Residual Rollers

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The recent blizzard in the Midwest missed us entirely.  Or almost.  Although the skies were dark with ominous clouds overhead yesterday, they didn’t produce a single snowflake.  But the wind was fierce and frosty.  The temperatures belied the chill brought by the stiff wind, and we could hear it whistling through the trees through most of the night.

Some time before morning, the winds dropped, the clouds disappeared and we woke to a clear and chilly day.  As I headed out for my morning run, the promise of a brilliant sunrise lured me down to Brighton Beach to catch those early morning rays. Upon reaching the lake, however, I found the sun obscured by the thick steam rising from the lake.  The sharp plummet into single digits was extracting the heat from the lake, and seemed to leech the color out of the sunrise.

Despite the relative calm of the morning, the lake was still heaving from yesterday’s blow.  From a distance it appeared to be flat and quiet, but at Brighton Beach the swells curled and crashed onto the shore, producing a chilly spray that rained down upon the rocks.  The sound of of the pounding water and the rhythm of the action was musical and mesmerizing.

Interestingly enough, the waves seemed to be confined to that particular section of shoreline.  As I continued my run up the North Shore, the water quietly lapped the rocks without any fanfare.  Brighton Beach and its large rocks must be uniquely positioned to facilitate the crashing of the waves.

IMG_9395 trimmedOf course I didn’t have a camera with me during my run, and the day nearly slipped by before I returned to try and capture the waves.  It was almost sunset by then, and to be honest I had a feeling I had missed my chance.  But as soon as I approached the IMG_9410shoreline, I could hear the thunder again and see the spray.  The residual rollers continued.

The waves weren’t huge by any standards.  It was the way they materialized out of the flat lake that was so intriguing.  The rocks near the water’s edge were encased in a slippery coating of ice that added to IMG_9419the appeal of the scene.  And in the west was a beautiful sunset that lit up the sky – unlike the sunrise that failed to produce any color.  My little point and shoot camera felt slow and unresponsive as I tried to catch the waves in action, and my fingers became clumsy as the cold penetrated my thin gloves.  But I was glad I had returned to see yet another magical moment on our Great Lake.

Singing The Messiah with Mabel

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I’ve always wanted to do a Messiah Sing.  It sounded like great fun – the audience and the performers are one and the same.  An orchestra is provided, and singers come together to sit in the auditorium and sing Handel’s Messiah from beginning to end.  So when I saw that St. Scholastica had a Messiah Sing, I decided I’d go.

I’d sung a number of pieces from The Messiah in my high school and college choirs, so I knew some of the sections would be very familiar to me.  In fact, I doubted I needed the music for “For Unto Us” and of course the “Hallelujah Chorus.”  Something that monumental sticks with you for life.  I knew there would be pieces of music I’d never seen before, but I was counting on my rusty sight reading skills and the more experienced singers around me to carry me through.  I recruited a friend to go with me, and I was ready for the challenge.

But I had another reason for going.  Back last summer when we were cleaning out Mom’s house, we went through all her old music.  I found a score for The Messiah that had belonged to her mother, Mabel, with her name hand written on the cover.  It felt like a treasure and I claimed it for my own, hoping for this very opportunity.

Mabel was a music teacher and the first music supervisor for the Iron River, Michigan public schools in the first quarter of the 1900s.  She was known for loving “show business” and the musicals she put on, both in the schools and in the community.  She also greatly enriched the music program to serve all students in the schools.  We found a tribute written about her for the town’s centennial celebration.  One phrase jumped out at me, “Surely no one belonging to the mixed chorus could ever forget rehearsing ‘The Hallelujah Chorus’ from Handel’s famous oratorio, ‘The Messiah.'”

The score sat on my bookshelf until last night.  So as we progressed through the music singing, I found Mabel’s notations for the first time.  It felt so deeply personal to see her markings for expression, for breathing, for dynamics.  I loved turning the brittle yellowed pages, knowing she had turned them, probably directing that school choir.  It made the evening special, bringing back my musical roots and reminding me of my own musical training starting from a young age.

I never knew my grandmother, Mabel.  She died when my mother was 16.  But she left behind a musical legacy that lived on through my mom and on down through me and my own children.  I am so very thankful to her for that.  And I look forward to next year, when I will again bring her score to sing The Messiah.

Christmas Cookie Experiments

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It seemed like a good idea.  Rich’s dad mentioned Tinker’s Dark Cookies last year, so I tucked the idea away and thought I’d add them to the package of his favorite Christmas cookies that I send him each December.  I managed to procure the recipe through pure luck.  My sister-in-law happened to be down visiting Dad in Florida, and she copied the recipe out of his wife’s hand written cookbook.  I was in business!

