WALKIN', WRITIN', WIT & WHIMSY

Grrrr to the grumpy groundhog who has a day named after him. We Midwesterners collectively watched and waited with bated breath to get the scoop on Phil’s prognostication about our weather for the next six weeks. Well, Phil dashed our expectations, but really and truly – did he disappoint? Nah. We had the good sense to suspect he would say we had six more weeks of wintry weather. Even Woody, our local woodchuck out of the Howell Nature Center, had an identical prediction. I guess we Michiganders will just suck it up and carry on. I’ll mosey downstairs to hop on the exercise bike, since it will be a long time before I lace up the old walking shoes, especially after the freezing rain left its mark. My driveway was treacherous when I took out the garbage and ran the car earlier today. Not the glaze ice, but this bumpy, lumpy ice that looked like a crystal washboard up and down the sidewalk and driveway and along the front of the garage. The car and I aren’t going on an excursion any time soon, of that I can be sure.

Okay, it’s finally February, so how do we zip through the shortest month of the year rather than trudging like zombies through ever-present snow and slush, all the while shivering in our boots? Well for starters, the Groundhog’s prediction tomorrow might just put a spring in our step. Exercise will do it for you as well. The month of February also marks the 50th annual American Heart Month, which is more than candy and flowers exchanged at Valentine’s Day, but a time to take stock of your diet, overall health and exercise routines – anything that will help to keep your ticker in shape. Twenty-eight years ago today we buried my grandmother who was felled by a massive heart attack three days earlier. Her eight siblings predeceased her, all due to various heart ailments. My mother had a heart arrhythmia. Me – knock on wood – I am as healthy as a horse. I truly do miss my daily walks though, especially my trips to Council Point Park. The first year I began my walking regimen, we had that wonderful Winter with one or two snowfalls, perhaps the occasional dusting of snow and very mild weather. But that season was a fluke, much like this Winter of 2013-2014. In an effort to keep myself in good shape and ready to walk come Spring, I started the exercise bike regimen, yet I have struggled to integrate the bike ride into my morning routine. Throughout the many weeks when I walked, the alarm went off and I bounced out of bed, ready to take on the day. The tedium of this Winter has made it easier to reach over and shut the alarm off and rely on the snooze alarm multiple times instead. How easy and luxurious it is to snuggle further underneath the warm blankets in my polar fleece PJs, and just forego trekking down to the cold basement to sit on the bicycle in my shorts and tee-shirt and go nowhere. Yup, my get-up-and-go has got up and went as the old saying goes. I have only made it downstairs a handful of times in the past few weeks. Well, the calendar page flipped over today and my attitude has as well. I set the alarm last night and abided by it. I got up, ate breakfast and downstairs I went. Sure, it was uncomfortably cold in the basement, but certainly not as frigid as the past few weeks. Of course, the scenery is rather boring – much clutter in a finished basement with just a small end table lamp illuminating the room while I am pedaling. Luckily, in the dim light I don’t see the furniture that should be dusted, nor the carpeting that needs to be vacuumed. Also on the plus side, I know I won’t have to change those darn fluorescent lights if I burn them the entire time I am downstairs. So lowlights it was while I climbed aboard my exercise bike. It’s a time to reflect, or think about the day’s agenda while listening to the whir of the wheels as they go round and round, but I was also wearing my radio headphones for company. I took a small flashlight to keep peering at the odometer, eager to make my goal of three miles today. I peeked at my mileage, then pedaled some more. I stole another glance when it seemed I must’ve gone at least a mile, only to find it was a mere 5/10s of a mile, so I pedaled faster. Then the furnace came on; a hot blast of air that felt like a heat wave and I stopped pedaling and took a breather. Finally the heat abated, and I began anew. I listened to Warren Pierce interview three guests who weighed in on tomorrow’s best Super Bowl ads, heard the news of the day for the second time and today’s changeable weather forecast. Before I knew it my three miles was a done deal and oh joy, I could now head upstairs and do housework (although the prospect of going back to the warm, cozy bed sounded much nicer). Unlike walking, there were no interesting encounters to be had, but a solitary ride, like a solitary walk, gave me the chance to get grounded and I like my morning “me” time. I agree with the adage that you are your own best company.

