Blog

 

I woke looking at my reflection in the microwave door. Normally, I see the alarm clock digits. But as re-entry from overnight cobwebs parted, I remembered the reason—kitchen project.

 

There’s no teacher like experience and I dip into that well frequently. I’ve done my share of home improvements throughout life, but could still use some work on my in-the-trenches technique. I do my homework and garner all the advice I can get. I try to listen with an open head and heart, and follow instructions to the letter.

Numerically, February is the shortest month. Psychologically, it slogs along like a benumbed lunkhead meandering 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.

 

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.

 

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.

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.