Until I read the recipe…  Hmmm, a list of ingredients, two conflicting sets of times and temperatures for the oven, and a note that warned not to grease the cookie sheets.  That’s it.  I figured I could deal with that, but on looking more closely I realized the real problem.  It called for 1/2 box raisins, 1/2 box currants and 1/2 package fruitcake mix.  Just how big were boxes and packages way back when she made them?  It was probably in the 60’s or so, as Rich remembers the cookies.  And there’s no asking his mom or Tinker any more.

Technology to the rescue.  Surely this recipe must lurk out on the internet somewhere.  After numerous google searches, haunting recipe sites and trying all combinations of descriptions and ingredients, I gave up.  It’s not there.  So next I tried the history approach. What does Sunmaid have to say about their packages back in the 60’s?  Nada.  They’re not telling. Not unless you’re interested in those little snack boxes.

I was on my own.  I was going to have to guess at the quantities.  In my mind, it boiled down to this:  Have packages increased in size along with the super-sizing of American palates?  Or have they shrunk with the marketing ploy that avoids raising prices by reducing the quantities we are buying?  Or have they done both?  In the end, I decided on the middle road, and just used existing package sizes.

Mixing up the batter, it seemed more cake-like than cookie dough.  It was rich and dark with molasses, spices and lots of fruit.  And no eggs.  I Cookie dough after adding more fruitcrossed my fingers and baked a cookie sheet full.  Rich was my official taster and quality critic, and I waited as he delivered his verdict.  He remembered more fruit and less nuts.  And the cookies spread more than his mom’s. Okay, version 2. Dumping in more of each fruit and making the cookies smaller resulted in a pretty nice little cookie.  Yes, that’s closer he declared!

Good enough, I figured, and finished baking the rest of the dough.  And Tinker's Dark Cookiesfrom the other room, Rich commented that they smelled good – just as he remembered.  The positive feedback was appreciated, as I waded through the uncertainty of this process.  I had to taste a few along the way for my own reassurance, and had to admit they were pretty tasty.  Moist and sweet, they’d be great with a cup of coffee.

The cookies have all been boxed up with care, and the package is in the mail.  I’ll know if it was a good idea or not when Dad samples the contents.  If they meet with satisfaction, I’m golden.  I have carefully recorded my own precise measurements and methods for these  cookies.  I hope I’m done experimenting on this recipe.

A Classic Day in the Woods

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The ski trails had not been groomed.  I know, I went over to check.  Twice.  With all that new snow, it seemed there was enough for skiing, but without grooming it was too deep for skate skiing.  There were decent classic tracks, forged by a number of skiers out ahead of me.  So I was left with little choice.  If I was going to ski today, it had to be classic.

Ever since taking up skate skiing, it’s been my favorite for workouts.  I just don’t have the solid technique nor the desire to press hard when doing classic skiing.  So instead, I reserve it for recreational skiing with friends or going out in the woods to enjoy the scenery.  I just didn’t know that today was meant for that type of skiing.

As soon as I set off, IMG_9348I could feel the magic.  The snow was soft, with plenty of coverage, and the tracks were decent.  The silence of the woods descended on me as I glided through the snow.  I didn’t need a workout, I needed to enjoy the surroundings.  It was slow going in the new snow, but that meant more opportunity to enjoy the scenery.

It was mid-afternoon but since we are zeroing in on the shortest day of the year, the sun was low in the sky, sending long shadows across the trail.  The sky was a brilliant blue, providing a beautiful canopy over the snowy scene.  And the sunshine felt good on my back.  Lester River was gurgling under the snow and ice and provided a nice vista as I worked my way uphill.

As the afternoon progressed, the sun lit the treetops on fire.  Soon following, the sky itself began to glow and silhouetted the trees in the foreground.  I desperately wanted to capture it in a photo, but my camera battery had long since succumbed to the cold and complained when I tried to turn on my camera.  A mental picture would have to do.  Perhaps it was for the best – it was cooling down quickly, and my willingness to take off my mitts to handle the camera was quickly evaporating.

Maybe they will groom the trails tonight.  I hope so.  But now I’m glad I had a classic day in the woods.

A Black and White World

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We woke up to a black and white world this morning.  Snow was falling at a brisk pace and about two inches had accumulated already.  Our surroundings were masked by the deep white powder which transformed all color to a palate of only two hues.  It must be the brilliance of the pristine white snow that renders all other colors mute.

IMG_9329Normally in winter, I prefer to work with the snow rather than against it when going out for my workout.  However, I knew that enough snow would not accumulate in time to send the groomers out on the ski trails.  So I donned my Yaktrax and headed out for an early morning run in the falling snow.  Traction proved to be tricky, as I found unexpected icy patches beneath the snow, and in the deeper untraveled sections the snow clumped and unclumped under my feet.  But this run wasn’t about speed or quality, it was for the experience.  The snow muted all sound and obliterated any long distance view.  I was hemmed in by snow covered trees, in black and white.