Well, it has been an unforgettable January 2014, and a January we’d really like to forget. We were in and out of the Deep Freeze and it has been snowing like there was no tomorrow. We were colder than Anchorage, Alaska on more than one occasion. We broke a couple of records, among them the fact that January 2014 is in the books as the snowiest month on record in Detroit in over a century. We received a whopping 39.1 inches of snow; the former total was 38.4 inches in February 1908. I was just perusing the various local meteorologists’ week-at-a-glance predictions, and each forecast looks ominous, so perhaps February is going to try to best January as to snow accumulation. Why hold the Winter Olympics in Sochi – we could have had ‘em here for goodness sake. If the groundhog says there is six weeks more of Winter to endure, someone might try and shoot that varmint. This is weather for polar bears! In the meantime, best slog out to the store to get bread and milk and some good reading material, then hunker down for some R&R and well-deserved “me” time.

The cold is getting old and now the snow is on the way once more– a triple whammy of snow events over the next week will sock it to us again. Snow way! Of course we feel this Winter of 2013-2014 is relentless with no redeeming value. Well, if you are a glass-half-full person and an outdoors type, there are a couple of items to be grateful for: ice fishermen can set up their shanty and go ice fishing anywhere in Michigan without fear of falling through the ice. Come Spring, boaters will find the water level has increased on most Michigan waterways when it is time to launch the boat. Although the positive aspects of our Winter are few and far between, how about singing the praises of car heaters and heated car seats? I received an e-mail from a friend last week that showcased the early automobiles as their drivers tooled around in the snow. The cars’ lack of the amenities we just take for granted in our modern-day cars was quite obvious. A car heater would have been a waste of time, since those first horseless carriages were not enclosed and if they had a roof and a windshield, often there were no side windows or doors. Pretty hard to imagine. The e-mail contained several sepia-toned and black-and-white pictures, which were fun to look it and I picked this one from the bunch; I wonder what you do on a real windy day? Whoa – hold onto your hats ladies. My first car was a VW Super Beetle, circa 1973. It took forever to warm up and by the time I finally got to my destination, a little warmth was finally hitting the driver’s side. Heated car seats were unfathomable back in those days. While I now have heated car seats, I never use them. I’ve not had my car out in two weeks and while running it in the garage, I sure don’t spend enough time in the car to warrant flipping on the switch to heat up the seat. Because I am a Winter wuss, I don’t spend alot of time traversing the roads during snowy and icy days. So, see I found a positive for you in this wicked Winter of 2013-2014 … that wasn’t so bad now was it?

Once again it took longer to suit up in preparation for the trip outside than the actual venture. As I stepped out the door this morning that cold air hit me like a ton of bricks. Even though I had just removed my radio headphones where I was tuned into the latest weather update, I still glanced over at my neighbor Marge’s outside thermometer out of force of habit. I always check it out to see if that device jibes with what the weather folk are saying. It looked right to me. The arrow pointed to -10 degrees and I knew the wind chill factor was -27 degrees. I never noticed how many increments were on the left side of the round face of that thermometer before; in fact, they go all the way to -60 degrees. I hope I am never around to see the needle reach that -60 degree point, for the needle will likely go “boing” as will I. The -10 temp and the double-digit negative wind chill froze my own digits, and despite layering up in double gloves, my fingers were soon frigid and rigid. I must have incurred some frostbite damage at some point in time since my right-hand ring finger and pinky always freeze up and throb within minutes of going out in sub-zero temperatures. Most likely it happened while waiting for the bus.

First, I headed to the garage where the car started right up thank goodness. While waiting for the noxious fumes to clear I looked around out front. Across the street the neighbor’s garden flag with its summery motif was whipping about in the wind, and their over-sized wind chimes clink-clanked with great gusto, as if to sneer at Mother Nature’s frosty cold temps. I glanced at the brilliant sky where the sun was creating some interesting shadow dancing on the stark white snow from a neighboring chimney’s smoky plumes. I heard the warbler making his melodic sounds from a treetop close by, but when I tipped my head to look for him, he was nowhere to be found. Although, I tried to respond in kind to these sweet tweets, I found my ChapStick-coated lips were much too frozen, thus my whistler was out of commission. I didn’t want him to stop singing and fly away, so I sang him a few lines from Pete Seeger’s “Turn, Turn, Turn” to serenade him back. The song was fresh in my mind from the medley of tunes I’d heard several times earlier today in conjunction with the report of the legendary folk singer’s death.

