Just What We Needed: A Swedish Princess

Two days later, I finally dug out from the solstice storm. I don't mind wading through snow to get to the road, so digging a path from my house to the street hardly seemed much of a priority. Add to that the fact that the good snow shovel seems to be missing, and we have the perfect recipe for a procrastinated chore. Today, after rolling out of bed at nearly eleven o'clock, I decided I would finally insert my Yankee spine and spend some time character building. Of course, this raises the question: "can character be built so late into the morning?" If I had really wanted to make it a worthy day, I should have been up at five, clearing my driveway with the heaviest shovel I could find. As it was, it was well past noon before I had braided my hair, baked some scones, picked out appropriate layers and ascertained that no, the feather-like plastic shovel was not going to descend from the heavens. It was lost, and as I have mentioned previously, 'tis the season to get over losing good things.

We got quite a bit of snow. Had I mentioned that it was a blizzard? God's truth, NOAA's honor. Still, it wasn't that bad. I just hate shoveling snow. With metal shovels. As I made my way down the drive, cracking through the surface layer and using my hands to throw aside that top sheet of two inches, I reflected on my Scandinavian origins. My people were made for this- all well adapted to snow, life in the cold climes, blah blah blah... Yet in three generations, through interbreeding with Baltic people and New Englanders (supposedly also hardy), and an increased standard of living, America had spat out me, a lackluster twenty-something who kept up an uninterrupted inner-whine during the hour it took her to shovel a pitifully narrow walk from the road to the nearest (and most dangerous) ramp into her house.

It occured to me during this time that the Swedes in my family moved from the Frosted Fatherland (Sweden should be a motherland, I know, but I crave alliteration like a sweet) to New York City. NYC. Where there are road crews and shit. Probably roads crews of Norwegians, hardy Norwegians, built to shovel snow. Swedes are built to contemplate snow. My step-grandmother was a prime example of Norwegian snow-shoveling. She shoveled her own snow with apparent good cheer (and in skirts) until she was well into her seventies. My grandfather (the first generation Swede-American) had a heart condition, so this Pan-Scandinavian pairing worked well. I have been putting off having an actual adult physical, where they draw blood and tell you to stop eating so much cheese, so I don't know that I have a heart condition. But I suspect that shoveling snow with the heaviest shovel in the world is enough to give me a psychosomatic one.

The worst thing is living "in town." People tend to drive by and bear witness to my snowy labor. They smile, laugh internally and think "she is using the wrong kind of shovel... does she know that?" The shovel I am so maligning is a heavy metal and wood deal, with a plow-like scoop shape. Would have been great if I had used it every twenty minutes during the day-long storm. Still would have caught on the uneven gravel surface of my driveway, but it would have performed better than this afternoon. This afternoon, I looked like a woman doing the doggie paddle in a serious survival situation. Eventually, however, I triumphed.

And then I went snow-shoeing. I did mention I don't mind wading through snow, right? After a year, it was time to take my snow shoes, Christmas presents from '07, on their maiden voyage. I yax-trax-ed it up Annis Hill, and turned down the road to Point Lookout, the island's private summer colony. Securing the snow-shoes to my boots, and throwing the yax trax into my back pack, I headed off into the world of privilege. I love people who can abandon homes for 10/12ths of a year, because it means those of us who cannot afford a vacation can at least spend some quality time wandering around on private roads. The universe finds balance.

Now if only I could keep mine. Some of you may recall last year, when I planted my face on the ice while endeavoring to skate. I split my lip, and got a nice subtle scar for my trouble. The other night, during the storm, the Dark was adding to his footage of people randomly running through the woods, and got me to participate. It was snowy, and he had set up the shot so that it was a down-hill run. Of course I fell. The other day, doing a pirouette in my living room, I no sooner got through the first 220 degrees, when I found myself sprawled on my ass. I fall. I have even been designated by the Dark as a faller.

Tonight was no exception. I got down to the Point landing, got to taking pictures, and when I went to get some shots of interesting drift patterns, I failed to attend to the fact that the drifts were built up over huckleberry bushes. And that the drifts were deep. First I was up to my thighs, and then I was on my back, up to my nose. Or nipples. Whatever was the highest point of me at the time. It is a good thing I enjoy looking up at the sky, and that normally (the skating incident, and okay, the Champlain incident aside) I fall backwards. I am getting pretty philosophical about it all. In fact, I have a growing suspicion that I am literally falling for the island. And when I take it a bit further, and refuse to accept my own gracelessness, I come to the obvious conclusion that the island is actually sweeping me off my feet. With that first scar, it marked me as its own. I succumb, dear island!

Continuing on this island bride theory, tomorrow I will test out my ability to communicate with woodland creatures through song. Or pack to go home to my family for Christmas. If I don't make it off the island, I probably just fell on the way to the boat.

I will make it home- maybe!