Change Is Like Quarters And Dimes

It's been a little over a year now since C and I moved north.  As I look back, I can see that some of my personal behaviors have changed - a number of them significantly so.  Still, there are parts of life that have remained the same, which is a surprising fact on its own.  This whole experience has seemed a little like being born over again and having to figure things out from scratch.

In a good way.

Non-shockers:

• I drive less... much less, but I haven't actually found that I walk more.  I just... don't... go... anywhere.
• I've stopped shaving my legs so frequently.  When it's -20* and God has given you natural long underwear, you don't go around just lopping it off in the name of being en vogue.  We are so past vogue.  

We're so far past it that we're behind it again.

• I drink (if it's possible) more coffee than before, but I don't pay $4.25 for it.  I fill up at the grocery store, right next to the Chester Fried Chicken case, for like, one whole dollar.
• I have no idea if skinny jeans and Ray Bans are still trendy.  Are they?  Or can we finally move on to suspenders and Muck boots?
• I cook more.  That is, unless it's summer, in which case I don't cook at all, which is glorious.
• I am less driven into madness by Wal-Mart (less is still some, mind you).  One-stop shopping is kind of a big deal up here, even for newbies.
• I can still buy local eggs.
• I don't miss pop radio.   Would you?
• I am still learning the difference between Sunday Lunch and Sunday Dinner... or is it Supper?

Shockers:

• I've started wearing eye shadow.  This is a little ironic, considering 1) I work in my basement and mostly go out only to get the mail, and 2) I'll have to drive an hour and a half to buy more when I run out.  

Or, more likely, i'll just quit wearing eye shadow.

• I don't lock my door.  I used to do that, back when there was a reason to lock your door... or someone to lock outside of it.  Now, I mostly want to lock people in.  Visitor-people.  This could be you.
• Is that a squirrel in the freezer?  Oh, yes - yes it is.  

Yes. 

It.

Is.

• I have a bird feeder.  It's the middle of nowhere, in 0* weather, and I can't get any birds to eat at my bird feeder.  What are they thinking?
• Instead of getting a real hair cut, this morning I just had C snip off "the mullet part" before I got in the shower.
• I have cable [and a hipster somewhere falls down dead every time I turn it on].
• I can purchase marrow bones, chicken livers and Snow Cap lard at the same place I buy my shoes.
• I find myself racing out of the house, at 11PM, in only my pajamas, to catch a glimpse of the Northern Lights.

I know what you're wondering and no, I haven't seen them.  

Cold for nothing.

• I have driven a front-end loader, albeit only for a minute or two, and I was mostly just holding the brake.  They can't take that away from me.
• My friends enter raffles for MACHINE GUNS.  You know who you are.  

I still struggle to be on time for anything, and I continue to impress hosts of people with my uncanny ability to strangle the life out of stories, but of all the things that have changed or stayed the same over this year, I'm most grateful for my friends.  

The good.  The bad.  The ugly.  Especially the ugly; nothing makes you feel good like an ugly friend.

Just kidding.  You got me.

It's the special friends that make you feel good.

  

Ooh - Is That A Reindeer?!

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas… there’s freezing rain coming down, a sheer layer of ice on the driveway, and moderately-large forest animals walking around on our roads. 

The moose are out, and when I say “out”, I mean absolutely everywhere.   

Do you ever have those late night drives when you know that you're going to need a serious jolt to stay alert?  You know, when twilight has faded and your heavy eyelids begin to droop?  When the car feels warm and cozy, and somehow your otherwise uncomfortable driver’s seat has miraculously converted into a plush recliner with proper lumbar support?  When you cover 10 miles of sharp S-turns only to notice that you can’t recall driving through them, much less how you avoided crashing through the side rail and careening off of a cliff into the river?  Well, I’ve got just the thing to wake you up, and it’s totally natural – no pills, no super high-test coffee, no drugs - just pure, old-fashioned, run-of-the-mill adrenaline. 

