdBojLdXFRZ2jZRFbf1hFokdU8QUB_pn0AacFC31-w3bU2DiW7-YuUozNspjBaZWobftj0PmX7GBWnRySmoKJGFBvnrva4Lc/s200/3777.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417871499548547170" border="0" /></a><br />The warmer temperature allows the chemical that they mix with sand and flail from the backs of trucks to actually melt snow. When they spread the same mix after the last snow at minus ten degrees, there was no melting. Now we have slush, water, sandy mud and packed snow, all in different places on the road.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc2xlLgHBWrTxKRGJZ5c5uXvPISKEsckkvD3Sa-hBu1Qb_eAgflJ2W0L3t5PKndpNKzZfxfUWtgUEppc10gwQ_UbzIy2F6_YsNysb51I8_t5wNj4jziObZEhDJepbWSd5jSyGOGpmVS7o/s1600-h/3757.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc2xlLgHBWrTxKRGJZ5c5uXvPISKEsckkvD3Sa-hBu1Qb_eAgflJ2W0L3t5PKndpNKzZfxfUWtgUEppc10gwQ_UbzIy2F6_YsNysb51I8_t5wNj4jziObZEhDJepbWSd5jSyGOGpmVS7o/s200/3757.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417871036456907650" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiETrM_zqc7LbiANpXsBT51fUEosdJ1aRPziAII7tUzFpvK6-bvKo5lVUhEscZ1Dk2ySWwY_4w42i6FLRnpq4qw2q0Iyvm3W_5THWpw3zrm9PAm4IDI42gI2N2_Y5j7w8QAsbm4IKHFGs/s1600-h/3762.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiETrM_zqc7LbiANpXsBT51fUEosdJ1aRPziAII7tUzFpvK6-bvKo5lVUhEscZ1Dk2ySWwY_4w42i6FLRnpq4qw2q0Iyvm3W_5THWpw3zrm9PAm4IDI42gI2N2_Y5j7w8QAsbm4IKHFGs/s200/3762.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417871196418223570" border="0" /></a>But soon I had finished breakfast at Sandy’s, finished holding my tongue about snowplows, and was off for Ranier via a new route to the east. It seems that everyone went to their garages, sheds, tarps and storage units this weekend and tuned up their snowmobiles. Tracks head out of town on every trace of a trail, and the trails cross and circle, leaving a new person, who might be looking for a new way to get somewhere, in a quandary. I have a compass but don’t need it, except under thick clouds. I follow the sun like a plant. Even at noon, it’s far down from overhead and hovering low in the south. So keeping the sun to my right in a general way, I follow the tracks, where the going is easier after they mash down the snow.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghB4bav7A3jTGsxDpsocYYQ2IV8JgNCFF7wwbqG_gwYj5RByKUSuoNJYij0zTcyr92cVy-Afx7oObWhp_Nbf326KqozRh5NcPblmPWbhuuGJgP8b_sz197dFH2aTKc1v8lOh-Lmx19DMc/s1600-h/3800.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 141px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghB4bav7A3jTGsxDpsocYYQ2IV8JgNCFF7wwbqG_gwYj5RByKUSuoNJYij0zTcyr92cVy-Afx7oObWhp_Nbf326KqozRh5NcPblmPWbhuuGJgP8b_sz197dFH2aTKc1v8lOh-Lmx19DMc/s200/3800.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417870483420724322" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv0kXfY6OBvg-WJZmW5tdPwaV9q-rbv8GdxLStXynsy9XxCcWthiVEx-8sAtD86KOYeoyUhAOx-aiqZnvocxW0A7d_n6oy2tgNbHffX88_3NSJ0aLPs88zhpuByAAsQHc40Prh-BAWyck/s1600-h/3779.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv0kXfY6OBvg-WJZmW5tdPwaV9q-rbv8GdxLStXynsy9XxCcWthiVEx-8sAtD86KOYeoyUhAOx-aiqZnvocxW0A7d_n6oy2tgNbHffX88_3NSJ0aLPs88zhpuByAAsQHc40Prh-BAWyck/s200/3779.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417870616957300642" border="0" /></a>Today, the noon shadows are longer than on any other day. I say this with solstice certainty because historical repetitions act this winter as they always have, and it’s fair to say that such predictions are based on “laws.” But maybe it’s a religious belief. I’m surprised at how long the shadows are up here in borderland, compared to Southern California. I took these pictures within an hour of noon.