We had a perfectly lovely walk this morning once we managed to find the road.  We are working on a new board game called “Where’s Cowboy?” and spent some time taking pictures for that. 

It was a fairly monochromatic day, so it was no hardship to go off to the other day job, where I spent the afternoon inside, beavering away over exasperating medical billing issues.  Imagine, then, stepping outside and discovering a technicolor evening!  Very off to see the Wizard, if you know what I mean.

The Township Hall shows to best advantage at twilight, particularly when there’s no one there but the EMS night shift.  (And spare a good thought for them, will you?  They’ve had a busy time of it in this weather.)

US-31 was full of snow devils and it was impossible to see lane markings.  We followed in each other’s tracks, hoping the driver at the head of the caravan knew the way.  The Eastport Market appeared, glowing in the distance like a safe harbor.  Sandy Boyer and Bob Hicks and Ron Boss were working tonight.  Spare a good thought for them, too – they’re all on their way home as I write this.

I came home with fried chicken and a good attitude, and was welcomed accordingly.  So far our power is holding.  We are going to tuck ourselves in for a good read and a nice long sleep.  May all of you be safe tonight, and content in your den, wherever it may be.

When Miss Sadie and the Cowboy woke me up this morning, the predicted blizzard was here.  We went out to get the paper.  So far, so good: my Record-Eagle was in its bright green holder. Dean Peters must drive a tank. I headed back to the house, assuming that the prospect of breakfast would bring the dogs right along with me.  Ha.  They frolicked.  I trudged.  They hid.  I found.   

They hared along cross-country to foil pursuit.  I tracked them, climbing uphill puffing and cussing, getting my Record-Eagle wet, grabbing a small tree to haul myself up, shaking all the snow off the tree and down my neck.  Eventually I caught up to them, as they’d wrapped their leash around a tree. 

I should have been wearing my snowpants, but I was still in my flannel nightgown, which is too short.  I had snow down my neck, snow in my pockets, snow all over my camera, and snow in my too-short black booties. 

I returned to the Writing Studio and Bait Shop grimly triumphant, dogs in tow.  The Cowboy spent the balance of the morning chewing off his snowball collection.

It is still snowing, but it could be worse.  Bruce Laidlaw writes that Ann Arbor is having rain and 50 mph winds.  I believe I need a nap.

As we slide toward the darkest time of the year, we look for reasons to hope. We always find them, blessings mixed in with the thorns of Advisory! Winter storm warning! If the morning walk is a bit nippy, we notice little things we hadn’t seen before. The Cowboy notices deer tracks leading into the swamp, and I notice tiny red berries on a thorny shrub. (While I am taking pictures of the berries the Cowboy and Miss Sadie are investigating the swamp. Fortunately it is easy to track them in the snow, and I retrieve them fairly easily. Not so easily that I had hands left to take photos. Here are the berries.)

If my steps are covered in heavy snow—and tonight they will be if the Weather widget is to be believed—there is the cheery sight of Tom Morrison pulling up to clear them, thus earning a bit more for Young Eddie’s college fund. In fact, let me introduce you to Young Eddie and his parents, Cheryl and Tom.

There now. Don’t you feel better about the future?

Babs Young was away for Thanksgiving, but she thought of you all the way home.  She needed a photo.  And there, along Elk Lake Road, she found one.  She writes: What a difference a week or two makes. We left and it was still sunny and rather warm and came home to winter. Nice white stuff that is so photogenic. This was coming north on Elk Lake Road.

Welcome home, Babs.

Telemarketers have been scamming local businesses that accept credit cards, particularly Discover cards.  The operation does NOT require that anyone at the business give out an account number.  That information is already available to the thieves.  What they need is someone to say “Yes” in answer to a question.  Then payments for non-existent goods and services are withdrawn from the business account.  Month after month, until someone at the business notices that the deductions are improper.

Read John King’s post, A business headache, on the Orchard Talks blog for the details.  Then check your own statements and accounts.  Then you might spare a moment to raise a little Cain about why we permit financial institutions to give our private information to thieves. 

No pretty picture with this post.  If I could upload audio files, I’d record Miss Sadie growling.  She can be fairly impressive when she’s annoyed.

Chris and Sonny Szejbach have been lounging on the beach in Florida.  Yesterday Chris wrote:  I understand it is snowing at home.  We had a storm last nite and the rocket launch was postponed to tonite.  Hope to get pictures.  We see these cruise ships come into port daily, thought I’d share.

