A Winter's Memory

[Robert Cole]

Once upon a time, when winters in Northern Michigan seemed to be longer, and colder, and much more filled with snow, three young boys of Beaver Island lay sleeping in the upstairs bedroom of their family home, dreaming the secret dreams of youth within the deep silence of a frozen January night.

In those days the harbor of St. James town seemed to freeze over earlier, and more quickly than in later years. By the dawn of a new millennium, a house-bound villager might look out over the encircling bay after New Yearâ??s to see only a thin sheen of ice, or even open water. But in the years of the last third of the twentieth century, the season was still known to quickly seize the forest-covered isle in an unforgiving grip, holding on stubbornly until spring, when the mighty steel fist of a Coast Guard ice breaker arrived to shatter the shackles of winter.

The ice had its own songs to sing when it formed across the bay and beyond, out over the great, lonely expanses of Lake Michigan. At night it would send up strange melodies to the ears of the islanders, murmuring and groaning in deep, booming notes like the eerie songs of whales. Sometimes the ice sheets suddenly snapped like the brittle bones of a huge beast, shooting out fingers of cracks like lightning bolts caught on a sheer black canvas. For the late-night listeners who heard the sirenâ??s wail of those mysterious movements, it sometimes felt as if they themselves were being drawn down beneath the frozen flatness into a pitch-black world of unimaginable cold, as deeply felt as it was invisible. Mountains never knew the strength of ice in the Great Lakes of the past.

Back then the Island kept its lights burning by the humming generators of the green mason-block power plant near the harborâ??s shore. The dynamos thrummed and droned through day and night, a reassuring background note against which we lived our daily lives. The tireless machines and their keepers worked overtime to keep the Islanders illuminated, warm, and connected to the world outside. But like all machines they sometimes faltered, or gave out. Light bulbs would flicker, televisions blinked into blankness. Candles would be pulled from closets and fires kindled in woodstoves. Then repairs or adjustments would be made, and the heartbeat of the electrical system restored. As the years passed and technology improved, moments like those became fewer.

But on one January night almost thirty years ago, the generators, for whatever reasons, stopped. All along the harbor and down through the nearly empty countryside to the south, a darkness fell. And within that darkness arose that most singular and pure of presences known to nature: silence.

It wasnâ??t a silence that was unknown to Islanders, nor was it a darkness that had never before been endured. After all, among the little-populated environs of the isolated and remote island, these things had to be expected. But for a trio of teen-aged boys who slumbered unknowingly beneath the warm quilts of their beds, it was to be a special moment.

In the after-midnight stillness of their house, heavy footsteps ascended the stairs. It was our father, peeking his head through our bedroom door, saying, â??Boys, get up and get your clothes on. The power is out: and I want you to see the harbor while its like this.â?￾

And so we threw off our covers and dressed, whispering to each other, excited about the unexpected adventure to which weâ??d been beckoned. Donning heavy coats and knit caps, mittens and rubber boots, we slipped out the front door into the perfect calm of the stock-still dark.

As fate would have it, there was a waxing moon that night. It rained down a glorious silver radiance upon everything in sight, drenching the flowing snow banks, the empty streets, the bare-branched oak trees; sliding over and saturating all the sleeping cottages inside their white-capped fences; drawing out the inestimable holy beauty of each and every perfect crystal of snow nestled in its perfect place. That moonlight exalted everything beneath it; and the world lay rapt like a lover in its arms.

And oh, the silence. The pure, sweet, all-embracing silence that permeated everything. It was the ground beneath our feet, it was the sharp air we breathed. It was a voice louder than any sound, but mute beyond all understanding. It strode along with the moonlight like friends in arms, around and above and within us. Our words were like tiny splashes of paint against that vast stillness.

We walked along the harbor road, Paul, Tom, and I, toward the lighthouse at the Point. If I canâ??t recall the exact things we talked about, I know we spoke not of small things, but of the gift we were receiving. As young as we were, we knew the preciousness of the world we were blessed enough to have been born and raised in. We knew the timelessness of that moment. Our father knew it too, and thatâ??s why he had awoken us to drink in that intoxicating vista. He knew we might never again taste just that instant in just that way, might never again have this unique chance to peer into a world beyond all human light and sound; and he knew that he was showing us a window into a world he had known and loved in his own childhood.

Out boots made crunching sounds in the dry white snow beneath us. Our breath swirled out of our mouths like smoke in the moonlit air. Hands in pockets, heads looking down and up, our talk turned quieter, falling into whispers. The immaculate harbor embraced us, and we it. There wasnâ??t a soul on the streets, not a car to be seen or heard. There was only us, three brothers, sharing a delight and an awe and a love for each other and the place we called home. We were young, and we were together.

What more could a soul ask for in the long journey of its days?

Today, that moment remains fixed like a scene in a glass bowl that memory shakes to make the snowflakes fall. I visit it from time to time to sip its rare flavor, and to be thankful.