Heading down to Brighton Beach I experienced the full force of lake effect.  The NE wind came right off the lake, transforming the snowflakes into crisp pellets that felt like pins and needles on my face.  I was toasty warm inside and frigid on my exposed skin in the bracing wind.  The lake was slightly roiled up and looked decidedly chilly.

I may be biased, but I found some of the prettiest views when I returned to our own neighborhood around Amity Creek.  Who can argue with living in such beautiful surroundings?

    Particularly our own flavor of black and white!IMG_9347 trimmed

A Winter Oasis

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Driving down the entrance road, a beautiful sight greeted us. The dry brown late fall scene was suddenly transformed into a wintry wonderland. The trees were laden with fluffy snow clinging to the branches, and the ground was covered with a clean white blanket. The picturesque chalet was lit up from inside, aglow in the evening darkness and skiers silently slid by on the lit trails. Winter!

We were in the Twin Cities, and took the opportunity to get in some skiing at Elm Creek Park Reserve where they make snow for a portion of their cross-country ski trails. Since there was no snow even Up North, we were grateful for the investment and industriousness of the park staff dedicated to keeping their ski trails open. Never mind that it was artificial snow – it was snow and skiing. So far they had covered only 1.3k of trail, and were working hard to add the additional portions to bring it up to 2.5k, but we were happy to have that. Despite the recent warm temperatures, nightly grooming and frequent replenishment with the snow guns had rendered very decent skiing. It was heavenly to ski along, pressing rusty muscles back into service and get some real glide. Feeling the cold air on my face and spending the evening outside skiing was nirvana! To add to the ambiance, real snow was falling, making us believe that maybe real winter was not far off after all. It didn’t amount to much, but that wasn’t the point.

Rich calls it “gerbil” skiing. Doing any distance at all on a 1.3k loop means lots of rotations around the same terrain. But last night no one complained about the repetitions. And once the dinner hour arrived, the trail emptied out and we had little competition for space. Make no mistake, it’s not the same as skiing in the woods, away from civilization and on real snow. But it’s the best we have right now.

I know it’s a worn out refrain, bemoaning losing the ferocity of winters past. So we look forward instead, and as we return to Duluth we are putting our hopes in the Winter Storm Warning that is out for tonight. Will we wake up to winter that is more than a small urban oasis, and snow that blankets not only our front yard but the ski trails across the street? We sure hope so.

Winters of Yesteryear

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The high school Nordic ski team just skied by…  on roller-skis.  It’s December and it looks more like September.  The plants outside our front door are greening up again.  I went Christmas shopping yesterday, and passed fellow shoppers in the parking lot who were not wearing jackets.  It just didn’t feel right being so warm while toting Christmas gifts.

When I was growing up in Duluth we always had snow.  Lots of it.  In grade school, our favorite Friday celebration was to walk home from school on top of the huge snowbanks that lined the streets.  They were high, well over our heads.  We had a little red ball that we put on the antenna of our car so others could see it over the snowbank, coming around corners.  (Okay, so cars don’t have antennas any more either.)  We made igloos out of the snow piles from shoveling the driveway.  Big ones that we could sit inside.  Streets were so narrow due to the plowed snow that parking became a problem, or more accurately, navigating around parked cars was a challenge.  And we had legitimate Snow Days, home from school to wait out a blizzard.  At least such is my memory of winter.

IMG_9300The snow we had on Thanksgiving was just a teaser.  I keep telling myself that we didn’t always have snow for Thanksgiving.  And that holiday was early this year.  It’s not time to panic just yet.  Never mind that last year’s dismal lack of snow lurks in recent memory.  We still might have a good snow winter.  Please?

We thought she was a goner

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It didn’t look good.  Spot’s accidents in the house turned out to be more than a nuisance – she was sick.  Blood in her urine and losing control of her bladder could not be a good sign.  At 15+ years old, we knew her time was limited and we had pledged not to resort to any heroics to prolong her life.  It was with heavy hearts that we acknowledged we could be facing the end.

The difficult part was waiting.  It developed over a weekend, and we wanted to get her in to see her regular vet who had examined her just two months prior and knew her history.  So we kept her warm and as comfortable as possible and doted on her.  We had to keep her confined to the tiled area in the house, which meant she could not sleep beside our bed at night.  I awoke in the morning to find Rich missing from his spot beside me.  He had gotten up in the middle of the night, scrounged around for a sleeping bag and laid down with his beloved pet.