OK, I thought. Rub it in. I told her that was one monster boat and made her write more. Today’s email:

Hi Gerry,

I think the size of the “boat” is emphasized because we are so close to it. Our resort is the closest property to the port. It really is something to see tho, there are about 4 ships that come and go about every other day (along with ocean barges, fishing boats, etc.) A few years ago when we were here we saw a submarine come into port. That was cool too.

Last nite we were expecting a rocket launch but the weather didn’t co-operate. Tonite they will try again but it doesn’t sound promising. It is a communications satellite for Iraq and Afganistan military operations. We have been coming here (this area) for about 20 years now. With Sonny’s military benefits, we enjoy all the activity and the space program is a big deal here. There is always something going on.

Anyway, we will be back to reality on Monday and open for business on Friday. Don’t look forward to the snow at this time but everyone here is in the Christmas spirit and it’s hard to fathom with tropical weather and no snow. Just doesn’t fit.

So this is all good news. Christmas looks better dressed in snow. Chris and Sonny are coming back next week, as promised. And there are cinnamon rolls in my future.  Not a moment too soon, really.  Looky here:

Sonny's closed thru Dec 10

Day Park deserted

Torch Lake looking grumpy

Dale Reedy, my plow guy (and artist in wood, but that’s another post) has been doing snow-dances for a month.  Every time he sees me he slaps an evil grin on his face and reminds me that soon, soon he will be plowing out my drive and sending me enormous bills.  “Ha!” I say.  “There is no snow, Dale.  Maybe we are in for an exceptionally mild winter.”  He just grins.  Evilly. 

Dale is not alone.  Snow means prosperity for lots of us.  When it falls, skiers and snowmobilers come here to play.  They spend money in restaurants and stores and at hotels and resorts and generally dress the place up a treat.  So, we’re ambivalent.  We don’t really want to shovel it and drive in it . . . but we’re glad to have the business.  Besides, most of us who live here year round have a sneaking fondness for a really good snow.  The fluffy kind that makes everything look fresh and lovely.  

Last night when I got home the bay was roaring and there were tiny bits of sleet in the air.  I took the dogs for a walk on the beach, which was a mistake, as I was paying attention to the crashing waves and Miss Sadie and the Cowboy were paying attention to escape routes.  Off they went into the dark and stormy night, leaving me to trudge up and down the beach, the steps at the circle access, the steps at the Neoma access, the road, calling them and waving my little flashlight in utter futility.  When I finally gave up and went home, they were waiting for me on the deck.  I was so glad to see them I didn’t even give them the scolding they richly deserved.  I did send them to bed with no treats.

This morning we got up late and there it was.  The first snow to stick.  There isn’t much yet, but it’s still coming down. 

Time to strap on the YakTrax.  Time to park the car in the garage instead of the driveway. 

But Dale?  Not time to plow yet.  Pretty soon, maybe.  But not yet.

Fred, my elder grand-dog, was the Greatest Dog in the World. I know you probably think that to me Miss Sadie and the Cowboy might be greater. If you have known me a long time, you would be certain that Jake my Boon Companion was greater. But you would be wrong.

Fred was a large black lab with a deep chest, the better to hold his extraordinary heart. His coat was as thick and glossy as a bear’s, and his waving tail most likely caused monsoons somewhere in the Pacific. He had an enormous, booming bark that gave miscreants pause but didn’t fool anyone else.

As near as we can tell—Rob the Firefighter bailed him out of jail in his youth—Fred was eighteen years old when he died. He had a wonderful life post-rescue, loved without reservation by an entire family of dog goofs. He went to work with his beloved Rob before he became the Firefighter, galumphed joyously onto the bed whenever I visited, and went on road trips and cross-country ski adventures and wonderful hikes in at least a dozen states.

Fred wore a handsome sweater on his visits Up North, and he kept it on until the woodstove heated up. I kept toys for him in that basket.

He adored the Lady Alicia. He loved Lucy, my younger grand-dog, who is desolate at her loss, and he was great friends with Miss Sadie and the Cowboy and many, many other dogs he met in his long life.

Fred, Lucy and Miss Sadie share a companionable moment in April, 2009. Cowboy was around somewhere - probably scouting for treats.

He loved Rob and Alicia’s friends and loved coming up north and loved every brilliant moment when he could turn all that candlepower on a person who needed it. Fred was a great healer. Also a great chowhound.

