Nanook Heads North

Wednesday, January 12
Most people go south for a break in the winter. But not us. No, we make a beeline for the epicenter of everything I detest—snow and cold.

So here we are in Maine. I am seated at the kitchen island, enjoying a view of the relentless snowfall outside the window. How bad can this be? I’m warm, drinking coffee and working on my computer. For starters, I had to drag poor Teddy out into the snow for his morning walk. Dragged isn’t quite accurate. I shoveled a path for the little prince. The snow was too deep for the little dog to make his own way through. I put his red leash on him, even though I knew I wouldn’t really be using it. Teddy wouldn’t venture far off in the snow. But thinking ahead, there were contingency plans to be made: if he sank too deep in the snow, the red leash could provide a visible trail for me to locate him. I eyed the little dog, thinking even further ahead, If all else fails, that is a source of meat. Visions of the Donner party are never far from my mind.

Two days ago—long before it ever snowed—I was making a pot of soup. (You can never have enough stick-to-the-ribs soup on hand throughout the winter. And at this rate I will be foraging in the snow for root vegetables to make more soup.) Peter came up beside me and offered instructions, “You’re cutting the carrots too small.” Jesus Christ! Get out of here! I screeched. If I run out of dog meat, Peter may be my next source of protein.

Peter just told me he thinks the falling and drifting snow is pretty. Pretty? I think it portends death and starvation. But that’s just me. I’m not a Georgia on My Mind kinda gal. I have more of a Wisconsin Death Trip outlook on life. Well, if not all of life, then certainly winter. Wisconsin Death Trip was a 1973 book of photos that testified to the unsettling effects of Wisconsin winters on rural townspeople. The book is chockfull of wild-eyed portraits of the living who look like they’ve recently dined with Death, of the dead sweetly tucked up, dressed up and ready to meet their Maker, of elaborate funeral wreathes, of mutilated bodies and other evidence of the less than salutary effects of prolonged winter oblivion. Without benefit of cable TV, Facebook or (most important) antidepressants to while away the endless winter, raging cabin fever and bursts of inexplicable violence passed the time.

Where was I heading with that? Oh yes, if Peter doesn’t stop micromanaging the minutia of life, I may lose my mind. How big are the carrot slices? I can see blood in the snow already.

Thursday, January 13
My sister-in-law (a licensed family counselor with tales of dysfunctional families that would curl your hair) tells me that a single day stuck in the house does not beget cabin fever or any form of winter/snow madness. She was explaining this to me on my cell phone while I was driving from my favorite coffee house to my favorite antique shop in town. After more than two feet of snow, the secondary roads have been completely and exquisitely cleared, and even the tertiary roads are plowed. Our landscaper plowed our driveway yesterday. We had only to shovel out the excess snow blocking the garage doors. The sidewalks, curbs and streets in Brunswick are easily walk-able in shoes (rather than boots). I have to admit: They really know how to manage snow up here. No muss. No fuss.

So perhaps I was over-reacting yesterday. After the antique store, I met Peter for lunch in town. After that I trotted off to the super market where I picked up some lovely Clementine oranges. Okay, so we’re not the Donner party, and Teddy is not on the menu for the time being.

Friday, January 14
We had dinner in a charming little Italian restaurant last night. I am refreshed and restored to my usual equanimity—such as it is. Pasta and wine are wonder drugs.