Colder Yet

Oh those deer are tearing the hell out of the greens. The holly looked like a hurricane ripped through the yard last night. Dad was pissed. So was I. I swear if I had a gun, a few deer would be hanging by their hooves from the cherry tree out back.

I'm tired of shoveling my jeep out of a bank of snow, brushing mounds of snow off the roof, windshield and hood and wondering every time I go outside to start it, "Is it going to crank?"

At least I figured out where to keep all my gear so it isn't a matter of "where's my hat, where are my gloves, where are my boots, where are my socks..." Now it's just a matter of "how many gloves, how many jackets, how many layers of long johns..."

Here come the minus numbers. Just when 23 was becoming manageable.

Of The Past

I stomped through the white, breaking the icy crust hidden a few inches below the powdery bed. In the sparse underbrush of winter I could not find the trail. I navigated by memory – the stream tunneling below the surface like a winter vole, breaking hibernation just long enough to satisfy a sleeping hunger, runs parallel with the now invisible trail, the mid-afternoon sun stays to my left. In the hemlock grove I ignored the broken tracks deer pressed into the snow as they wandered off the mountain to tear at manicured shrubs.

I listened. It could have been the echo of my own existence, mocking the thump and crack of each step. But it was lazy deer, disturbed by my lone presence. Nearby the cold waters trickled over black rocks and gurgled as if trying to gasp a last breath of life before it succumbed to the hardness of short days and colder nights.

An old No Trespassing sign, half frosted in snow and faded by years of light that managed to filter through the needles of coniferous, clung to a pine. If I had never been here I would have wondered why the sign marked a place where ownership seemed as foreign as summer.

Progress through the woods was slow. Although it was mid-afternoon, daylight would soon rest. My navigation light would be the rising moon, if I soon didn’t find the trail. I stood still again, to listen. Four deer thundered into the depths of the hemlocks, tails flashing like lightening.

The heat from my exertion rose from layers of modern technology. I opened my outer jacket and removed my woolen cap. Steam fogged my glasses turning the woods into a dreamy blur. I paused to wipe the lenses with a dish towel taken from the kitchen before I left the house.

Across the stream a marker caught my eye. A metal can top painted yellow. Home made. I smiled. I knew the boy who left the trail, and imagined him with hammer, tacking tin to tree the fringe from his Daniel Boone vest dancing in a late autumn breeze. But the blaze did not follow the logging trail I searched for.

Tiring, I trudged on, crossed more deer paths and found their beds pawed to earth, and places where droppings and urine indiscriminately told of living beasts. More thunder crashed through the trees and melted into the distance where all things come together.

I found the old trail, a place where time had yet to grow a tree. The walking wasn’t easier, but now I knew I’d be home before the full moon rose. A deer trail merged with the path. I fell into the broken crust to find the going less tiresome.

Toward the east the mountain’s ridge dropped sharply and yielded a panorama of low mountains rising beyond the Hudson Valley. The last bits of daylight splintered over the foothills leading into Vermont. Below the base of what was once the highest mountain in the world, Hagadorn’s Mountain, laid the roof tops of familiar buildings, the old one room school house, Grey’s Barn, my father’s house. Here I waited with the memories of Mohicans, French trappers and English settlers, of Indian raids and revolutions and a little girl who dreamt of bears and badgers.

The sun light caught the tips of the trees still wearing a coat of ice. The branches glistened and looked like a thousand gossamers spread across the sky. Time to come off the mountain and leave this place behind.

I'm Melting

Saw this comic in the paper this morning. Loved it. Enlarge it if you can't see it.
That's me. Looking at the snow falling from the sky. Good eats too.

Looks like I got hit by a truck and landed in a snow bank. Or I'm sinking in a pool of slush.

Christmas Tree

I have had some trouble uploading photos. A connection issue. So the snaps have been delayed.

This is how to get a perfect Christmas tree. Pick one snowy day, ideally Christmas eve. Go wander in snow up to your knees.





Occassionally, throw yourself on the ground, face up and watch the flakes sift down from heaven, some invisible space far overhead. Guess how far you can see.

Bring one sharp saw and a sharp eye for prefection. It is hard to see the detail when the whole moment is pure.

Sweep away the snow. Uncover the earth so the cut is low to the ground. Don't forget to count the rings. Smell the fresh pine.






Bring the tree home and let the snow melt in the basement. Meanwhile, cook a few hotdogs over the fire and cook some of Grandma Brown's baked beans.

Decorate lightly and wait for Santa Claus.

Fat Opportunities

If I had made some resolutions their annihilation would have occurred days ago. It wasn’t until the first Sunday in January that I found the intangible sense of renewal that comes with the turning of the calendar.

In Micronesia, on the street of Denpei, the silent ringing in your ears would float down the muggy street filtered by the call of pigs and cocks. The noise would have stopped. The constant drumming, the singing, dragging tethered and battered soda cans down the asphalt street in celebration of the New Year during the time stuck between the first wee hours and the first Sunday of the year. A call to worship halts the revelry for another year and the quiet reserved Mwoakillese people go back to slow living.

