January 13: "The Dead of Winter," Old Chestnut, Blizzard

Billy Collins remembers . . .

The Dead of Winter

by:  Billy Collins

We will all die

in one month or another.

Many of the above

left us in December

while others will stay on

to see in the new year.

Collins is taking that old chestnut (the dead of winter) quite literally in this poem.  He's talking about people who have died in the cold heart of December.  The actual cliché, however, simply refers to that time of winter that's most lacking in life or activity.  When everything is buried in dark and cold and snow and ice.  

I suppose the deadest time of winter would probably be around the Winter Solstice (December 21st), when daylight is in short supply and night (and snow) is abundant, at least in my part of the world.  My whole life, I've heard people say "I'm buried!" when a big snowstorm unleashes itself.  As a morbid kid with a death fixation, I always pictured icy graves in the dead of winter.  Bodies encased in sepulchers of snow.  Like Poe, I've always nursed a mortal fear of being buried alive.  

Well, the dead of winter arrived in my neck of the woods today.  It roared into town like a locomotive.  When I opened my front door this morning, the snow was drifted up to my chest, I could barely see my neighbor's house across the street.  And there really wasn't a street--just a plane of thick white.  Sustained winds of 30 and 40 miles per hour, with gusts approaching 50.  I wouldn't have been surprised to see a herd of wooly mammoths lumbering by.

Now, if you choose to live in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, expect blizzards.  They are inevitable.  That doesn't mean you have to like them.  But most Yoopers take pride at staring into the hungry maw of winter without blinking, myself included.  I don't enjoy icy cyclones, but I know they are the price I pay for living in a place so near the shores of an inland arctic sea.  And there is something wondrous when you witness the real fury of winter.

That is exactly what I witnessed today.  All day.  And I shoveled and shoveled and shoveled.  Then I trudged down to my sister's house (the one who recently fractured both of her wrists) and shoveled some more.  In between all that shoveling, I took ibuprofen and napped.  

I can now say, after more than 24 hours of whiteouts and snow removal (actually, it was more like snow relocation), that it is NOW the dead of winter in the Upper Peninsula.  Everything and everyone is submerged under dunes of white. 

For those of my disciples who've never experienced a real snow event, there is one particular fact that isn't widely known:  snowstorms are practically silent.  Even the wind is muted.  The scientific explanation for this phenomenon is fairly simple.  When snow accumulates, it acts as a sound absorber, much like sound tiles in a recording studio.  So, even when a blizzard is raging around you, the world is silent as the grave for the most part.

It feels like the dead of winter right now.  Nothing is moving.  No sounds.  Just deep, deep white and cold.

Saint Marty is ready to settle down for a long winter's nap.

January 25: Relaxing Cup of Tea, Hotel Room in Calumet, Hot Tubbers

A little bit more about towels, in case you weren't sick of hearing about them . . .

Nestling quietly on top of the towel if Ford Prefect's satchel, the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic began to wink more quickly.  Miles above the surface of the planet the huge yellow somethings began to fan out.  At Jodrell Bank, someone decided it was time for a nice relaxing cup of tea.

Well, here I sit in a hotel room in Calumet after a very long drive, through sometimes whiteout conditions, along Lake Superior into the Keweenaw Peninsula.  Just got back from the sauna, hot tub, and pool, and (wait for it--here's the connection to the above passage from Hitchhiker's) there are towels littering the bathroom floor, sans a Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic.

As I said, it was a stressful drive up, which I was expecting,  I'm kind of addicted to weather apps and the Weather Channel, so, before I travel anywhere, I'm monitoring the meteorological conditions for days.  I knew there was a winter storm warning and wind chill advisory, and I knew that I would be following the coastline of Lake Superior for a good portion of the trip.  Hence, driving blindly through billows of fine, white snow.

However, we made it safely.  My son got to swim.  My daughter and I got to hot tub and sauna.  My wife got to talk to a group of complete strangers in the hot tub (something she does frequently when we are in hotels and resorts).  The conclusion of the night was quite relaxing.

Tomorrow is going to be a long day of rehearsing and performing, since the rehearsal this evening was cancelled due to the weather.  The producer of the show had to drive up from the lower peninsula of Michigan, and she encountered the same issues that I did--blowing snow, whiteouts, icy roads, and -25 wind chills.  I think she arrived in Calumet just a little while ago (and it's 10:30 p.m. as I'm typing this).

I'm always excited to perform in front of a live audience, whether I'm acting, singing, or reading poetry.  There's nothing like the adrenaline rush it gives me.  Of course, many people would rather have three root canals than stand up in front of a crowd of strangers and speak.  Not me.  Or my wife (as evidenced by her befriending of the hot tubbers from downstate this evening).  My kids are kind of hams, as well.  They come by it naturally.

If you have nothing to do tomorrow evening, and you feel like taking a road trip (the weather is supposed to improve by tomorrow), stop by the Calumet Theatre at 7 p.m. for a little song, a little dance, a little poetry in your pants.  (Okay, that image is a little perverted, but I'm fresh out of seltzer.)

Saint Marty is thankful for a safe drive this evening.  And the hot tub and sauna.