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF_8cqUkKzWumel1cA3CXiiXJb-ehFosUYTe8g1VAsGJW1dA-bEDsnh6mpPigOErlxsor97wB-KpiKQSsvHitctsQsYjpfRdrOW0Gy3sn-kOFfmNb5uT71TtZZRhyphenhyphenSUbD6hrcMl8dfXZ4/s1600-h/3783.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF_8cqUkKzWumel1cA3CXiiXJb-ehFosUYTe8g1VAsGJW1dA-bEDsnh6mpPigOErlxsor97wB-KpiKQSsvHitctsQsYjpfRdrOW0Gy3sn-kOFfmNb5uT71TtZZRhyphenhyphenSUbD6hrcMl8dfXZ4/s200/3783.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417869843645043762" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9bPoyYHUWv0IubdT9nhqRkocCwc822quQUc5dB8X29yG1KmXwfW-5MRSMvNhScdSDg7IuCPjrZlITeoSpF-I-TBKAlmxfBaSwVontg1YSRsNLZEEYvR0F7yecez29GJqwmaB7XEqfMO0/s1600-h/3798.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9bPoyYHUWv0IubdT9nhqRkocCwc822quQUc5dB8X29yG1KmXwfW-5MRSMvNhScdSDg7IuCPjrZlITeoSpF-I-TBKAlmxfBaSwVontg1YSRsNLZEEYvR0F7yecez29GJqwmaB7XEqfMO0/s200/3798.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417870014461219618" border="0" /></a><br />This picture is looking south into a cloud that hides the sun, so low it’s just above the trees. The other is my shadow, so long it seems like early morning or late afternoon.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC7EWJsqOC0FsFImZEh9W7B35S4RjP3v62vjB8hcOSDXoGFGCMb1FbkpIQKGFCtkA-_hu8vkljNy8h6u_YTFzaiOUjgUn_br8OjKPNLyQwjg8c4rQ0_B2lPi_m8Ljka3K9KHlp4VpBOUg/s1600-h/3789.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC7EWJsqOC0FsFImZEh9W7B35S4RjP3v62vjB8hcOSDXoGFGCMb1FbkpIQKGFCtkA-_hu8vkljNy8h6u_YTFzaiOUjgUn_br8OjKPNLyQwjg8c4rQ0_B2lPi_m8Ljka3K9KHlp4VpBOUg/s200/3789.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417869470452843474" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Snowmobiles leave the land in this picture and go out onto the lake. I follow them, walking on water.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEj5Ghnv9zttxMpBZPvaSFVakU0fg62fHUWcFlv4TvVBmMVxAORS4NjCRvDbuH_NbKGvRXBwym_1r3WmQH2QoabY7KTNrFb1qi5pfO7_-xF-cNXrj506xyN14Z94Nhyphenhyphen3SiuEQBSLGlAWA/s1600-h/3819.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEj5Ghnv9zttxMpBZPvaSFVakU0fg62fHUWcFlv4TvVBmMVxAORS4NjCRvDbuH_NbKGvRXBwym_1r3WmQH2QoabY7KTNrFb1qi5pfO7_-xF-cNXrj506xyN14Z94Nhyphenhyphen3SiuEQBSLGlAWA/s200/3819.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417869246773693522" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Tree shadows on thin ice.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-72107066959339825182009-12-20T15:26:00.000-08:002009-12-21T05:42:57.553-08:00Palm Fronds and Ice<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjevqKZRHk7yfimfD6U1yiJ_Kf_apllny7wYfsIDH5iTjBQoqxMBiLHgHNYcRfgsdoTwG-3EwdvveVixubOK9DCLDfUVNIX2um0zX_LU-tEwGzc2XwHG50DpeIio9LVRSS0YCynxlw3psg/s1600-h/3751.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 165px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjevqKZRHk7yfimfD6U1yiJ_Kf_apllny7wYfsIDH5iTjBQoqxMBiLHgHNYcRfgsdoTwG-3EwdvveVixubOK9DCLDfUVNIX2um0zX_LU-tEwGzc2XwHG50DpeIio9LVRSS0YCynxlw3psg/s200/3751.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417464381847809874" border="0" /></a>“Do you have family or friends here?’ says a woman I just met, just exchanged enough information with that she asks the obvious question. I want to create art for her, perform in her presence, so she feels my state of mind and relates to it in her own way. I want her to smile back at me with insight, thanking me for clarifying a feeling she already had. That’s the point of creativity and art, I think,—to express emotions in unusual ways so listeners or viewers find a part of themselves in me.<br /><br />I have found it strange and gratifying how far from a listeners' experience some of my stories diverge, even from their desired experience, and still find a familiar tune in their repertoire. But the question this woman asks does not draw that response. I have answered it a dozen times and seldom has the glint of art appreciation returned to me from the questioner’s eyes.