The sun is out for the second day in a row, and large patches of grass are now visible where the snow has melted. It is early February, but it feels like spring, and I am reminded of this time last year when I was pregnant, entering my third trimester, carrying my second baby, and wondering when she would arrive.
My son, three at the time, told me all along she would come when the snow had melted from the woods behind my parents' house, and he was right. She showed up in mid-April, earlier than anticipated, on a seventy-degree day that melted the last of the snow that had stuck around in the shade.
But it is February, not April, and I am not ready yet for the snow to melt. I am not waiting for a baby to arrive this spring or looking out my window for an indication of when something much looked forward to will come. Instead, on a bike ride through the village yesterday, I thought back to two Saturdays ago when there was snow up to my shins in the streets, and I skied right down the middle of them.
These are the winters we are growing accustomed to now, and I feel an ache as I think of what they will be in the coming years. My son and I had begun to dig an igloo out of a snow pile in the yard two weeks ago, but the roof started melting in before we could finish. The shovel and his Tonka truck are still there, waiting for more snow. I am becoming less hopeful for it each day.
Last week, during a writing workshop, I was invited to recount my earliest memories of being moved by the power of art, and somehow, it took me back to winter days building snow forts in the swamp next to the house I grew up in. "Swamp" feels too damp, too messy, so my mother has taken to calling the wetland next to my childhood home a “marsh” these days. But for me, it will always be the swamp, where we were instructed to stay out of during the summer months and where we were ushered into when all was frozen.
Thinking of the power of art led to the swamp because of the stories I played out in the cattails and snowdrifts there. My brothers and I would stuff our bodies into snowsuits, our double-socked feet crammed into boots handed down from one to the other, getting sweaty and grumpy before tumbling down the porch and into the swamp.
There, we created rooms for ourselves, built tables from the snow, and served ourselves snow cakes washed down by snow slushies. The houses I built while flattening the cattails with my body were the scenes for the stories I couldn't stop reading, the stories I imagined I was a part of. I was Laura Ingalls in the big woods of Wisconsin, struggling through a long winter. I was Jo March, I was Anne Shirley. I was learning the power that story has to connect, to create a sense of belonging, and how much a sense of place factored into all of it.
Two Sundays ago, the day after my ski through our village when over a foot of snow fell in 12 hours in a thin band along the shore of Lake Michigan, I skied with some friends on the Pierce Stocking Scenic Drive. In the summer, this 7-mile loop is busy with cars winding through the trees and out to some of Michigan's most well-known lookout vistas. In the winter, the drive is closed, and the only way to access the views is on foot. The best way is on cross-country skis.
Our group skied the back way up to the Lake Michigan Overlook, known best as "Lookout 9," as the sun peeked through the trees. It was all uphill on the way in, and my body was warm despite the brisk air. The trees sheltered us for the most part from the wind whipping over the lake, but when we arrived at the overlook, we felt its ferocity. Standing on the trail, looking to where the trees opened up to the dune, we saw a snowdrift that rose above our heads and sand and wind whipping across the open beyond. We had come this far, so we took off our skis and climbed into the blowing sand.
Few adult memories fill me with as much glee as this recent memory, where I crawled with five other women on snowdrifts because if we walked, we sank into our waists. The wind was loud, yet we were louder, laughing and yelling. We could hardly look at the lake because the wind blew so hard into our faces, and the sun reflecting off the water made us squeeze our eyes shut.
We crawled and played like children and then found our way back off the dune, protected again by the trees while we caught our breath and ate a snack some of the women had brought along.
The next day, my son and I worked on our igloo, digging in the deep snow, my body aching from the work. I wore his baby sister, now more than 9 months old, on my back. My spring baby, who is just a little less than three months from her first birthday, the day last year when the snow finally melted.
Living in such a seasonal climate means living in a place that sees many iterations, each season becoming its own scene, requiring from me separate ways of being. How I relate to the world around me in the summer months is different than the winter months. My friendships are different in the winter than summer, and my sense of place changes. As we experience more mild winters each year, I realize I am mourning not just the snow, but an entire way of moving through the world. An entire way of interacting with place. I am mourning my children’s ability to interact with Michigan winters, with the camaraderie found in the snow, with the worlds that open because of it.
Tonight, after dinner, we bundled up and went for a night walk, the baby strapped to me again. We walked all the way to Front Street, the streets empty of people and bare of snow. A pre-bedtime ritual we began last winter when I was pregnant, continued now with the baby in tow. Some of this ritual feels exactly like last year, the cold night air on my face, our laughter in the dark. But also, there is likely less snow, and more of the streetlights are now bright LEDs, replacing the old, dull amber lights.
Our son talks about trucks while we walk; whole worlds tumble out of his mouth. The way he is immersed in his stories reminds me of my childhood winters in the swamp. Some things about childhood seem to stay the same. As he talks, he runs ahead of us, flops in whatever remaining snowdrifts he can find, and lays there splayed out until we pass him. After we have walked past him a ways, he runs to catch up, grabs my hand for the rest of the walk home.
Post Recommendations
If you enjoyed this essay, you may also enjoy:
The Threshold - a poem that calls out the blurry seasons, when the line between what was and what is to come, the line between grief and joy is invisible.
We Belong to Each Other - a meditation on interdependence and its necessity in our lives.
Some Things I’m Listening to/Reading/Participating in this Week:
This episode “Winter” from the Traversecityist highlights the community found in our region during the winter months in various winter activity. Gretchen Carr, the host, begins the episode on a morning dip with our swimming group. The podcast highlights the culture of the Traverse City region, and it was a treat to be a part of this episode.
I finally started reading Ann Patchett’s book Tom Lake this week, and am nearly 2/3 of the way through. I was drawn to it for its setting in northern Michigan, but have been completely immersed by the portrayal of motherhood and family life, and the connections of generations to place.
TC Solidarity is hosting a fundraiser for e-sims for Gaza at Hexenbelle in Traverse City tomorrow (February 4) from 5-8pm. Money will be used to purchase Nomad e-sims, which will help keep families in Palestine connected amid ongoing phone and internet blackouts. They ask those who plan to come to venmo tc-solidarity with your name and “e sim fundraiser” in the description. If you aren’t able to attend but would still like to donate, you can donate via venmo; please indicate in the description that you are donating but won’t make it to the event.
My friend
is co-hosting a Substack (and other newsleterrs) writers meetup at the Leland library this Tuesday, February 6 from 3-5pm. If you write a newsletter and live locally, you are welcome to join. I am planning to attend.
Swim Club
I will keep this thread updated with swim club details. We are swimming tomorrow, Sunday, February 4, at 2pm in Empire. Meet in the parking lot by the lighthouse.
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Cheers,
Mae