what we have here is a failure to communicate

I am pleased that I made it out into the sunshine this morning. Once I turned my back to the bitterly cold wind that unfortunately brought my walk up short, the air felt almost pleasant and the sun was warm on my face.

Little Long Pond was frozen again. I can hardly imagine that we had a few 50 degree days last week. The ice was thick enough for fishermen to trek across and cut their holes and set their flags. I saw a pair of them pushing an ice sled around out at the marshy end of the pond.

I went to explore the boathouse that sits at the edge of the pond, setting foot on it’s porch for the first time. I don’t know who owns it, but in the summertime there are always swimmers hanging around it, and I have often assumed that it belongs to the Rockefellers – or another family of equal wealth.

It was with some satisfaction that I peered through the frosted windows and tromped about on the porch. The boathouse felt lonely and abandoned, it’s feet locked in ice, waiting forlornly for summer to return. I felt like patting it’s walls and saying, “Cheer up, old girl, only a couple more snow storms and then it will be spring!”

It felt very much like winter this morning, though, with the wind bustling the snow drifts around, in a hurry to clean away my footprints. I huddled back into my car gratefully, and drove home squinting hard against the bright white sunlight.