During a cottage weekend in 1998 or 1999 Fred kept a close eye on Charlotte's dinner preparations. She and Paul were among his favorite Friends of Rob and Alicia.

Towards the end he could barely walk 50 yards, but his happy dance at the prospect of treats stayed with him to his last weekend. I saw it on Saturday before I left for home after Thanksgiving. The last time I petted him he was napping in a patch of sunlight, his coat gleaming. And he was still the Greatest Dog in the World.

In October Miss Sadie, the Cowboy and I went over to Glen Arbor for a family gathering. Fred was glad to see us, but he was clearly slowing down.

I was sure I would wake up this morning and have a freshly-dusted sparkly world to photograph for you. Ha. The sleet I drove through to get home last night is all melted away. It never turned to snow. There is no snow. I emphasize this because I can tell from the searches that bring you here that you want to see snow. So do the ski resorts, but there isn’t any.

However, I have snowy pictures from last winter, and the winter before. Lots of them. Lessee . . . here’s one Katherine took of the old stone silo out on the Flat Road:

Betty Beeby says there’s a story connected to that silo. She’s digging through her files to find it. I’m going to go over there and help her. (I have to get out of here. When Jack Bodis sees I’ve put a snowy picture on the blog when there isn’t even any snow he’s gonna be seriously annoyed.)

Whenever I go to Detroit I like to go adventuring with my cousin Craig. I let him pick the adventure. He keeps up better. This time we visited the Detroit Institute of Arts to see the Richard Avedon retrospective. As you might guess, haute couture is not a big priority at the Writing Studio and Bait Shop. However, art, design, and insight into broader cultural considerations are compelling subjects, and Avedon had a lot to say about all of them. Craig and I meandered through fifty years of images from Harper’s Bazaar and Vogue, along with original markups and magazine layouts, pondering notions of beauty and messages about social stratification.

Time for treats and debriefing at CaféDIA.  (I choose a table near the donkey sculpture.  I love that donkey.)  I argue for the proposition that fashion is beside the point, Craig argues that it makes the point. I grump that it can’t be about the clothes—in half the photos it’s impossible to even see the clothes. Craig says the clothes and other accoutrements are emblematic, the point is how we organize the culture and each person’s place in it. What about the prince and the pauper? Doesn’t that prove the boxes are meaningless? No, it only proves that in fairytales we can jump from one to the other . . . . We have a wonderful time.

Between bites of supper and brilliant insights, we watch little kids pat the donkey. This is especially amusing for two reasons. First, there is this poster at the entrance to the museum:

Second, there is my confession to Craig that I always patted the donkey when I visited the DIA, which was very often as Rob the Firefighter was growing up. This marks me as a hopeless Philistine. We decide to create an image for this post. Craig will pat the donkey and I will capture him in the act. OK, he won’t really pat the donkey, as he is not a donkey-patting Philistine, but he will appear to pat the donkey.

Can’t you just hear the bullhorn? Do not touch the art! Well . . . maybe not. Take a closer look.

The Detroit Institute of Arts knows when to hold ‘em and knows when to fold ‘em. The donkey is pattable. The tiny tots are not felons. Craig pats, I pat, we proceed to the Rivera Court to listen to the Hot Club of Detroit pay homage to Django Reinhardt.

It was a completely satisfactory evening. The whole visit was like that. Autumn is lingering in the city. There’s still a little color here and there, and the lawns are emerald in Lafayette Park. Rob the Firefighter and the Lady Alicia have a seasonal view of the Renaissance Center from their front step.

We had Thanksgiving dinner with Alicia’s side of the family and a Saturday brunch with friends from the old neighborhood and walks with the dogs everywhere.  As I drove home last night I listened to WDET until the signal faded. One of the day’s sponsors was Stuart Trager wishing Barbara his beloved a happy anniversary, and I let out a happy yelp, startling the dogs. Have I mentioned that Detroit is the world’s biggest small town?

Then we were home. Miss Sadie and the Cowboy bounded out of the car and snuffled about, checking out who dropped by while they were away. I unpacked and made amends to the cat, who is even more pattable than the donkey. This morning I got up and made toast from a delicate fruit bread from Hamtramck, in the toaster Stuart and Barbara gave me as a housewarming present.

All of this is pretty much my central notion of beauty, and definitely my understanding of my place in the world. Hope your Thanksgiving was equally joyful.