<br /><br />“Over Christmas?” comes next, and I sense a spiral of irrecoverable honesty descending from my lips, and pity mixed with perceived stupidity returning from their eyes.<br /><br />Such dialogs leave me feeling that I am inherently a wild thing, having no sense of friendship, family and home. Yes, my genome comes from wild, natural places. Sometimes I want to take it all the way, and say, “Should it be surprising, then, that when I go to places like here, I feel less stressed and more sane in the elemental world from which we all came?” But of course they are not ready for that and will read into it things like, “She is running away. I wonder what she wants to escape from.” But they are not willing to ask.<br /><br />I have devised no answer that diverts their adverse reactions and still maintains some degree of truth. I figure they will either take in stride the fact that I simply want to be here, to experience winter, and learn why people stay here, as Katrina has, an Jerry wants to but can’t quite, or they will reject me as odd.<br /><br />Perhaps if I did not have this question to answer with each new potential friend, I would not escape so often to the sweet elixir of wilderness. Possibly, by their asking why I came, I am driven farther into the truthful answer than if they had not asked. Maybe I love the accepting attitude of trees and the falling snow, and yes—cold, and move away from them more and more because they fail to accept my motive, and assume it is cover for something else. But trees really do bring to me the fresh body odor of nature, its matter of endurance, and animals accept or reject me based on my perceived threat to them, or my flavor—ideas I can usually deal with easier than the opinions of humans.<br /><br />Yet, it is only because people have invaded and changed the wild by building roads and airports, that I am able to come here, and ride a bicycle through places like this, and experience it from the electric comfort of a motel. So I say to the woman that I want to experience winter, and yes, those dates include Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years.<br /><br />After receiving her expected chagrin, I took a long walk in the woods. The air is almost twenty degrees, much warmer, and heavy clouds descend onto the treetops. Light snowflakes zigzag down. Wind is nil for a change, and all is quiet except for the raven’s squawk and distant sounds of humanity. On the way into town, I pass the skaters in Kerry Park, but do not stop. My first twenty years were chiseled into bungalows and tree-scattered streets of Pasadena. Skinny palm-ladies with frazzled braids so high we rode their locks like broomsticks, when they fell, rode them even higher, to heaven, as our bean stakes were guns and our red ants, friendly subjects. Childhood slips back through its private door as I see these skaters, even though we had no outdoor ice rink. The art of these hockey kids, their turns and yells, are my turns and yells, certain as if I’d been born right here ten years ago. In some shaded place these happenings are still there, unseen, but felt, still trying to say the unsaid things.<br /><br />A snowmobile flies by on the Blue Ox Trail, carrying two young adventurers out of town. I come back to my rented room. Twenty-five days are left to finish whatever I will do here.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3022025425380724438.post-20591059420712341582009-12-19T16:23:00.000-08:002009-12-19T17:00:57.824-08:00Hockey<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizqKEB1HordlY7L1ahitbNySJD4smwSjpSS-5mLEyhu4i3lb-YKk5UikL6SWnd16InL8XQKY5YKcxlM9DKW6RlDPLAFVjO3WI3ckrUhrEl0efKO_B26R4QRUHiLWczaBMOVFlPOi7NuqI/s1600-h/3738+with+more.