We called the kids to let them know and give them warning of what seemed to be a likely outcome.  We promised not to do anything until they could come over for their final good-byes, and planned a Skype session with our son in DC so he could “see” Spot one more time.  It was pretty grim around our house.

We were able to get in to see the vet first thing Monday morning.  Rich and I went together, but he could hardly speak, given his sorrow.  The upbeat attitude of the assistants in the office and the professionalism of the vet were somewhat calming, but I wondered if it was false hope.  It turns out not!  A urinary tract infection seemed the most likely cause of Spot’s woes, and could easily be treated with antibiotics.  That didn’t sound like heroics to us, so we agreed to give it a try and left with our bottle of pills.

Miracle medicine we called it.  Spot’s system rapidly responded to the treatment.  With the help of frequent trips outdoors, her accidents ceased. She lost that haunted look she had been wearing.  The appearance of the dog across the street initiated vigorous barking.  That’s our old Spot!  She also figured out that the additional pills meant more peanut butter – her favorite treat.

We’ve gradually given her greater range in the house, and she’s still enjoying pampered treatment.  We’re just glad she’s still with us.  Her time wasn’t up after all.

Early season skiing

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Sometimes a little restraint is required. My husband, Rich, is a fanatical cross-country skier. He can't wait for the season to begin, and bolts out to the nearest trail at the first sign of snow. His spirits are impossible to dampen, and he relishes nothing more than being the first out on the trail. I have learned to interpret his early season enthusiasm with a dose of skepticism, however. His glowing reports of that first ski often come with skinned knees, new gouges in his rock skis, and harrowing tales of catching a rock going downhill.

My own forays out on the trails are attended by a greater dose of caution. Why is it that I think I won't remember how to ski? Why is it that my first venture of the season finds me flailing and struggling to find that elusive sense of balance? Never mind that the trails are ungroomed and that my skate skis are ill suited to the untamed powder in the woods. That first ski is never pretty.

Skiing ungroomed trails

This year's first outing was no exception. I let myself be talked into skiing the first snowfall on trails that reportedly had been rolled. In reality, hikers and dogs and tromped and stomped all over the trail, leaving it barely navigable on skis. Come to find out, we had mixed up trail names and were in the wrong place.

With another two inches of snow overnight, I decided I was willing to give skiing another shot. This time I headed to the right set of trails, and although the new snow obscured any previous grooming, it also erased the heavy wear from the previous day. Unfortunately, when I arrived so did two carloads of adults and kids with dogs who eagerly bounded out onto the trails ahead of me. Early season skiing certainly has its hazards. Without groomed tracks, trespassers on foot are oblivious to the errors of their ways. Forging on, I soon left the hikers behind and found I was enjoying myself. The woods were quiet and pretty in their new blanket of snow, and the trail was unchallenging but very skiable. I had no idea where I was going, having never been on the trail before, but it wasn't difficult to follow and I easily made my way around the figure eight loop for 2.8k of fun. So much so that I did it three more times. With each repetition, my rhythm improved, my technique began to return, and at times I even felt quite competent. I didn't exactly break any speed records, nor did I get the workout of my life, but I was out skiing.

Hopefully I now have the flailing behind me.

If you don’t like the weather in Duluth…

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Wait five minutes.  That’s the saying, and today it is so true!

Getting ready for my morning run, our outdoor thermometer said 30 degrees.  The Weather Channel on my iPad said 39 degrees.  Turns out both were right.  Stepping outside the door, seeing the frost on the garden and feeling the air, I knew our thermometer was accurate.  I headed up 7 Bridges Road and continued on toward Hawk Ridge running through the morning’s chill, challenged by the hill work.  Suddenly it was SO WARM!  It was as if I’d crossed a magic line and the heat was on full blast.  Off came the hat and gloves, and I wished I for lighter layers of clothing.  I had reached the critical elevation where I was out of the lake’s reach and its morning fog.  Sun blanketed my path and I knew I was in the zone measured by the Weather Channel – it was at least 10 degrees warmer than down below.  Not long after, while cruising down Glenwood Street I re-encountered lake effect air.  Back on went the hat and gloves.

I continued on down to the lake, through Brighton Beach and up the North Shore before returning home.  As I ran, the sun burned through the fog and began to warm the air even down by the lake.  Once again I felt overdressed.  But it was a welcome warmth and I enjoyed the glorious morning that resulted.

By early afternoon when we left for Thanksgiving dinner, it was positively balmy out!  The temperature had risen to over 50 degrees.  It seemed so odd to think that it was so warm on Thanksgiving when by all rights we could have snow.  (Oh, if only!  We skiers are getting concerned…)  But we didn’t give Duluth her due.  By the time we returned home, big fat flakes were falling and by now it’s even accumulating on the ground. It’s a winter wonderland out there.

What a difference a few hours makes.  Or five minutes.