Jen crawled up in the loft to sleep at 9pm last night and Oscar was down shortly after. I climbed the ladder to the loft and tried to sleep as well, but it wasn’t happening. Instead I enjoyed a quiet hour to myself to read my book (Barkskins by Annie Proulx) and make a list of things to do before I leave on my trip to Europe next month. Renew contacts prescription. Slaughter pig. Buy new shoes? I slept hard from 10:30-5:30, but then was awake again… finally climbed down to visit the outhouse, and then read some more, and list some more. Dinner ideas this time. Ham and vegetable soup. Curry chicken. Nestled sausages. I check the time on my iPod and see I have a message from my German friend Steph. Two mornings ago I woke to a message from our Italian friend Annalisa, telling me that Steph had her baby, and all was well, a sweet picture attached. This one includes more pictures and a personal message. Only a couple of my close friends have had babies since Oscar was born. Because of the distance, I sometimes forget to include Steph and Annnalisa in my list of close friends, but they really are. Maybe the distance makes it easier to stay close in a way. We can fall out of touch, and then catch back up every few years when we can make it work to be in the same place again. Last summer they both made trips to the U.S. with their husbands. Steph and Martin in July and Annalisa and Mattia over Labor Day weekend. When I booked my ticket to Europe last month it seemed surreal that I would be able to see them again in just a year’s time, and even more surreal that I could plan to travel on my own. Ten days away from my kiddo. “I have black kitty, mama.” I hear a sleepy voice behind the curtain that separates the crib from the couch in our tiny house. “I awake!” The field outside our door is still warming to the new morning sun. I lift my not-so-baby into my arms. “Shh… It’s early. Do you want me to hold you for a bit?” Grab my book from the table and we nestle together onto the couch. A chapter or two later, a little hand is not so sleepy anymore, reaches up to pull my hair, grins behind his nook. I can read maybe one more interrupted chapter as he moves into play, pulling trucks and books from the shelf. “This one, mama.” He pushes his book over mine, and I give in. McElligot’s Pool and My First ABC. “I hungry, Mama." "What are you hungry for?" "Ummm... Candy?” “Well, Mom said she wanted to make pancakes this morning.” I say loudy. Jen groans and climbs down from the loft. Still messy haired and sleepy eyed she is boiling water for coffee, mixing pancake batter, starting on the pile of dishes in the sink. I pull a half packet of breakfast sausage from the fridge freezer. In my search I toss out smushed and icey hamburger buns. I hand an unmarked container to Jen for identification and she says irritably that it’s too early in the morning for her to judge. “Why?” asks our toddler in his most annoying tone and I watch Jen cringe. “Let’s go get the mail,” I suggest to him. Pull hoodies on and smush a hat on his head. Oscar and I build an epic train track while Jen continues on the dishes. The dishrack full, Jen drains the sink of dirty water and takes a break to eat pancakes with us. “Even though it's Sunday, I do have to feed the huskies today.” She says, Applefest as explanation. “I could go either way about the going in for the parade…” I say a little later and she agrees. “I’d paddle bark bay though,” Jen suggests. My godparents own an A-frame cabin on the thin strip of sandy land that separates the bark bay slough from the Lake. This summer I had the opportunity to ask if we might stay there sometime, and we managed a short stay in August. “Cabin?” O asks, remembering our visit in August, or two weekends ago when we took our canoe to the Chippewa Flowage where my parents rented a cabin, I’m not sure. “Yup. But first we need to feed the huskys. Wanna help?” Jen asks and then turns to me sulkily, “But first I need to finish the dishes.” Reluctantly, I offer to finish and Jen smiles for the first time all morning. The joke in our house is that nothing makes me happier than when she does the dishes, but now she tells me it goes both ways. It does feel good to finally have the house sort of in order. The temps dropped dramatically this week and I spent much of yesterday going through clothes that had piled up on chairs, the floor, the car— laundering the dirty, sifting out the too summery, small, or worn. Jen and O get back from the dogyard. We have just enough lunch meat and bread for sandwiches. We load the canoe on Jen’s jeep. The passenger-side door is falling off, so I climb over Jen’s seat to get in. It’s a short paddle to the cabin, but feels good to be on the reflecting water. When we came out in August it was just for a Friday evening through Monday, with a paddle-commute to work Sunday late morning, returning after bar-tending that night, paddling in under the full moon. Although short and interrupted, it was some of the most relaxing time during our busy season. Also the day trip out the week before to check it out and sweep. And this trip now to pick up the pak-and-play we left in case we made it back for another overnight, but now the temps have dropped and our schedule has filled. On our paddle back, we make plans to have a broomball party on the slough this winter. We grab a few groceries at Ehler’s on our way through Corny and then take winding out-of-the-way backroads home while O naps. Jen points out which roads we’ve dogsledded over, or where she wants to run the dogs next. When we stop to pee, me climbing out my window, Jen tells me of her plan to hook a team of huskys up to her jeep, as she bends down looking under the front bumper for a spot to hook up the line. There isn’t a better season for driving the forest roads. The leaves changing color all around. The logging clear cuts lending their own beauty too, opening up a new view for a limited time. Jen points out a spot where she’s taken slash for firewood. I tell her she would enjoy my book—so far about woodsmen and sailors. As we drive I am also grateful for our re-newing forests, to be able to live amid so many trees. At home Oscar plays outside, while Jen puts in another post for the woodshed she is building us, while I make soup.
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AuthorsMagdalen Dale and Kaite Sweval grew up a layer apart, overlapping and paralleling. Belonging to the shores of Lake Superior and yet not quite belonging. Laughing and dreaming on the bench outside the ferry booth as Mag passed the time and Kaite chose her time. Left to explore as soon as they could. And then as adults returned home, perhaps to their surprise. But glad to have each other... ‘cause we know there is strength in the differences between us and comfort where we overlap. Archives
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