Next, I walked the perimeter of the house, then headed out to the backyard. Like a king looking upon his fiefdom, I inspected my small yard, thinking wryly “Where Have All The Flowers Gone?” Well, they sure are not around here right now. The song has a different meaning entirely, of course, but the title sure is true anyway. As I shivered and surveyed the backyard, I took stock of the garden which is nothing more than a barren wasteland in mid-Winter. It is quite a miracle if you think about it, that the flowers and bushes that are dormant now, in four or five months’ time will be flourishing … at least I hope they will. I am so glad I did not replace my three Butterfly Bushes that I lost during the Winter of 2012-2013. I was so dismayed to go out in the Spring and see they were all dead, when they had been thriving throughout the Fall of 2012 and otherwise healthy when I put the garden to bed. They were a beautiful centerpiece of the yard and a virtual butterfly magnet. I missed them, but decided to wait a year or so in case there was disease of some type in the soil. Planters placed in the empty holes where they had graced the yard, simply didn’t do anything but just sit there. My Nelly Moser clematis is looking not-so-nice and rather bedraggled now that heavy snow has pulled it partially off its trellis. I gently poked my broom over the top of the Clematis to brush off some of the snow which made it sag down even further … a plant seemingly weary with sagging shoulders or a little attitude perhaps? My Knock Out Roses, which line the chain-link fence, are all brown and a little brittle looking. I hope this brutal Winter does not knock them down and they are out for the count. All I can see is the tip-tops of my Twist-and-Shout hydrangea bushes, otherwise they are buried under all the snow. The coneflowers and daisies are mere stalks right now, poking up amidst the snow drifts. The decorative log cabin birdhouse that my neighbor Jim built for me nearly twenty years ago is covered in a large black contractor bag to protect it from the elements. The bag was blowing in the blustery wind, its red tie straps flapping every which way. Yes, the days are getting longer, but it will be many months before the garden is restored to its former glory.

I thought of my friend John Elliott today … he only pops on his e-mail occasionally, but I sent him this picture and suggested he get cracking on his 2014 gardens, no matter how hard it is to trek out to the greenhouse these days. You see John lives in Upstate New York, and has a greenhouse on his large piece of property. By now, he has poured over dozens of new seed and plant catalogs, and probably dog-eared more than a few pages, but truth be told, the catalogs only serve to get him through the long Winter days and dream about his beautiful gardens. Actually, John will only use the seeds gleaned from his own plants, especially his several gardens of prized Foxglove. He gathered the seeds when he put the gardens to bed, carefully sorting them by color and storing them until early February when he will start sowing those seeds into many tiny containers in his greenhouse. From there he lovingly tends to his seedlings every day, getting those plants off to a great start under his watchful eye until it is officially planting time. Gardening is John’s passion in the Spring through Fall. In the Winter months, he is an expert woodworker, crafting cradles for his many great-grandchildren and fashioning intricate wood scrollwork. He is also an accomplished painter. I’ve seen pictures of all his creations – they are exquisite and his massive gardens are simply beautiful. Did I mention John is 88?

I’ve never had much luck starting seeds – perhaps I’ve not had the patience, or the time, or I am not the nurturing person that John is. I like the perennial Forget-me-nots , so a few years ago I scattered about five packets of seeds here and there in my garden beds to add a few splashes of color to the yard in the early Spring. To my surprise, most of the seeds took and the flowers flourished. They complemented the lilacs, also early bloomers, but then after a few years, the plants grew scraggly, and despite cutting them back, they looked raggedy looking so I yanked them out. Around the same time of sowing the Forget-me-nots, I bought five packets of Russian Mammoth Sunflower seeds, eager to try my hand at growing tall sunflowers for the garden and the goldfinches that frequent the yard. Out of five packets of seeds, I got one sunflower that grew very tall, but because its heavy head was laden with seeds, it toppled over and the squirrels had a field day and a feast with its bounty of striped seeds, while the goldfinches lined up along the fence in dismay and disgust at the squirrels’ boorish behavior.

