Thaw

Hope struggles to its feet. The glacier recedes. Well into February, a January thaw arrives at last. High temperatures are predicted to exceed freezing each day of the upcoming week.

For the first time in two months the driveway is freed of ice, cars were not put in the garage overnight, the fire in the wood stove was left to die. Outside, I placed my ear against the downspout to hear the amplified trickling of running water, beautiful music.

It gets cold here. Sometimes it gets so cold there is nothing but cold. For several days in January the anemic, yellow, lights at the time and temperature bank seemed frozen in place: "6:40 a.m. Minus 26 F."

Old friends who live in warmer climes would call or email with grave concern for our welfare. Those who contend with wildfires, earthquakes, mudslides, tidal waves and hurricanes seem much more frightened by our thermal deficiencies. Such fears are not unreasonable. 30 below zero feels like death.

The damage is mostly psychological. If you are like me, a common laborer with a reasonably normal workday, it's dark when you drive in; it's dark when you drive home. And if, like me, your job exposes you to the elements for four or five hours of your shift, the cold eventually makes its way like a parasite into the base of your spine. You are its unwilling host. Your body feels more like a carcass.

We each conjure our own tonics. We move closer to the cast iron wood stove. Mrs. reads her garden catalogues. I shop for fishing lures on eBay and dream of barefoot, shirtsleeve days drifting along a woody shoreline casting for Northern, Walleye, Small-mouth Bass. In defiance of frigid Arctic air masses I shave my whiskers and crop my hair back to its summer length. When others complain of the cold I repeat the mantra of an old duck hunting friend, "When it's too tough for you it's just right for me."

In the throes of the deep freeze our descriptions tend to the profane. Even our best poets are reduced to cliches concerning the anatomy of witches, well-diggers, and brass monkeys. Upon defrosting, indubitably, we resort to the sacred. We are redeemed, resurrected. We know our salvation is only fleeting but we have faith that our suffering is not permanent. Save for the occasional broken pipe or dead car battery the damage heals on its own.

And now the reparations have begun. We have more than ten hours of sunlight each day. Stillness gives way to movement. A pink orange dawn paints the edge of the horizon when I drive to work. There is enough daylight left to sweep the garage when I get home (if I want to). It is no longer unreasonable to wash the car.

And even though my woodpile has diminished, so too has my fear that this is the winter without end.