You can thank Guy Foss for this. Duane Lamoreaux. Mama Nature. The glaciers.

Yesterday was a goooooood day.  There was sunshine.  I had an unexpected seven hours all to myself and off I went into the day.  A leisurely shopping trip, having time to catch up with the neighbors at the IGA—these are delicious luxuries.  Katy Newman told me she had a new picture for us and we discussed the plight of a homeless horse.  Dale Reedy was buying gas and provisions so we exchanged his plowing bill for my check, much to his advantage.  George Watkins was lugging a heavy bag of salt.  Did I know, he asked, how cold it was last night?  No I did not, but the Torch Lake Views weather widget links to all the data from the weather station on Bruce Laidlaw’s roof and it would tell him that and a whole lot more whether he wanted to know all of it or not.  Terry Wooten asked me if I could help with this year’s oral history program at Elk Rapids Middle School and told me about a secret project that won’t be a secret much longer on account of this is Torch Lake Township, not Las Vegas.  Nothing said in the cookie aisle of the IGA stays at the IGA. 

Sunny winter days have odd effects on us.  I felt compelled to take pictures of the IGA draped in snow, the parking lot filled with vans with AWD and trucks with plows on the front.  “What are you taking pictures of?” one of the drivers wanted to know.  I was trying to formulate a reasonable answer when he went on, “If you want to see something really pretty go out Farrell Road.  You know where it rises right before Bennett Hill?  It’s just . . . you can see snow-covered fields all the way down to the Bay and Torch Lake . . . there’s a cornfield there and the sun on the stubble . . . the snow on the pine trees . . . the water glitters!”  He looked at me hopefully.  A view that can stun a big guy in a baseball cap driving a TrailBlazer into committing poetry has got to be worth a look.

“I’m on the case,” I said, and headed for Farrell Road.  On the way I realized I hadn’t asked the poet his name, and was cussing myself for a fool which is why I got distracted by the Romeyn’s new house rising at Providence Farm just up the road and went right past Farrell Road to take a look.  I had to turn around and when I got back to Farrell there was Guy Foss—which is what his name turned out to be—wondering if I was off wandering around lost.  We went to the exact spot where the view is best.  I pulled over and parked and he pulled up next to me and we introduced ourselves.  He told me he likes living here and he likes taking care of his granddaughter and he likes the neighbors on Farrell where some families have lived for generations.  That’s when Duane Lamoreaux, who was catching a ride with Guy, mentioned that we were parked right next to his dad’s land.  Duane is a quiet man, so when he is moved to speech it is to the point.  We’re connected to this land by choice or accident, by history, by blood—and by the heart-catching beauty of a winter afternoon.

That was yesterday.  I froze my fingers off, but I saw a pair of hawks, an eagle, all that sunshine . . . Today it’s gray and snowing and blowing again and I have to go to work so I don’t have time to choose my favorite snapshot from yesterday.  Click on ’em until you find your favorite.  Maybe I’ll fix it later.