Winter has made me so cranky that I've decided to compile a list of the things I hate.

Ice dams. Ice freezes in ridges on the edges of our roof, and the ridges grow higher with every additional snowfall so that water can't drip off, but instead works its way under the shingles and and down inside our walls and into the house through the door and window frames. I hate climbing up on a ladder and chopping at these ice dams with an axe, hatchet, or hammer. I hate having a hundred pound chunk of ice slide off the roof onto my knees while I'm perched on the ladder. My darling Christopher had an even larger piece knock him and the ladder down. From roof- height, he fell onto his back onto all the chunks of ice below him. After this occurred I was glad he had not heeded my advice to use the chainsaw.

The telephone. I hate the way its ring demands my immediate attention. I hate when the caller asks me a question, because in my rush to get off the phone I agree to all kinds of things-- going to kids' birthday parties, helping people move, speaking to groups of aspiring writers on the other side of the state. Also, I have this cold which has entrenched itself in my throat and vocal cords so it actually hurts to talk. Please do not be offended if I do not answer the phone when you call. If it's urgent, leave a message. Otherwise, send me a letter, because I hate not getting mail.

Being Cold. I waste buckets of our world's most precious resource daily, in my twenty minute showers and hour-long hot baths, because immersion seems to be the only way to get warm to my core. I also waste precious electricity on my electric blanket with which I heat our bed so it is as warm as a bath when I slip into it at night. Because I can't spend the whole day in bed and bath, I have long underwear and insulated Carhartt workman's coveralls and big thick insulated boots from Canada, as well as many hats and pairs of gloves. Sometimes when I am dressing or undressing, Christopher imagines it is funny to touch my naked skin with cold, Canadian hands, but it is not funny.

Changing Plans. I hate plans to start with. What I really like is opening up my date book into the new week and seeing nothing on any of the pages. Therefore, if I have committed to doing something in my rush to get off the phone, then be assured I have probably been dreading it for weeks, and the actual doing of the thing is a snap compared to all that dreading, and besides I probably told some people I was doing whatever the thing was, and after avoiding so many obligations, I need the redemption of actually doing some things. So if we made plans, don't break them. Some of you may remember me as an adventuresome young woman with an open-minded sense of fun, rolling with the punches, casting my lot to the four winds. I am not like that any more, at least not in the winter.

Wet wood. I hate wet wood in all its forms. I hate trying to start a fire with wet kindling, and I hate having only wet logs to put in the stove once I get it started. I hate wet wooden walls and the flooring when it is wet from water dripping down through the walls due to ice dams or burst and frozen water pipes. Similarly, I hate wet electrical fixtures.

Sledding. I know that this shows my lack of joi de vivre, but I don't want to trudge up a hill when the reward is having zero degree air flying in my face at thirty miles an hour, with the added risk of running into someone or something and breaking my neck, and at the very least getting snow jammed up inside my coveralls and down around my neck. And I don't want to do anything involving a hill and a toboggan or skis either. No, not even a snowmobile. For years I imagined I did like sledding, and I sometimes still wish I was the kind of person who liked sledding and skiing, but dead winter is not the time for self-improvement. Dead winter is the time for accepting reality in all its bitterness.

George W. Bush. Having this guy as our new president is making this winter far more shabby and miserable than it would have been otherwise. The next four years is going to be wretched and embarrassing, and I suggest we should all just lay low for a while; maybe those of you for whom it is an option should just focus on getting rich for the next four years.

Cleaning my house. The spiders seem to have died from the cold, but unfortunately the mice have created new ingresses--I know this because I often see the cat disinterestedly batting the mice around with one of his oversized paws. Because doing dishes involves immersion in hot water, I will continue to do the dishes until hell (or the kitchen pipes) freeze over, but dishwashing is about all I can bear. If you somehow manage to make it down our dirt road, which does not get plowed regularly, and if you stay the night in our guest room (which is cold because I never got the plastic on the windows this year), please remind yourself in advance that I have not been cleaning. The sheets and blankets are in the closet, which is a little damp due to the water running down the walls beneath the ice dams and the burst pipes. I might ask you to help me bust up ice dams, but, then, if you fall off the ladder you might sue.

Snow. Okay, I don't always hate snow. It's lovely when lake effect snow falls in big flakes, and it's especially lovely in late November and early December, but everything here is covered with four foot of snow which has compacted down to about two feet, which is about the height of the ice dams, and only slightly less dense. Blood stays red for a long time in the snow, so every owl and hawk kill leaves a red stain. Dog vomit leaves an orangy color. Dog turds sit dark and solid atop hard-packed snow on the path leading from the driveway to the house, where it cannot decompose. Snow separates shit, puke, and blood from the earth where it belongs, where it can break down and disappear. At intervals I carry my shovel around and fling the dog turds into the distance, but lately I alternate the inactivity of despair with a flurry of activity of battling the ice dams and of course keeping an ever shrinking part of the driveway shoveled so that I don't get stuck pulling in or out. Other people always get stuck pulling in and out of our driveway, and as soon as I see a familiar car inching up the unplowed dirt drive I sigh and put on my big Canadian winter boots and hat and scarf and my driest gloves in preparation for pushing the vehicle out. If those people had called, and if I had answered my phone, I would have told those people not to come. There is no place to park anyway, since we've only cleared enough parking in the driveway for ourselves.