For me, a sense of faith replaced an uneasy sense of wishful hope. It took a few days of pondering my resolution to worry less to understand that my decision was an empowerment. Instead of wandering down a path of wishful hope and worry, I’ll stand in the realities of faith. So much better. So much more a powerful weapon.

Maybe it was those deer grazing on the bushes outside the basement windows. The animals triggered the motion sensor spilling a shattering light, across the night’s landscape. Unfazed, the fat deer browsed on the tender ends of the junipers. I watched them pick through the snow covered branches, to find the choice greens. Unaware of my presence, they continued to rip at the branches. Unaware that they intruded upon my sleep, they worked to destroy the growth of last season. Unaware that I thought of them as food. I wanted a gun. The deer hoped their grazing will always be good. I have faith they will find it so, and their hope provides me with a useful resource. Power over them.

It’s illegal to shoot the deer, but if I was starving, would I care? Not in the least. Would I successfully gut the animal? Know how to care for the meat? Not in the least. Much would fall in waste, staining the snow until spring comes to wash away my crime with a cold rain. But I would learn, survive and do it again. Better the second time.

It’s faith that empowers, reduces worries. I have faith to draw upon my God given resources. My resolution is not to rely on hope. There is no need to worry.

If it had been polar bear rummaging through the garbage, I’d be worried.

Rocks Estate: Bethlehem, New Hamsphire

This is where the Perez's get their Christmas tree every year. On Christmas Eve Robin and I venture to the farm to find the perfect tree. We have done this in wind so bitter as it ripped over the ridges it blinded you with tears that froze to your face. We have slogged through rain and mud on bare ground. We've come home drenched from wandering through slush laden boughs. But this year, fresh powder draped the landscape and a gentle snow whispered to earth.

Resolve

For the last four days I have been stretching my left hamstring. It was so tight and hurt so much that I went to the Chiropractor thinking I screwed up my back and sciatic nerve shoveling snow or doing other such stupid things that people do when they live where weather continually dumps on inconvenient places like driveways and sidewalks and the earth in general. I guess I could have gone to a nightclub with a pistol in my pocket, but I thought a visit to the Doc would be a better cure, with less time served and besides my medical plan wouldn't cover a bullet hole in the leg.

Apparently the back wasn’t too whacked out of place. "Moist heat and stretching. Should be okay in a few days."

I always been about as flexible as a frozen clothes line, barely able to touch my toes. This morning, there wasn’t much pain as I got my finger tips to the floor. And yesterday I shoveled another six inches out of the driveway.

Twenty eight days to Hawaii. Hee-hee-hee.

I’ve been pondering my New Year Resolutions. Since I’ve been on a diet for four days now, I didn’t need to resolve to lose weight. Nor did I resolve to exercise more. Or swear less. Or drink more milk. Nor did I make any financial resolutions such as save more or spend less or earn more by securing a job. I've made no commitment about taxes. I didn’t decide to write more, read more, pray more. Nor am I going to be kinder to animals, little old ladies, pan handlers and liberal democrats. I didn’t think it was worth any consideration to learn a new language, take up a new hobby or finish an old project. Making contact with old friends, making new ones or improving current relationships seemed unworthy of any super attempts warrented in most resolutions. And I resolved not to make any resolutions to save the planet, as global warming sounds good right to me. (It’s -9° this sunny morning and people will be jumping into Lake George this afternoon.)

This is not to say some improvements on my behalf are not needed. There are two endless lists – those improvements I am well aware of and those improvements I should be well aware of. As a goal oriented individual I work on all these things most of the time and will continue to do so regardless of the turn of a year.

Instead, I decided to worry less. Yes, to be less concerned about weight, health, finances, relationships and even my relationship with God. I figured this was one good resolution. A good motivator.

This is how it works. I hate being cold. It causes me to fret about being cold. And consequently I limit my exposure to it. That is unless I’m mountain climbing and then cold is just part of the package. I don’t worry about it. Realizing this, I decided to apply not worrying to other aspects of life. But first the cold.

Okay, it is butt ass cold outside this morning. I have the gear for it. Nevertheless I hate being in it. So I joined Dad outside as he removed another inch of needless snow from the driveway. I cranked up the Jeep and by golly it turned over. Frost inside and all.

I knew he wanted to go to the Lake George Polar Plunge. I didn’t because I didn’t want to be cold. Quit worrying about being cold and go. So we did. Lord Almighty there hasn’t been that much exposed white skin since Moby Dick encountered the whaling ship Pequod.

Not worrying isn’t meant as a license to act stupid – eat whatever, become a slug and disregard relationships. It still means I am responsible to maintain my physical and spiritual self. It’s just…well, I’m not going to worry about it. And any necessary corrective course of action will take place when needed, not January 1, 2009.

Oddly, this is the first year in five that I'm not worried about where I'm going to live. Feels good. Probably means I'll end up under a bridge.

Now I got to go stretch out that hamstring before it freezes up.