Horses are finally turned out to pasture

After what must be one of the longest, coldest, and eventually the muddiest winters I can remember, the horses at both my favorite locations, We Can Ride in Minnetonka and Cross Creek near Cologne, are finally being turned out to graze on fresh grass. Granted, that has to be monitored; some colic easily, others founder on its richness. But by and large this signals at last an end to the angst of slopping around in mud the texture of potter's clay, in wells so deep they sucked the boots off my feet. In that instance I was walking around in my stocking feet trying to pry my boots out of the mud while the horses gathered in a circle and rolled their eyes.

But catching horses in mud is one thing; picking mud out of hooves is another. There are layers and layers of mud compacted into their hooves. I have had to wear sunglasses to keep from having it splatter into my eyes. I finally found a process -- I pick as much as I can, then take the horse to the shower stall and wash its feet. It might even give me a foot to spray. And then I towel the feet off and start to pick again.

The mud was only exceeded in frustration by ice which packed their hooves, creating little rocking-horse feet that can only be dangerous. That required a screwdrives and at times skill beyond my level.

But now they are out; a lovelier site I cannot think of to behold. The dream of summer has begun. And tomorrow Canterbury Park opens.

Sometimes angst is just a precurser to bliss. :-)

Winter Has Ended...or Has It?

Finally there is more brown grass visible than snow. The skyscraper of snow near the pool is only one and a half stories high. We are starting to be able to see the furniture left on our deck by the sudden snowstorm that socked us in last Noveber 15th. But now we can also see the tops of broken pots that have not weathered the winter well, as well as bits of the evergreen boughs we had put in copper pots placed around the deck. They look rather tired and sad, as though having missed a chance to show off their rich green beauty to family and friends arriving throughout the holidays. All of it passed them by.

One of the wierdest memories of the winter was the day we had our roof shoveled. A truckload of men, all of them small and wiry, stomped around on the roof, tossing snow down onto the ground. It was as though a herd of tiny reindeer with combat boots were doing a rumba over our heads. Then, since it was supper time, I decided to turn on the news in our livingroom, which is on the second floor. I looked out our large livingroom window to see the team of shovelers standing like carolers, watching right along with me. The snow on the deck was a good half-story high. When they saw my startled look they quickly scattered and returned to their tast; shoveling out enough snow close to the lower level windows so that we could see a bit of daylight.

But the winter went from bad to worse. Storm after storm. Snow upon snow. Snow with ice as a base. Snow that was clumpy and wet. By February I was able to return to my chosen home, San Francisco. I left the Twin Cities in between storms. The latter one stranded me there for another three days; it took that long for Delta to get its passengers from its 1000 cancelled flights rebooked. But as I walked the streets of town, walked from the Presidio, where I was staying, down to the Wharf in a chlly driving rain, I felt I had learned one lesson of Minnesota winters well. I presented myself at the door of Neptune's Palace, a charming restaurant at the end of Pier 39, soaked to the skin, hair plastered against my head, cheeks ruddy, nose running. The waiter hardly gave me a second look and seated me at a window table. I looked out over the bay, which I dream about when I am not there, and sat mesmerized by its sullen beauty. It took me a few moments to realize that because of the weather and the fact that it was just a few minutes after 11, which was when they opened, I had the entire place to myself. So I excused myself, went to the rest room, dried myself off with paper towels as best I could, and returned to enjoy the best Shrimp Louis Salad I had had in a very long time. If I had learned one thing from the harsh Minnesota winters, it was perseverence. Keep at something no matter how dire the circumstances, and paradise will present itself, even in an unanticipated and ironic form.

So I returned to the Twin Cities wondering what sort of March we would have. I had already named February "ferocious". It did not take long for March to become "malevolent". The snow wouldn't stop. The cold wouldn't break. And so it has been until now. The ice is gone. The mud has dried up, for now. And maybe tomorrow I'll even catch sight of the fire bowl in the remains of the avalanche on our deck.

Who knows?

