Hoar Frost

The shades of gray and white outside the window this morning are in direct juxtaposition with the gold light and brown shadows inside. It’s a beautiful world of opposites, of yin and yang, of light and dark.

“Hoar Frost,” they call it. Freezing fog. The tundra behind the trees across the river has disappeared into a wall of white, the treeline forming a dark, contrasting end to what the eye can see. The mountains beyond have been replaced by nothingness, emptiness. Everything is perfectly still, not a breath of wind. There is no sparkle to the frost covered limbs because there is no sun, only light. The white behind the trees fades gently upward to the light gray of the sky, no break, no seam, no opening, like a blanket thrown over the world, blocking out all sun, but somehow, the day continues to get more light, brighter white, lacking any shine or warmth from a sun that’s only a memory. Was it ever really there? The brilliant sunrise of pinks and oranges yesterday seems like a dream. Today, all is white and gray. Even the evergreens take on a dark gray color. There is no green, only black and white and every shade in between. The black and white chickadees jockey for spots at the birdfeeder for the last of the Black Oil Sunflower Seeds, their brilliant, definitive shading of black and white lost in the flat light, showing them as simply another shade of gray.

Inside, the golden, warm light from the kerosene lamp mirrors itself in the window, looking like a soft flame in the middle of the frozen river. The clear crystal base of the lantern reveals the gentle stir of the flammable liquid it contains with every press of a key on the keyboard underneath my dancing fingertips. The brass fitting from which the flame grows is pocked and weathered, but still holds strongly to the thin glass, hurricane globe with four upward-reaching brass prongs like fingers holding on to a stemless wine glass. The flame, no bigger than a silver dollar, gives off a warmth with it’s light that is comforting on a cold morning, as I sit close to it, the top of my book almost touching the clear base, and read about Claire and Jaimie’s adventures during the Revolutionary War, a fleece blanket wrapped around me waist-down, while the newly-turned-up heating stove works to warm the one-room cabin up a few degrees out of the overnight chill, and the freshly brewed coffee cools quickly in my mug. The wooden walls, cabinets, and only door of the cabin fade into the soft brown background. There is a gentle snoring coming from our Chocolate Lab, as she sleeps soundly just a few inches from the roaring oil stove.

The day begins.

the Soul of a Window

Currently covered in insulating plastic to serve as an extra barrier against the arctic winds of winter, our two main cabin windows face south, looking out over the windswept, snow-covered ice that is the Unalakleet River. The window sills sit at table height in a cabin that is forty feet up from the riverbank, providing a stunning vista through the treetops.

The windows, large enough to drive a snowmachine through, have a history all their own, a history that began many years before this cabin was built almost three decades ago. The cabin was built just as the village school was being rebuilt which meant there was a pile of out-of-date windows stacked, ready to be taken to the dump. Gregg’s small engine repair shop was next door to the old school and, being that it was summer, he was out in front of the building, smoking his usual cigar while talking fishing stats with buddy, Glen, who was on his lunch break. After approaching the school workers, who were loading the windows into the back of an old Ford pick-up, missing a tailgate, Gregg and Glen walked away, carrying two of the over-sized, plate glass windows. Just like the heavy, treated timber planks he had procured for the floor of the deck, the price was right for those windows – just elbow grease and a sore back.

Ingenuity soon played a roll as they engineered a way to get them out to the cabin, eight miles upriver. As it turned out, Glen drove the boat while Gregg stood in the middle, holding the windows upright, one on either side of him, holding them tight. The next hurdle was getting the windows up the forty foot incline to the deck of the cabin. Much colorful language, slipping, and sliding occurred as they manhandled the heavy glass up the muddy slope from the river – the steps had yet to be built. Once safely on the deck with both windows intact, Gregg then sawed holes for them in the front of the cabin. He had waited until this very moment to carve out the window holes, making sure that he had them in one piece and ready to place.

Windows seem commonplace, yet they are essential. Even when mankind lived in caves, they drew on the walls pictures of things outside, giving them a sort of window to the world they couldn’t see. My youngest daughter, Sarah, used windows as the theme for her wedding in September, a year ago. A simple, yet also complex way of looking at the new beginnings that come with marriage vows, as well as a chance to reflect on how it all came to be. True, in daytime, windows provide a protected view of the world. This protection is not complete, though; cracks can turn into irreparable breaks; it might even shatter in an instant. However, in the darkness, they reflect what is, giving one a chance to shut out the outside world and just be. In the flat, lowlight, gray and sunless days of winter, the window does both and changes with perspective. As I look out right now, I see the birds at the feeder while, at the same time, I see the reflection of the kerosene lamp that is sitting in front of me.

I wonder about this very window I am sitting next to. What stories does it have to tell? What has it seen? What has it reflected? It’s quite possible that this window is older than I am; there is no way to know. Yet, it stands sturdy and strong, not a crack anywhere. Far from airtight, it fogs up when I wash dishes with hot water from the stove. It provides a wide ledge for our treasures of heart-shaped rocks, petrified sea mammal bones, and sea glass washed smooth by the arctic waters from which they came.

Old Webster may define a window as, “an opening in the wall of a building for admission of light and air,” but it is so much more than that.

It's a New Year

Rocking in the wind, the empty birdfeeder still draws the occasional nuthatch or chickadee, while daylight breaks at noon over the mountaintops in the distance, shading the sky between the peaks with a color not unlike a fresh Georgia peach which fades upward into a gray-green and then the cloudless deep blue with the shining star of Venus looking down.

The first day of the new year arrives in the embrace of winter, on the back of a 30 mph wind, bringing with it a fresh snow. Tiny birds weave in and out of the front porch posts, picking up overlooked throwaways from the hanging feeder which now lie in waste on the wood planks that form the base of the deck, planks painstakingly dug out of the tundra by hand where they were left after the World War II troops cleared out of the White Alice radar site a mile or two from our cabin. Heavy, treated boards are a rare treasure in this desolate country, especially at the sale price of a sore back and blistered palms. Alaska is truly a land of imagination. One must see things that aren’t there, see what will be in addition to what is.

Black Oil Sunflower Seeds. That’s what our little winter birds love the best. Sitting on the swinging birdfeeder, a gust of wind blows up from behind, and the little chickadee’s black head feathers get blown straight up by the wind, making it look like he’s wearing a pointed hat. He quickly gets what he came for and flies back to the trees, his jerky motions almost robotic.

With my first cup of coffee gone and the kerosene lamp burning low, it’s time for the day to begin. The generator needs an oil change. Traps need to be checked. River ice needs to be chiseled and buckets of water hauled to the cabin. The Raspberry Sweet Rolls won’t make themselves. Candles need to be made for the Market this Saturday and I sold out of potholders, pan covers, place mats, and the like just before Christmas.

Denali just nosed at my elbow, asking to go outside. Happy New Year.