It Won’t Stop Blowing Friday Round-Up

The wind got under our canoe and packed it against the side of the house. This is impressive but we have had a canoe tumble end over end down the beach and another that landed several yards away from the house under a stand of pine trees. We should know better than to keep our canoe stored in the path of Lake Superior’s famous northwest winds. We have, put quite simply, failed to connect the dots since moving its storage to the other side of the house would put it out of the wind. There is, however, the risk of offending our neighbors to the east with the sight of our old bed springs, such being our canoe holder up here in the land of ‘don’t throw anything out because you might need it someday.’

The blowing is fierce but it’s beautiful. It is also very loud. Yesterday, on a Zoom call, the blow made the window shake in its frame. The wind seared through a tiny slit of the kitchen window and picture frames rattled against the wall. I already spend considerable time on Zoom calls trying to appear to be normal, as in ‘is this what normal people look like when they hear what’s going on?’ so the added layers of wind, surf, rattling pretty much did me in. I could have been a woman with her head wrapped in gauze, wound around with tin foil, wearing a 12-layer snood cinched at the chin. Still, the blowing is exquisite – wild and blue and roaring. There is no chance of trading it for quiet.

Today’s news flash is that Trump thinks military folks are losers and suckers. They only are if they vote for him anyway. And, you watch, there will be millions of Trump supporters, current and former military, who will yet again swallow real, real hard to get this last bit of insult down their gullet. Practically every single American has someone – a dad, sister, aunt, grandfather, 2nd cousin on their mother’s side – who served, was injured, or died. Their service looms large in every family, even my own. My uncle served in Burma In WWII, wrote long letters to his mother, which I’ve read because my mother, his sister, saved them. My husband’s father enlisted at the age of 17 during WWII and was wounded twice in battles at Anzio and Southern France. Their service is part of us. Trump’s ignorance about our country, our history, and our people is so profound, there aren’t words to describe.

Much of our mental health is in the hands (or paws) of our dogs. This is an embarrassing admission. One would think after so many years on this planet that we would have developed a deeper reservoir, a more substantial well from which to draw our daily purpose. I realized this this afternoon as I decided I must race back into the house to get my phone to snap this picture. Dog on porch, I call it. Profound, don’t you think?

We are leaving our beloved Lake Superior and heading home through Hastings. That is where my parents are buried, in a beautiful hillside cemetery that could play the perfect resting place for every dead relative in every movie ever made. There, I will clean up their headstone and, while my husband goes for a walk, I will tell them things they need to know. I’ll tell them about the pandemic and how we are doing. I’ll tell them about their grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I’ll tell them about their son who is now in a nursing home but he is well taken care of. I’ll tell them we are living our lives as best we can. Like they did.