Well, it will be many more months until it is “a time to plant, a time to reap” … we will just muddle along and make the best of life in the meantime.

Well, brrrr and grrrr. I was outside on this frosty morn running the car and checking around the house and was miffed to find the drain spout plugged up with ice again. I’ll sit out the week before taking further action this time. While waiting on the car fumes to dissipate, I was marveling at the ATV snow plow driver maneuvering around in the driveway at the rental home across the street. He pushed the last few days’ worth of snow out of the long, wide driveway and back patio in record time, though he had to keep taking the snow and dropping it along in the street all the way to the corner.

The only schools Downriver that closed today were in Southgate. I saw some kids walking to school along Fort Street while I was standing by the garage. These schoolboys were walking along with no boots, no hat, hands shoved into pockets and pants dragging in the snow. Okay, they were “manly” but I’ll bet they were darn cold. It is incredulous to me how often the schools have closed so far this Winter. At the risk of sounding like one of those old fuddy duddies who says “when I was a kid, we never missed a day of school due to bad weather” … but we didn’t, so I am going to say it anyway. I attended public school through the 60s and early 70s, and unless my memory is tarnished on this fact, we never missed school for wintry weather. Were we a hardier lot back then? In middle school in the 60s, we had a dress code for girls with no pants except one day a year when we were permitted to wear slacks for “Pants Day”. Of course, that didn’t stop us from layering warm wool pants under our skirts or dresses for the long walk to school, but they had to be removed once we entered the school building and stuffed into our locker. In high school, pants were finally permitted any day you wished to wear them.

Now, we are nearing the halfway point between Winter and Spring which will occur on Groundhog Day. Yesterday “The Old Farmer’s Almanac” was crowing about their accuracy in their prediction of a snowy, brutally cold Winter based on their scientific observations (including cute woolly bear caterpillars). They should tout their accuracy because they have been right so far, in our neck of the woods anyway. For the second half of the Winter of 2013-2014 they predict the extra-frigid temps will disappear in mid-February and will moderate the balance of the Winter. They also are sticking their neck out to say that April and May will be warm and rainy and the Summer will be dry and hot. So, I wonder how accurate for those particular months they will be and if Punxsutawney Phil will concur re: Spring?

Yesterday, after I got inside the house, all cozy in my warm sweats, while wrapping my cold fingers around my mug of coffee, I could not help but feel a tad remorseful for rebuffing my furry friend with his snow-covered snout. He only wanted a pittance really, a peanut, or two … or three, of which I had plenty, plus two big canisters downstairs as well. I didn’t hear his stomach growl of course, and, yes, he has fur, but it is not as if he has a matching muffler and mitts and a cozy cap keeping him toasty. He was out in the elements for goodness sake. Then, while I was in my bedroom getting dressed to trudge out this morning, as I wearily piled on layer after layer, I heard the faint cheep, cheep, cheep. The sparrows must be lined up on the back windowsill. They always seek shelter there in the Summer when there is a torrential rain storm or in the Winter when it is especially cold or snowing hard. The window ledge is under the large patio overhang giving them 100% protection from the inclement weather. They huddle together along the ledge, their little feet clinging to the cement, not moving a muscle, but for their chirping. I’ve kept that image of the lonely bird in the big tree and its song that cheered me up the other morning in the back of my mind. Between that bird, and hearing these sparrows’ plaintive tweets, I decided I must take some food and feed these poor hungry critters – but not in my yard. Whenever I go out of the house, no matter the season, the birds are lined up along the fence … waiting, hoping for that wee morsel of food that might get tossed their way. They are probably three or four generations later than the birds I was tending to in my yard before the first rats showed up in ’08. Since I was adamant about not throwing any food out in the backyard since the rat pack is back, I decided to take the food “to go”. I was going outside anyway, so I hurriedly broke up some of my own bread slices and took some of Buddy’s treats, several bottles of recently expired canary treat seeds and treat sticks. I put everything in a bag and decided to take a quick sprint over to Memorial Park. Once there, I brushed aside some snow with my foot and spread the offerings on the cement near the memorial. I even threw in a few peanuts for good measure for a wayward jay or perhaps a squirrel or two. Then, I walked a quick lap around Memorial Park observing from afar. As I suspected, some birds were watching my actions, since a few feathered friends flew over and alighted on the cold concrete to start enjoying the meager treats laid out for them. I even heard a “lookout bird” calling out to the others … a song sweeter than any you will ever hear at tonight’s Grammy Awards. It did my heart good and warmed me all over to share with these little guys. I wish they were birds from the ‘hood, but I like to think that perhaps they followed me over there.