The Cusp of Summer 2010

I love the month of June, as it heralds so much promise. There are so many things to do and anything can happen. June in Minnesota is always warm, at one point or another (I remember when Yeltsin and Gorbachev came to the Twin Cities in June many years ago and there was a bitter wind). But this June I was away, reluctantly trading the sparkling early summer weather here for the unknown humidity horrors of the East Coast. (In fact, the weather was wonderful, for a change). So June moved much too quickly through my scope and before I knew it, it was July.

This July has been humid -- "it's just like New York," I say. "That's awful," is the usual reply, to which I agree. But in July we have too many events to attend, and have to pick and choose. The Irish Festival, the Acquatennial? Or just hike out to Canterbury Park for another splendid day of racing? But the glorious events of the late summer still hang in the mist of the future. We know the heat and humidity will soon switch to days of glorious dry heat with cool evenings, perfect for every family event and outing.

But in this July there was no flip in the weather; we segued into August with more heat and humidity than I can ever remember. Heat index warnings, thunderstorms and flooding have taken their toll on the Twin Cities this year. Last Tuesday I drove across town during the thunderstorms; hit standing water on 35W and in Uptown (though managed to avoid the reported waist-high water, parked in the shelter of a gas station awning for nearly a half-hour waiting for the torrential rains to slow. Today, Lakeville is flooding, and we are deciding whether or not to trek to Canterbury Park to see which horses are the best mudders. Instead of serene days of sun and clear skies we are faced with ongoing angst.

And now, the realization is beginning to appear on the horizon of my thoughts; something I am unable to dislodge with clear thinking -- before we know it, it will be time for the Minnesota State Fair, the end of racing at CP, and we will have only the Renfest to carry us through until the curtain comes down yet again on the warm weather in Minnesota.

That is a dreadful thought. Maybe I should sit outside in whatever moments of sun can be gleaned from this day and do some serious handicapping.

Midwest summer...

I hate to have to leave Minnesota in the summer. Any other time of year I will jump at the chance. But we wait so long for summer to arrive, and when it does, it is always spectacular -- beautiful clear skies, not too much humidity, everything in bloom, cool evenings. Ever since I was very young, when, while living on the East Coast, my parents would save up for vacations in the Midwest, this area has been my safe haven. Once we left New York behind, crossed over the magestic George Washington bridge, and headed out into the country, I began to breathe more easily. The population was less dense, the air smelled better, there were marvelous areas of hills and farmlands. I would wait with excitement for our crossing the Mississippi River. This marked the final divide between East and Midwest -- its magesty and loveliness was a welcome sight. Then on to the plains, to the dusty beauty of South Dakota, with it's air that smelled like hay, red-winged blackbirds that banked against the sky, the tiny hills of Ree Heights, the ranchers and townspeople who came to my Grandma's house to see us, always laden with steaks, fresh corn, tomatoes, squash, and flowers. But best of all were the horses they would bring in for my Dad and me to ride. No roller coaster at Savin Rock could possibly compare to the excitement of taking off at a gallop toward the hills and riding until sunset. When I think back on those years I realize I would have traded those years on the East Coast for a horse.

The High Cost of Living in Minnesota

When I moved here from Boston I was dazzled by the beauty of early October, and decided that any place this majestic was worth the effort to make myself comfortable during the winter months I knew would follow.

Winter, however, fell into a new catagory, based on my naive experience with Boston and the New York City area. This was not simply 'cold', it was an entirely new dimension in cold. Snow fell not in inches, but by feet. Frostbite was not a remote possibility, it was at times a daily threat. The winds that waft over us with such promise in the fall turn to a new and frightening intensity in the winter, blowing snow up into the air, blinding our view and making travel treacherous. It gradually occurred to me that I was taking my life in my hands to travel across the cities during a snowstorm. The heavy traffic that seemed to accompany such efforts only made things worse.

What have I gotten myself into? I began to wonder.

Now I am experienced at living here. I can counteract my distress at the howling winds with the sight of one of the beautiful city lakes in front of the rising sun. I can hope that when the skies clear we will be treated to an ethereal vision of Northern Lights. I can travel with determination through pelting snow to get to a location where I can be one of the first to ski on the new snow.

