Last Sunday On Dexter
Why did I leave home, the game, the fire, to drive through the yellow-alert flurries on highway 58 for twenty miles?
Well, I got the chance to open up the boathouse, haul oars and shell down a snowy ramp, stand at the end of the dock watching a sky full of quarter-sized flakes light on and disappear into the dark gray lake-water, and greet the white-dusted hills that ring the lake. People in homes and cars and trucks missing all this raw show. I am the only human here. No wind when I put in. Flat water. Flurries lull and entice me for a few minutes, a few hundred meters, before the great celestial pillow fight unleashes near the park and my boat and I are covered, a mobile snowdrift, as we amiably make the turn and take a slow line of solitude, just offshore, for a mile and a half down along the highway. The coots as usual stay together equably through the storm down by the covered bridge, and, once again as they do, wait til the last moment before my gliding by sends them thrashing off to a respectful distance fifty meters from this interloper. The lake level is low as the shell eases under the bridge to the upper lake, the water even more sheltered and calm. But rowing alone on such a day as this, taking it up to the upper dam is unwise, so better to head back under the bridge, get the coots fussing again and follow the shore back to the boathouse. Snowing pretty good. The rowing has all been so slow and contemplative, the outer stillness and stark beauty offering itself to inner reflection, to calm attention. Slow and alone. The stretch to the dock, where my shoes lie well buried under the snowfall, is done, and I notice again how the snow has gathered on the bow-side of the oar shafts. Boat and oars and slings put away, I walk back to the lakeshore for a moment of prayerful gratitude, then head off down the dirt road to where my car waits beyond the gate.
Good to do this and find out later how the Packers did.=