Also, those people should know that the back part of the house is cold, despite all the time we spend chipping firewood out of the ice and snow-covered piles. I cleverly put tarps over some of the firewood this fall, but the excessive snow has made the tarps too heavy to move--I'd have to dig out an eight foot circle around the wood pile in order to lift the tarp. Instead, we are reduced to the chipping free the wood which was left exposed to the elements, which means when the individual pieces of firewood thaw in the house, they are so wet it takes them a week to become dry enough to burn. With each passing day those dry wooden chairs are looking more like firewood, and the window trim and floor boards aren't looking so bad either.

Having a cold. If this was just a regular two or three week cold, it wouldn't be so bad, but the one I've had in my raw throat for seven weeks now is obviously a result of some kind of exposure to the fumes of hell--perhaps coming from that crack in the sidewalk near the health food store--which would also explain why those pumpkin seeds were moldy--or rising up through the ancient septic system beneath our home. It is possible that what I've had is a series of colds, or maybe I have just been very, very bad and this is my punishment.

Wasting Food. Some of you may think that I should trade in my old obsession about not wasting food for one of those germ phobias or hand-washing compulsions, as that might possibly prevent colds, but in the winter, starvation seems such a real possibility. The deer in our woods, for example, are so hungry that they are stripping the pine needles off the lower branches of the pines. If you've ever drunk retsina, you know that this is, for them, an act of desperation. We've started putting out corn for them, but they'd probably also make very good use of your leftover Chinese.

Movie Distribution. How can it be that a movie that made the cover of Time magazine plays nowhere in the state of Michigan? Do those distributors suppose we are too stupid to read subtitles? Winter would become bearable, at least for a while, if I could see Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. And what about Girlfight? That's in English, for crying out loud. If I had the energy, and if I didn't have a cold, and if I didn't have to spend all my free time at home hacking up phlegm and chopping away at frozen firewood and ice dams, I would drive to Chicago to see Crouching Tiger, and then picket my local UA Theater. Perhaps to warm myself I would deliver ungloved punches and roundhouse kicks to anyone who made unsupportive comments. I can understand the distributors denying interesting, complex movies to states that voted for George Bush, but we went Democratic, for crying out loud.

The Arab-Israeli conflict. If ever anything was is as hopeless as winter without end, it is the Arab-Israeli conflict. The stream of news reports about brokering hopeless peace deals and the broadcasting of funeral processions of boy-martyrs and discussions of the right of return and East Jerusalem and Hebron and check points and rubber coated steel bullets. For us in Michigan, winter will eventually end and the soil will warm and send forth sprigs of life, but there is no guarantee of spring in this middle east crisis. Someone should please let me know if I can do anything personally to help, because otherwise I am going to stop listening to NPR and BBC for a while and warm myself in silence or to music in order to preserve the tiny spring of hope that spews at my core--I can't detect or even imagine that little oasis currently, but I'll continue with the baths and electric blankets and with warming my glass of red wine before I drink it, in hopes that hope still trickles within.

Gains

Bonnie Jo and Christopher got a new cat with lots of extra toes and paws shaped like the lower peninsula of Michigan, about which the veterinarian remarked: "this means his ma wasrelated to his pa." His name is Paw Paw. On the day before Thanksgiving, Eva (nee Chavez) and Mike Hughes produced the double wonder of Sage (m.) and Melitta (f.), both good sized and healthy. Yours truly has achieved the level of green belt in Konanryu Karatedo. Jamie Blake (Judo black belt) was presented with free cocktails and a giant cardboard check for $2000 from the Sweet n Low company at a ceremony in the Aries Singapore Cafe in Kalamazoo. She had written a letter nominating Chris Pabreza (from Aries) the "waitress of the year" and both Jamie and Chris were thus honored. (Jamie did drive to Chicago to see Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and wrote: "It is the greatest martial arts movie ever made... I will buy it when it comes out on DVD and stay at home for a week to watch it 200 times.") Susanna is currently working at Comstock schools as a substitute lunch lady, much to the embarrassment of her granddaughters who attend those schools; Mary Ledoux has a new job working for the state of Michigan assisting and keeping company with residents at a nursing home. Matt Schwartz is singing and playing guitar part of a new, local, six-member band, called Blue Tattoo, which includes Larry Bell on steel guitar, and Patsy Cline-inspired vocals by Dee Foster.

Losses

Bonnie Jo and Christopher lost their twelve year old cat Brainworm (a.k.a. Kitty) to a rare case of cat heartworm. Most of him is buried in the front yard, which he once kept mole-free, but his ravaged heart and lungs have been donated to the Sprinkle Road Veterinary Clinic for scientific advancement. They called and warned us that the photographs would be on display. Farewell stout cat! Thomas is now officially disengaged from what he refers to as "that marriage experiment." Some of you have asked as to the whereabouts of the orange couch, which was, for several months, my constant companion, riding as it was, in the back of my truck; well, along with several local mouses, it has been delivered to St. Joe, to the cottage store room.

