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The entire liquor store emptied into the parking lot, staff included—a sure sign of the coming spring. It ranks with the first sightings of robins and Harley-Davidsons.

 

The group gathered around the back of a pickup and its owner flopped down the tailgate to display the fruits of his labor. He’d been hunting for antler sheds earlier in the day and came home with a bounty of single antlers that made their annual drop to the forest floor from the deer or moose who wore them. His cargo was a mix from both.

Numerically, February is the shortest month. Psychologically, it slogs along like a clueless lazy-ass traipsing through the calendar. February owns all of winter. We might as well X-off all other months capable of unrelenting snow and temperatures that make ice, and call every bit of it “February,” the 212-day month. Winter has stalled and there’s no end in sight.

 

For our region, February is that time of year when we’re as winter-conditioned as we’re going to get.

Per capita, small-town residents know more fellow residents than city dwellers know their community members. While perspectives and political issues are conscious choices, by and large, a sense of community seeps into hearts and minds of small-town folk without decision or weighing the benefits. On the edge of the wilderness, it’s a subconscious necessity that just happens.

 

The principle extends to a variety of elements in life. For instance, it helps us regulate behaviors like road rage.

I looked right through it. Beyond bedtime on a December 24^th sometime within my first eight or so years of life, I caught them red-handed. My parents, grandparents and great-grandmother had taken over Santa’s responsibilities right there in the living room.

 

I had gone to bed but wasn’t sleeping even though I wanted to. Considerable holiday enthusiasm and experience had versed me in bedtime protocol: Santa’s arrival is quicker when sleep consumes the night. But my wandering mind decided on a stop to the bathroom.

For the first time in a while, some deer walked near my stand when I was actually there. Seeing them was like a celebrity sighting. Somehow, we closed the gap between our distances in everyday life and I was close enough for a look. I never saw their bodies in-full all at once. But a few windows through the branches offered good views as they walked through. Little did they know I was there. Two does, nice size with healthy hides. If they were bucks, they wouldn’t have been legal. There was too much brush between us for shooting.

 

The snow keeps no secrets.

I met a father, son and labradoodle named “Bo” on the logging road where I deer hunt. They were grouse hunting and I was laying groundwork for deer season. They lived in the Twin Cities, and as hunters will do, we immediately started yakking about the prospects for harvest this year. The dad asked me if deer hunting in the area was any good. My first response was “no” and it wasn’t to keep them from showing up at my deer stand two weeks later.

 

Initially, my answer was based on what I estimated to be their definition of good deer hunting.

We’ve got a new pony in the driveway. After 21 years, our Chevy Blazer called it a career. The new one is a 2014 Silverado, shiny black and really sweet. However, a vehicle purchase once every couple of decades leaves my auto awareness off kilter. From cost to gizmos, I lose sight of what to expect.

 

We’re not whistles and bells kind of people. But even the basic work-truck version we bought came with a few. I’ve had to make some adjustments.

 

I don’t see the point in keyless power entries. I’m good with walking up to the door.

The crying ended and the celebration began. Church was rough.

 

This was the opposite.

 

The banquet hall beside the lake spoke to 100 years of weddings, graduations, and Hook & Bullet fundraisers. It was a spacious log structure built to take a licking. Ancient moose antlers adorned the doorsill above the entryway. Framed textile images of boreal landscapes charmed the walls. Box fans whirred in every other window to cool the place down.

 

A three-board photo display of the honoree stood on a folding table beside the front side door.

There’s a certain pleasure in being grunt labor for a garden. For one, it doesn’t involve much thinking. My wife, DyAnne, is the gardener in our family and she works out the math behind the plants. Occasionally, I’ll throw in a suggestion about fertilizer. Life doesn’t get more basic than assessing effective shit.

 

For another, I get to mess with power tools and play in the dirt. We just got a new tiller that required assembly. I’m an instruction-follower and I don’t know why.