But the reality remains -- first, there are two winters in Minnesota -- the arctic winter, with its bitter wind chills, and the East Coast winter that follows. Together, they take up about six months of the year. In order to live comfortably in Minnesota year-round, and to accommodate the intemperate season, it is necessary to have two different wardrobes -- one full of fleece and fake fur, woolens, long underwear, fuzzy warm boots and gloves, the other for the more temperate time. Next, we need two different vehicles -- something with four-wheel or all-wheel drive for the winter, when we need every advantage possible on the tricky and frequently unplowed roads, and a convertible (or vehicle with better mileage and a sunroof) for the summer.
We need work that we can do at home during the winter, or at least the bad weather, and work in the summer that takes us out into the glorious sunshine and warmth.

That leads us to the last necessity -- a means of getting out. We need to save for vacations to places of warmth in the winter, at the very least. If we don't mind the ticks and bugs and muddy lake bottoms, we also might need a cabin up north to escape to during the summer. And ultimately, unless we have fabulous health and tenacity, we need another home; one where there is plenty of warmth and sun, and, if we are very lucky, big water. Perhaps someday we will escape there and only return to Minnesota for the spectacular summer months. Who knows?

So the best advice when you are living here is to have an escape strategy, and perhaps even an exit strategy; that is, unless you cherish the bitter cold winter and unyielding 'spring'.

Entering the Second Winter

Here in Minnesota we are treated to a veritable banquet of winter; it comes, it stays, it has varying intensities. I wear a turtleneck and ski socks during much of that time, especially as I spend a lot of time outdoors walking our snow-loving dog Jesse and skiing.

But last week, after a dearth of snow and an abatement of the bitter cold, we found ourselves dumped on with a good 4-6 inches of white stuff. The real cold returned. It was an inevitable sign - - we were entering our second winter.

The First Winter starts around November, though it can hold off until December. Once it starts it is relentless, with the temperatures becoming colder and colder until they (usually) reach their nadir of well below zero sometime in late January. This year I think we had over 80 hours straight below zero. That is tough, as every venture outside demands preparation and determination. The alternative is to become quickly chilled or worse. So the First Winter is the arctic winter. Whiteout, howling winds, occasional exquisite Northern Lights, all comprise these months of extreme cold. At times there will be a day above freezing, when everyone runs around the nearest lake in shorts and a sweatshirt; but for the most part, it is simply frigid.

But then, usually after some sort of break indicating that a major shift is taking place, we switch to the Second Winter. This is more like an East Coast Winter. Winds are still prevalent, ice takes the place of endless snow, and grass at times peaks through the dense cover. This year, we lost most of the snow cover prior to the Second Winter -- in fact, we were left with grundgy snow on the sidewalks and bubbly sheets of ice on the lawns.

But now the Second Winter has made its home once more, and though the temperatures do not linger so long below freezing, this is the most torturous time of year. Something inside us cries for justice -- winter should end, and jonquils should peep out from under the juniper bushes. Warm bands of sun should greet us on our daily walks instead of bitter wind slicing the damp into our bones.

Baited-and-switched into Minnesota

After having the good luck to live in Manhattan, San Francisco and Boston, I found myself given the option of moving to the Twin Cities. I came to visit during early October and foolishly believed the rest of the year couldn't be all that bad. By the time we had moved, in the deathly cold of January, transitioning from our hotel (from which we could see the full panoply of winter) to our house in a blizzard, I got the picture. By that time it was too late to back out.

The shock of living in Minnesota is something that has not lessened with the years. As soon as the cold, howling winds of October start, I'm ready to leave for someplace warm and less complex. You see, winter in Minnesota demands switching to an altar-ego -- it also means different clothes, different vehicle, and a primitive quest for survival. In short, winter in the TC is barbaric, and often terrifying -- children wait outside for school busses in temps way below zero, for example.

However, even though I would be able to leave, I am reluctant to do so, because my children, who love this place, are here. Their lives, their children, their experiences warm my heart as no southern sun could.

Just the same...This place is a challenge. So I though I'd share my experiences, so that should you decide to venture up here you will not be taken by surprise; or, if you are one of those who crave the cold instead of the heat, you may decide to come running this way.