It was a bright and calm morning. I was lost in thought. He caught me unawares as I looked up and saw him there. It was a stare down. We didn’t take our eyes off one another lest the other should make a false move. It was, in fact, like a scene out of the Wild Wild West. Finally, with an uninterrupted steely gaze, unconsciously my left hand slid slowly to unsnap the deep cargo pocket in my coat, my index finger and thumb primed to dip into the Ziploc bag of peanuts that still languished inside … but I stopped myself before I could go there.

* * *

I went outside mid-morning. The balmy air felt like a day at the beach after the frigid temps we’ve endured this week. The heavy down parka was unnecessary so I threw on a lightweight coat that I’ve not worn in many weeks. The sky was a brilliant blue with the sun shining brightly and bisected by twin contrails from recent airplanes that were long gone into the atmosphere but their ruffly white trails lingered on. After squinting at the sun and enjoying its rays on my upturned face, I opened the gate and went around to the backyard for my usual tour, in advance of my handyman Bill’s arrival to work his magic on the ice-packed drain spout.

The backyard sure was pretty with its new layer of freshly fallen snow and the warmer temps made me linger longer than usual. I used my boot to kick aside some of the snow blocking the exit of each of the backyard drain spouts, then I walked around the yard and checked the tracks in the snow to see what visitors had arrived there before me. Ugh. No, make that double ugh. Fresh rat tracks . Unmistakable evidence – multiple star-shaped footprints and narrow, but deep, ruts where their heavy tail drags behind them. Well, whatever good feeling I had about the morning quickly disappeared with this discovery. I spun around in disgust and stalked out of the backyard, only to see more tracks in the snow running parallel to the side of the house and near the outside faucet. Well great … just great. Sure, I know those varmints are out there but must they come up so close to the house and intrude on me like this? I wanted to scream.

It was then that I saw him in my peripheral vision. A chubby squirrel. He evidently saw me first as he sidled over to the edge of my neighbor Marge’s backyard, then clambered up the fence to greet me. Despite his heavy body, he sashayed along the top of the fence with all the skill of an acrobat, picking up speed as he got closer. He stopped abruptly; then he stared at me long and hard. He looked miserable with snow clinging to tufts of fur around his face and ears. But I, on the heels of the rat track discovery, was not immediately full of the warm fuzzies like usual when faced with that “please feed me, I’m hungry” look. At that particular moment, I thought of him as a step away from the rodent family that plagued my yard … and my thoughts. He swished his tail back and forth, in an extra effort to get my attention and then chattered at me. I do not “speak squirrel” but I suppose he smelled the peanuts that were tucked inside my pocket from my last trek to Council Point Park. Maybe he saw the plastic bag which probably peeked through the tear in that pocket. I shook my head vehemently and said “no, I won’t feed you – I don’t want you leaving nuts or shells lying about as a further invitation for the rats to visit … no, no, no” … without further ado, I closed the gate and walked to the front yard. He, who was clearly not going to take “no” for an answer, quickly followed me. This little imp reminded me of my peanut pal at the Park, but I did not soften my stance and acquiesce to him. I opened the garage door and felt a presence behind me. Yes, there he was again, and now I had to be careful he did not slip into the garage while I was running the car and disappear in there. But, he sat there just “good as gold” and very obediently, first while I ran the car, and then as I was sweeping out a little pile of snow that had drifted inside, despite my doorstops positioned at either side of the garage. He sat up on his haunches and begged. My heart began to melt as he wore me down, but just then Bill arrived, so I was spared any more guilt over not doling out treats. I closed the garage door and met Bill at the drain spout . He brought his usual tools for the ice-dam surgery: a chisel, an ice pick, a mallet and a blow torch. Except for the blow torch, he might have been Yukon Cornelius, out in the snow-encrusted tundra. Bill clanged and banged on the drain spout with a clatter that would wake the dead, and I thought that inside the house, Buddy probably woke up with a start and wondered what the heck I was doing to rudely disturb his slumber. The ice didn’t drop down right away. Still more banging. Then Bill removed the drain spout and took the pieces apart then banged on them some more. He chipped away at the ice with his ice pick and finally he shook the pipe and voila, a long piece of ice that resembled a half-popsicle without the food coloring emerged with a thunk. The surgery was a success, and the pieces were re-assembled and all is good to go until gusty winds blow more debris inside. Bill and I commiserated about the Winter and we parted. As I walked up the side of the house, once again my little friend crossed my path ready for another meeting of the minds. I quickly shook my head “no” … and we both beat a hasty path to our respective nests.