X-Mas

Christmas card highlights included Christopher's adapted nativity scene featuring George Bush in the manger with Sandra Day O'Connor as the Virgin Mary and Clarence Thomas as Joseph looking on; also we were thrilled by Angela Mark's own series of cranky, colorful Christmas cards (send her some $ and she'll send you some for next year--15 Lee Street #5, Jamaica Plain MA 02130 ). Karen Miller writes: "I got tired of seeing so many pictures of my friends' kids I decided to send a picture of my dog to everybody." Christopher's Auntie Vera's sole proclamation from England was "Nothing to report, except I'm still here." Anne Sjostrom, who has been helping her brother battle cancer for the last year writes that "I have some wild plan to go back to Oz at the end of January--the university is holding my job until 1 Feb. Oh these decisions." Schneekluth of Munich sent a card personalized with: "Thanks for a wonderful book--it's a pleasure to be your publisher!" suggesting that maybe the Germany translation of Women and Other Animals will soon come into existence. The loveliest card award goes to Will Allison from Indianapolis, whose card (Saturn Press Swan's Island, Maine 04685) displays fourteen kinds animal tracks, many of which we have identified the snow near our compost pile.

In their Christmas newsletter, Sybil and Pat Herlihy write about their trip to Israel: "We stayed in hotels in Tiberias, on the Sea of Galilee, and in Jerusalem, and from there we visted all the Biblical high spots and also fitted in one day to visit the historic site of Masada on the shores of the Dead Sea--in whose mineral-laden waters we bathed, briefly, at least I did--Pat was much more sensible! It was so interesting just to be in the Holy Lane--to experience the reality of the desert lands of Judea, to be in a boat on the Sea of Galilee as the rain began to fall and the mists closed in and to realise what it meant to walk from Nazareth to Jerusalem--the distances and the difficult terrain. Fortunately, we did it by coach! We were also able to observe the Israeli and Palestinian cultures as we drove through the country. As tourists we were sheltered and were ushered straight through the numerous roadblocks, but we could see many of the difficulties, which stand in the way of peace."

Bird News:

Two Bluebirds appeared at our heated birdbath in December, and we've got a Carolina wren wintering with us. Our December bird feeder count found twenty species and 98 individuals. Christopher travelled to western Florida this October, without yours truly (who insisted on staying home to work on The Barn). The Corkscrew Swamp and Ding Darling Sanctuary both provided exceptional birding, and Christopher returned home with photos of new conquests including the Roseate Spoonbills and a Limpkin, as well as better than average pictures of a red-shouldered hawk (really close up), anhingas with wings outstretched and drying, little blue herons, etc. In the woods east of our house is the regular nightly hooting of a great horned owl--this bitter season is their mating period. Perhaps I forgot to mention earlier that this summer, Christopher and I were priveleged to see a whole batch of adolescent screech owls mewing and squirming like kittens on the branches of trees near our house.

Writing News:

The book I helped Larry Smith to edit, Working Lives: Short Stories of People and Work (ISBN 0-933087-63-2) is available through bookstores, including Amazon.com, and you should tell your local library to order it. We had a great first reading at Athena's Bookstore in Kalamazoo, with Stuart Dybek, Phillip Sterling, Jeff VandeZande, Bret Comar (Richland) and Kaye Longberg (Grand Rapids.) My novel The Barn is at Scribner's right this minute, with editor extraordinare Sarah McGrath, and my fingers are crossed that she thinks this is a good draft. Joyce Carol Oates has accepted two of my pieces for her magazine, Ontario Review, and furthermore sent a post card, which said: "Thanks so much for Women and Other Animals, which I've enjoyed and admired. These stories are filled with marvelously rendered details and character portraits that seem to me absolutely convincing, as real as if I were perceiving them through an opened window. I think my favorite was "The Fishing Dog..." If you know any aspiring writers aged 15-20 who are willing to fork out some dough for some intense writing and learning this July, they might think about attending the seven-day Controlled Burn Young Writers Seminar, which takes place at an idyllic DNR conference center on Higgins Lake in Michigan. I was happy to be a workshop leader last year. Energetic writer Gerry LaFemina (author of Shattered Hours) organizes this event through Kirtland Community College, and his number two is the refined poet, lover of white space, Mary Ann Samyn (author of Captivity Narrative). What a pleasure it was to meet keynote fiction writer Charles Baxter (author of, most recently, Feast of Love, finalist for the 2000 National Book Award), though he wouldn't go out in a rowboat with me; Lola Haskins struck us all dumb by reading her poetry for an hour from memory. Also, it was a pleasure to work alongside fellow Michigan writers John Rybicki and Peter Markus, both of whom have cool ideas about working with a small vocabulary within a story. For information about the upcoming 2001 seminar, write to Gerry LaFemina, Controlled Burn, 10775 N. St. Helen Rd., Roscommon MI 48653.