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizqKEB1HordlY7L1ahitbNySJD4smwSjpSS-5mLEyhu4i3lb-YKk5UikL6SWnd16InL8XQKY5YKcxlM9DKW6RlDPLAFVjO3WI3ckrUhrEl0efKO_B26R4QRUHiLWczaBMOVFlPOi7NuqI/s400/3738+with+more.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417107826243350194" border="0" /></a>The ice rink at Kerry Park attracts the town kids on this school-free Saturday. Parents drop them off or wait in pickups while they skate. Some of the older ones arrive on snowmobiles. Only one adult beside me gets out on the ice and maneuvers the flurry of pucks, hockey sticks, and kids just having fun. They slap the pucks sending them into the wall with a bang, they intercept passes, as many girls as boys, some half as tall as me.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZjBlCMzVjZjzoyjB0cWE7RPVyz7VlF-x83-jzH7BvGTAgMwctYLPFwcZeWmr0yeikLBBYiFdFJGwpZSXZcH_AZLq_XnPhFClHhgwO33n66SJHYSrq6sseQhFo0ZBZ3KApLhzHodbe2Cw/s1600-h/3748.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 174px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZjBlCMzVjZjzoyjB0cWE7RPVyz7VlF-x83-jzH7BvGTAgMwctYLPFwcZeWmr0yeikLBBYiFdFJGwpZSXZcH_AZLq_XnPhFClHhgwO33n66SJHYSrq6sseQhFo0ZBZ3KApLhzHodbe2Cw/s200/3748.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417108166101982962" border="0" /></a>They look with curiosity at the older person on long blades. Figure skates they know, and all the kinds of hockey skates, but racing blades they can’t figure. They say nothing as I turn some slow laps, getting used to the cold ice, so different from the indoor rink of many years ago, and so many years since these blades felt any kind of ice. But as we cross each other’s paths, exchange expressions, turn to avoid collisions, eventually a hockey puck came to me. I flicked it back to them with my long blade, which they thought a cool thing for an older person with odd blades to do. Soon we mingled and followed one another, they quick and fast-turning, me methodical with long strokes. They could out-turn me, but on the long turns and open straights I gave them a pretty good run. Unlike me, they face the wind with unmasked faces, their cheeks a bright cherry red. I sense they feel that only wimps wear facemasks, and I am happy with that. It’s good to play with skaters who grew up far away from me and learned the sport in vastly different conditions. It reminds me of the movie where a city banjo player encounters back-woods Tennessee folk who learned banjo in a very different way. They bounce tunes off each other and pick up what the other knows.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnGGfoRZ_h23fwAajZjp_TI4gzHVrGnjRyKXkxRjTptQJ2mHzpucGuNWRkmEmwqi9I3KHsCfON5uQ6pzkUDwVqJYq6zItl1RE3MJl3eyg8SLa4hw8KvseKoXdNjzrJo_p2v2fRy1j62Jg/s1600-h/3736.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnGGfoRZ_h23fwAajZjp_TI4gzHVrGnjRyKXkxRjTptQJ2mHzpucGuNWRkmEmwqi9I3KHsCfON5uQ6pzkUDwVqJYq6zItl1RE3MJl3eyg8SLa4hw8KvseKoXdNjzrJo_p2v2fRy1j62Jg/s200/3736.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417108608065639106" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The total snowfall this winter is a mere fourteen inches, while the average for this date is twenty-four. Two inches fell last Thursday, and it has been mostly pressed into the icy pack by tires or shoveled away by diligent storekeepers. My mystery bicycle rider has either eluded me in scarce snow or has gone missing. That was my thinking until this morning when I crossed the bridge into Canada and found his tracks barely discernable on the pedestrian bridge.Sharonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08759609166941428668noreply@blogger.com8