Minnesota Winter of our Discontent

photo by Paul L Dineen.

I wake up now in the squall of night. Nothing stirs outside but the wind in the bows and the rush of air through barren limbs. Sounds like water rushing in to flood our streets, to pool at our back doors. One could only wish it were water that would offer some hope of draining away in a few days; anything other than this opaque northern night. It’s what makes us Minnesotan; these long winter months in a land that others cringe to see when their plane descends beneath the layer of clouds that hang over us. If they were only nice clouds, puffy like cotton; but no, they are like the dirty banks of snow, sand, and salt that line our streets. They are dirty like the fast food bags and tires and newspapers that are exposed as the snow recedes in April.

But this very trauma that is our winter makes artists of us all. What else do we have to do with our mornings and evenings than to introspect, to read a book or go down to the basement with guitar or paints? Who would want to wile aways the hours at the park or beach in a forsaken land; unless you are one of those people who skis, sleds, or skates - but those are the few of us lucky enough to have sustained a head injury during our youth, sliding into a tree trunk or having your skates sweep out from under you to crack your skull against the ice. Nobody of healthy mind would go out there. But we call it home. Minnesota nice. The land of 10,000 lakes filled with Walleye; fitting that our state fish is milky-eyed and can only see the dim depths of the deepest lake holes. Fitting that our Loon laughs like a mad hatter in those fleeting, goading days of summer.