Coffee is my go-to beverage in rain or shine or when it is hot or cold outside. After giving up flavored coffee creamer last year for Lent, I do confess to having a once-a-week coffee indulgence of one cup of Hills Brothers Cappuccino. I save this treat for Sunday afternoons when I can relax and sip and savor each frothy mouthful. My favorite flavor is English Toffee, and while enjoying its exquisite taste and foamy bubbles, in my mind I am quickly transported to an outdoor café, nursing my steaming brew and watching the world go by on a picture-perfect day. The moment for me is always over too quickly. I’ve always enjoyed a good cup of joe and my love of coffee began when I was a little girl and my mom would dribble a couple of teaspoons of her coffee into my glass of milk – “beige coffee-milk” she would call it. Hey, it made me feel like a big girl, with my own grown-up drink. My father was a tea drinker and didn’t like coffee at all, and in later years my mom suffered horribly with heartburn so reluctantly her drink of choice became tea with alot of cream in it. I, however, never acquired a taste for tea – too weak for me and if you drink it white, I find it very blah and I really don’t like the smell of tea either. Every so many years I’ll see or hear a story about the benefits of green tea and once again I’ll buy a box and barely get through two or three packets then abandon the green tea project. My apologies for being a tea basher and disparaging that nice cuppa that all you tea drinkers out there so enjoy. When I worked in the Buhl Building, the downtown workers were elated when Starbucks moved into the ground floor of our building. Every morning when I got off the bus at the Buhl Building, I’d make a beeline to get my Grande, filled to the brim with one of their brews of the day – the darker and earthier roast, all the better. Never mind that I could get a cup of coffee from upstairs at the Firm for free, because it just paled in comparison and often tasted like a handful of coffee beans ran through the pot of water. Starbucks’ freshly brewed coffees were guaranteed to get you revved up and humming along until at least mid-afternoon. I never caught the fever for Starbucks’ popular signature beverages like the lattes, mochas, nor even their caramel macchiatos which my co-workers streamed downstairs mid-afternoon and queued up to buy on a daily basis. I found them way too pricey for me, and almost sickening sweet, even though I now look forward to my weekly cappuccino treat. The frothy taste reminds me of the same sensation of sweet sips of hot chocolate … the real stuff, made from scratch with cocoa powder and hot milk. It seems to me when I was growing up, Winter playtime always ended up with a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Post-play session, while I was casting off all my snow-tinged or wet outerwear, a saucepan was warming up milk on the stove. While my mom kept one eye on the bubbling milk, she was doling out an assortment of cookies to nibble on with that beverage, since I usually had built up an appetite while playing outside. As soon as I emerged in PJs or inside clothes, the saucepan was whisked off the stove and Nestle’s Quik stirred in. We’d each have a cup of hot chocolate and share the plate of cookies. The bag of mini marshmallows was handy, with marshmallows spilling out of the bag and rolling onto the tablecloth. I always insisted on layering a couple of dozen mini marshmallows on top of the chocolaty bubbles to make a sweet pillow. When I blew on my drink to cool it, the marshmallows would sway back and forth in the cup, creating giggles on my end, plus a sinkhole up top to dunk the cookies in, then watch them quickly dissolve and disappear into the bottom of the cup. I guess this is just another Throwback Thursday memory from the memory bank, though I wonder … didn’t they have Carnation or Swiss Miss in the large containers to just scoop out the powder to make hot chocolate back in the late 50s and early 60s? I know, after I got older, we never made hot chocolate from scratch, but merely spooned it out of the tin and added some boiling water from the kettle. Even the marshmallows were mixed right in the powder. My friend Carol makes her own marshmallows. I must be lazy as I’d never make any of these treats from scratch … it’s a good thing I never had kids.

