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“I don’t know,” I tell her, “but I’m about ready to just throw my hands up and walk away. I’m tired of it.”
“Me too!” she agrees.
That makes me smile for some reason. Not because it’s funny or because she’s joking. I guess just because it’s nice of her to empathize. It’s neighborly.
Year Thirteen
Winter
For a small town, Grand Marais has a pretty decent library. We learned a lot from their gardening section before, and now we’re using their movie section like crazy. They get new DVDs in all the time, and they allow us to keep them for a week. We take full advantage. As the weather turns cool outside, the leaves change and the snow starts to blow, Scott and I curl up on the couch each night after Morgen’s asleep and watch a movie on our portable DVD player.
Every morning, I put the rechargeable battery in my bag and plug it in at work. It sits next to me on the floor, with its little red light blinking, while I write letters of inquiry for grants, print thank you letters, and organize fundraisers. I eat lunch alone in my office, working straight through. There’s always another grant to write and more money that needs to be raised. There’s always more work to do than there is time.
Three nights a week, Scott works and Morgen and I have a “girl’s night.” We eat dinner by candlelight, turn on a single lamp on the dining room table to play a board game, then turn on the living room light to read. I sit with her as she falls asleep, writing quietly in my journal with one hand and holding her hand with the other.
I wait up for Scott to watch a movie, or half a movie, which is more often the case because I’m too tired to stay up for the whole thing. Usually we just watch light romantic comedies because I just can’t bring myself to watch anything upsetting right now.
One freezing Saturday afternoon we all cuddle up on the couch to watch three hours of Planet Earth together. We’re blown away by what we see displayed before us: the incredible footage and the magnificent beauty of our planet. I mean, we already know it’s beautiful. We live in one of the most serene places in the country, and we experience nature’s beauty on a daily basis. But to see all of nature’s magnificence laid out in front of our eyes, in one running narrative, blows us away.
After the movie we bundle up and go for a winter walk on the trails behind the cabin. We trudge single file, Morgen in the middle, down the path, under the snow-covered balsams. The sun is already setting when we head out, and by the time we turn around to head back, stars are starting to appear. Morgen and I make a wish on the first one we see, closing our eyes and taking a deep breath to send it out to the universe.
“Remember to always notice the stars,” I tell her.
“I will,” she promises. I smile and take her hand, and we run the rest of the way back to the cabin to make hot cocoa and warm up.
We get Morgen to bed early so she gets a good night sleep. “You have pre-school tomorrow,” I tell her.
“One more story first.”
I read her another book as she lays in bed, and then I write in my journal until she falls asleep. “Goodnight, sweet girl,” I whisper, pulling the blanket up under her chin. It's getting colder out.
The next three weeks are bitterly cold. Morgen has to wrap a scarf around her face and put on a ski jacket, snow pants, hat and mitts before running out to the pre-warmed jeep to go to pre-school. Scott sets our alarm clock to go off in the middle of the night so we can get up and stoke the fire to keep the cabin warm. The windows are frosted, covered with ice crystals.
After a couple weeks, we're almost used to it. I watch from my office for Scott to pull up in the jeep. I pull my hood up and run outside.
“Hi sweetie,” I call to Morgen, bundled in the backseat, as I shake off the cold.
“Hi mommy.”
Scott's holding a letter. I take it and skim through. It's from the public health nurse, informing us that Morgen may have been exposed to whooping cough at pre-school. One of the other children has a confirmed case, and it’s highly contagious.
“But she was immunized against that,” I say.
“The letter says you can still get it, even if you’ve been immunized.”
“What the hell good is that, then?”
“I don’t know. We have to watch for signs of a mild cold.”
The next morning, Morgen wakes up sniffling. She says she feels okay. It’s just the sniffles.
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