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You see, moose don’t really appear as concrete objects when they go strolling across the pavement at 8 o’clock on a moonless night.   They seem to be more the absence of something, like a large dark hole in the fabric of the world.  On rare occasions, you might be fortunate enough to glimpse your reflected headlights in a pair of big eyes, or spot a patch of lighter-colored fur on the back of a 6-foot calf, but the vast majority of sightings begin as a strange and blurry sci-fi wormhole hovering in the distance.  It goes like this: you think you might see something in the hazy blob ahead and take a second to squint and clear up the image, then - WHAM - it’s a moose.  The animal is unmistakable, and it's not because squinting enables you to see it more clearly (though it does seem to help when I forget my glasses at home), but is rather because in the three seconds it’s taken you to crane your neck forward like a kid in Driver’s Ed and scrunch up your face, you’ve traveled 200 feet and you’re suddenly a car’s length from what you now really wish was actually a hallucinogenic portal to 2nd century Egypt.  And you’re adrenal glands are buzzing like sugar-laden elves on December 24^th, because past experience tells you that these giant beasts don’t do the old "stare-and-run" act like other animals.  Wiser animals.

Instead, they stare, and then they chew on a little of what they’ve been keeping in their 4^th stomach.  And then they stare some more.  

No movement, whatsoever. That is, until you’ve sufficiently freaked out and are [probably] sideways in a ditch.

There is nothing going on in there.  Look at those eyes.

I don’t know if this news is coming across as fun and intriguing, or if it’s making you too nervous to ever leave your house in southern California.  Heck, those of you close enough might not even want to come visit after what you’ve read, but trust me - should conditions stay as they currently are – when you do come see us, you won’t need a third double espresso to stay awake, nor will you need to dump water on your face and roll the windows down.  The anticipation of a close encounter is almost as good as the jolt of energy you get after you slam on the brakes for a family of half-ton pedestrians. 

It’s really better than it sounds.  We’ll see you soon, I’m sure of it.

Hope Smells Like Smoked Meat

There’s hope for us, and we found it in an old bank.

C and I drive about an hour for church on Sundays, to another small town on another lake after another car ride littered with enough moose, deer, bear and small animals to both raise your blood pressure to an unhealthy level and draw out a very real fear of an automobile-accident related death.  The drive is usually followed by either attending church or going grocery shopping.  Fear of death, followed by God or food.  Huh.

Well, yesterday after said drive and said church service, we stuck around to have lunch with the church pastor.  He chose the restaurant, and I can tell you now, in hindsight, that it was undeniably the right choice.  You know the quote from Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken that says it was the decision of taking the less trodden path “that made all the difference”?  Well, we followed a new friend down an unknown trail, and when our path ended, there was pork.  Frost is a genius.

Meet Bacon, Ham Steak and Brisket.  Cute now, but extra yummy later.

They have a meat smoker at this particular establishment, and the juicy brisket to prove it.  To me, pig products are a crucial component of successful dining, so to understand my excitement, just imagine me rolling around on the hardwood restaurant floor, kicking my legs in the air and laughing hysterically, with dark barbeque sauce dripping from the corner of my mouth.   Or if you want to sleep tonight, go ahead and skip that.

I, of course, refrained from the above actions yesterday, due to the fact that we were in the company of someone who didn’t really know us yet, and well… I was wearing a skirt.  I’m not about to embarrass myself by giving the other diners a peek at my panties – I've got more class than that.

Here are some other signs that we found a promising restaurant:

• Liberal use of fresh jalapenos and a nice pico de gallo
• Cracked pepper on freshly fried kettle chips
• A Cuban sandwich, which is startling, because Dorothy, we're not in Miami anymore
• I can’t recall any that item on the menu had a moose theme
• Coleslaw served in the pulled pork sandwich, which means that someone did their homework 

In a world of meatloaf (albeit, good meatloaf) and baked chicken breasts, eating yesterday’s meal left me feeling like I was watching a new morning sun rise over the horizon.  In a land of snow and ice, it compares to catching a glimpse of the North Pole workshop.  In a lifeboat, it would be a white sand beach.  In our case, it’s just a little thing called hope, wrapped in prosciutto and drizzled with honey. 

Down the hatch, Hope.

November, You're O.K

 Here's why:

It may be gorgeous, but I'm not ready.