The older I get, the luckier I was. Lucky to be born on Beaver Island; lucky to have the family I was born within; and lucky to have a father who knew the gift of a perfect moment in time, and gave it to his sons. To give thanks for these things is to thank life itself.

[Linda]

really lovely story, Robert, very nice...there are still times like that, even here on the mainland. But I bet it's really special on the island.

[bren and sue]

I can only imaging what a great memory that must be R. But a finer group of guys to be with is hard to imagine. I've been in the winter only a few times, and one of the last was with you, (tom was there also,) bon fires on lake michigan in the middle of the night are a great expieriance that not too many get to have. Memories are a wonderful thing as I look out my auto laden street. Wishing and hoping to be there again for just one more weekend. Alas, there will be summer and again, hopfully summers after that. I hope to have some quiet nights with Bridget on the island like you did with your dad. I can totally picture your walk and envy it with a smile. What a memory! Great story. your, Chug

[Robert]

Glad you liked the story, Linda and Bren. And you will have moments like that on the isle with your daughter Chug, I'm sure of that. Here's looking forward to next summer...

[trish scott]

Robert, Thank you for sharing that beautiful memory. You are a gifted writer.

[Guest]

Memories are like snowflakes...each one unique.
Thank you for sharing, Robert.
Love, Melissa

[Liam]

Great stuff Robert! Really enjoyed it. Where the hell are you, anyway? Hope you're spending the time writing as well as this.

[Perry]

Hello Robert-what a perfect time of year for a memory like that to come to life for us-It reminds me of a time my cousin Pat and I stayed at Grams and went to the back beach-to find the "coldest spot we could", really just to feel and experience it-not quite as peaceful-in fact we had a howling gale from the northwest coming in -but that is what we wanted -to feel the wild fury of nature-neither of us will forget it im sure.
Talk to you soon Sir!
Perry

[Brooke]

Most of my best family memories from my childhood are from times spent on the Island. In all seasons... It's still true today. I am fortunate that my children are growing to love it like so many of us already do. Thank you for reminding me of those wonderful winters. You have a great gift, Robert.

[Rory Connaghan]

...Speaking of ice ...(Hello Robert and gang)...Young John McCafferty and I ventured to Garden Island last weekend. We were'nt the only ones to make the expedition that Saturday morning. We were however the only to travel by foot and spend a night at the old DNR cabin. I'm trying (and failing) to find words to describe crossing the lake ala foot..but let it be known it was just amazingly beautiful and showed us some perspective of just how small we are.....oh yeah, and it was one of the cheapest trips off the island I've ever had!
Thanks for sharing with us Robert... Peace ..Rory

P.S. I've a new e-mail addy... www.akaslydog@yahoo.com

[Janine]

That was wonderful Robert, both the memory and the way you described it. I hope you post more like this.

[Paul]

Great job at capturing that memory in words, Robert. I remember it so well, and it was a gift on many levels. You have incredible talents in writing, and I hope you use them more often. It was very powerful and emotional for me to relive that. The stillness of that night combined with the incredible beauty of the island (even in a harsh winters night) was so awakening to all of the senses and healing to the soul and spirit. The people of the Island have in that past, and continue to at times, struggle financially. But they are so "rich" as a result of the community that they live and breathe in. I, too, am thankful for the gifts that our parents gave us, as I'm sure many others in the community are. I was very lucky to have those memories and enjoy creating more of them with my children. Thanks for the "walk" down memory lane! You're an awesome writer! Take care!

[Mara]

Robert,
I am going to share this with Pa and the rest of the family! I am sure that they will enjoy it as much as I have! Although we have yet to meet, I could picture you and your brothers every step of the way! Thank you for such a vivid picture of the Island in the winter!

Mara McDonough-Burns

[Guest]

Great job at capturing that memory in words, Robert. I remember it so well, and it was a gift on many levels. You have incredible talents in writing, and I hope you use them more often. It was very powerful and emotional for me to relive that. The stillness of that night combined with the incredible beauty of the island (even in a harsh winters night) was so awakening to all of the senses and healing to the soul and spirit. The people of the Island have in that past, and continue to at times, struggle financially. But they are so "rich" as a result of the community that they live and breathe in. I, too, am thankful for the gifts that our parents gave us, as I'm sure many others in the community are. I was very lucky to have those memories and enjoy creating more of them with my children. Thanks for the "walk" down memory lane! You're an awesome writer! Take care!

Paul, I'm sure you will make many memories with your children, as you have with our children (the little blond haired, glasses wearing' crandell kid). Thanks for the ice cream @ daddy franks! You always make us feel welcome on the island, even though we're just mainlanders......You truly are very lucky to be a part of that island, its an awesome place to be.....to just be......

[Dave Roop]

Great Job Robert
Yes those were the good old days an those are the days l want to remember Beaver Island.