… Baby it’s cold outside!

It seems rather counter-productive to spend fifteen minutes doing some serious layering up for a five-minute foray outside, only to reverse that procedure once again in relatively short order. Of course, sometimes the unbundling process goes much more quickly if that blasted heat is going when you return indoors, or you drank too much coffee before heading outside. For me, it is not only getting ready to go out in these frosty temps, but the maneuvering around in bulky clothes and boots on the cellar way landing, a three-by-four foot area which space is precariously close to the stairs going to the basement. I keep my boots in a tote box on the landing so that when I come inside I can do some fancy footwork and step directly into the box and remove my boots while doing a pretty good balancing act. This way I avoid getting snow anywhere near the door where I will stack the rolled-up rag rugs to block the draft from outside. But that procedure is lengthy and adds another five or so minutes to the routine. Once outside I did my usual Winter Deep Freeze chores and discovered one of the drain spouts was blocked with solid ice. We replaced all the drain spouts last Summer after the decades-old gutters were starting to show their age and multiple ice dams in the past few years had caused their seams to open. The large trees in the house behind me have not been maintained in years and the many gusty days cause small branches to go airborne and land in the gutters, even after the last Fall cleaning. To thwart the ice dams which occurred the past few years, metal mesh was inserted at the top of all the drain spouts – well evidently that didn’t work. Just as I heaved a huge sigh, then grumbled aloud about whether to take further action or hope for a thaw (fat chance of that happening over the next week or so), a tiny bird sitting way up in the plum tree started warbling, albeit very faint and rather pitiful notes, but a song nonetheless. Perhaps he was in tune with my aggravation and thus seized that moment to help me forget my troubles just as the Winter doldrums threatened to rear their ugly head. I heard that sweet sound and my heart just melted. I wanted to dash into the house and get something to share with him, but surely he would have moved on by the time I went through the rigmarole in the cellar way and returned outside. There was certainly no sun to speak of, so perhaps he was calling for his mate or rounding up his family. I prefer to think he wanted to offer up some cheer on a rather bleak, bitter cold morn. I thought of my little munchkin inside, swaddled under his many blankets, lucky to be warm, safe, spoiled and very loved. I wished I could give this little guy some treats and comfort as well. Once again my thoughts turned to the critters at Council Point Park and I wondered if they stray from the Park regularly to a reliable food source which will sustain them through this cold snap. I recalled my conversation with Todd, the runner who had been going to the Park over twenty years, when he told me about how picturesque the Park would be once Winter arrived. I immediately planned to steal down there on weekends or free workday mornings, bundled up in my warm outerwear and camera in tow, to capture on film a wily red fox meandering through the trees and reeds on the banks of the Ecorse Creek or perhaps the massive gathering of ducks, which, according to Todd, will converge beneath the sewer drain where they live, while seeking shelter from the elements. Those mallards will stay put until some duck whisperer, like me, lures them out with soft words and tidbits of stale bread, and then they come out en masse. Sadly, that trip is destined to be tabled for a very long time. On a happier note, did you notice how the sun is getting up earlier these days? So, yes, we are inching toward Spring ever so slowly, but we are getting there. Keep your fingers crossed the Groundhog does not see his shadow a week from Sunday, guaranteeing us an early Spring, but I wouldn’t bet the farm on it folks.