• From where I am sitting right now, I cannot see a puff of snow anywhere on the ground.  And I can see a lot of ground from here, so this is a proof-positive miracle from heaven.  Thank you.
• Tomorrow morning in our county, there will be dozens of hunters’ breakfasts hosted by supermarkets, camps, outdoor outfitters, and snowmobile clubs.  Do you think that they would let me attend?  I’d be the girl wearing a kitten t-shirt under her camo fleece and masking a [not-so] slight aversion to guns by smiling awkwardly and making pistol gestures with my hands.  Can’t you hear my high-pitched shots?  Peuw… peuw… peuw-peuw!  Blow those guns out, hot shot!!  I’d fit right in.
• November is the month of my sister’s second-favorite candy holiday, The Day After Halloween, as well as Thanksgiving (I am waiting for stuffing like a turkey for a pardon), my niece’s fifth birthday, and an upcoming trip-to-die-for to the equator with my sister and mom.  I’m on the verge of making a paper chain to help me count down the days before the madness begins. 

On top of being adorable, my niece has killer moves.

• Black Friday.  My joy in Black Friday has nothing at all to do with joining the masses as they assault salespeople and destroy retail fixtures across the land.  This is the first year in a little while that I won’t be the smiling elf on the other side of that register counter, and unless you have ever been that elf, you have no idea how excited I am for this day.  I might stay home.  I might go out.  I might shop online.  I might hole up at a cabin in the woods and not cross the threshold for anything except some glazed doughnuts and a walk in the woods.   And I will not wear a sparkly headband with antlers.
• My first fall has come and winter is almost upon us, and I still do not own a camouflaged fleece.   In fact, I don’t own anything in camo, except some incredibly thick Smartwool socks I bought a couple years back.  You were right to doubt me in the second paragraph – I totally lied when I wrote that description.  Well, not totally.  I do have a kitten t-shirt (two, actually), and I love pistol hands. 

Peuw… peuw.  

Flash Cards Would Have Helped

Here's some northern vocabulary for you to touch up on before you plan your next visit.  Along with a map, some freeze dried game meat and an emergency blanket, C and I are thinking of including this sheet in a little "welcome to the woods" travel kit.  What do you think?

Feller Buncher: No, this doesn’t pile your favorite bachelors into a nice heap.  It is that oil-burning piece of heavy machinery you might remember from Fern Gulley (I believe it breathed fire, had rather sinister eyes, and was called Hexxus), and is currently used to harvest trees in the logging industry.

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A gift idea for that little forester in the family. 

Coppah Wiyah: This is used by electricians and north country dentists.  As in, you wrap that coppah wiyah ‘round your tooth and ‘round a big rock, then drop that rock off a second story window.  Bangah!  

Sled: Let that image of a flexible flyer slide right off the edge of the perfect snow hill of your memory.  For me, the term now conjures up the smell of a two-stroke engine, giant helmets and a duct-taped seat.  I’d like to go back to my childhood, please. 

Flatlander: In a nutshell, this applies to you, me, and everyone except the speaker, even if they’re secretly not from around heya' themselves.  Also, this is generally used as a derogatory term, but I'm starting to embrace it.  There may or may not be Flatlander bike jerseys in the works. 

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Beaverish: I assume this was originally used by a couple of old trappers to describe a water body frequented by beavers, but C and I use this term to refer to any shifty-looking liquid.  I think that an Arnold Palmer on ice looks mighty beaverish, but that’s just me.  C seems to like the beverage just fine.  

(By the way, how wonderfully cute is Arnold Palmer??)

Downrivah:  If you aren't headed to Canada, you're going this way.

When you come up for a visit, it will help if you study these terms before you leave home.  Also, practice employing them in daily conversation.  

For example: I've had enough of the beaverish coffee up heya' - it's rotted my teeth so bad that I'm running out of coppah wiyah.

Or: I'm going to need to take the sled out to have a look at that broken down feller buncher on the trail.  

Or, C's favorite: M, there's a sled for sale downrivah, and it's just your size...

Practice makes perfect, so get cracking.  There's plenty more where this came from.


**UPDATE**

C just informed me that proper coppah wiyah use is as following:

1. Climb tree.
2. Tie coppah wiyah to tooth.
3. Tie coppah wiyah to tree.
4. Jump.

Also, this is apparently called "jumping a tooth".  I can't imagine why.