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It had been a full day, a leave-the-house-before-eight-and-return-home-after-eight kind of day. But fuller than the day was the moon. And stronger than my tiredness was the moon’s pull. After helping the kids with homework and getting them in bed, I slipped into snow pants and a coat instead of pajamas and stepped outside with my husband and two dogs. <BR><BR>The moon was brilliant. It attracted notice initially because it shone so brightly. We could see clearly down our driveway and through the woods. We were delighted. I ran back inside to grab a scarf and we headed down the driveway for a late night walk.<BR><BR>The stillness of a winter’s night is tangible. We heard nothing but the sound of our breathing and the crunch of our boots in the snow. As we walked a couple miles down our rural road, passing a handful of houses, most whose seasonal occupants left them empty, we talked in whispered voices.

Someone said it Friday: With the passing of Mary Catherine Brown one of Ely’s well known characters is gone.<BR><BR>Someone added: She never saw a performance in Ely that she didn’t like and write about. <BR><BR>Boosterism at its best, another remarked.<BR><BR>Her life was also commented on before the city council meeting when it was noted that car drivers will no longer have to part the avenue as they did when Mary’s little red car appeared in the vicinity. Just a few dents peppered her vehicle.<BR><BR>For me, I remember Mary Catherine (as she liked to be called) not so much from her working at the Echo. She had been hired by Miles Aakhus, the Echo’s original owner (1972-1977), and wrote a piece about the history of Winton among others.

<BR><BR>There’s something about the month of February, especially to those of us living in the northern sphere.<BR><BR>First off, it’s a shorter month, one full of holidays, longer daylight, (called spring is coming - there’s hope.)<BR><BR>A Boomer kid looked forward to February. Christmas seemed a long ways past, but February brought on new incentive. <BR><BR>How could we pass up the first holiday of February - Groundhog Day?<BR><BR>A kid living in Ely didn’t quite get the national trend of that one. We understood if the groundhog saw his shadow, we’d have six more weeks of winter. They make a big deal out of that in Philadelphia, but Ely kids back then envisioned winter going on into April or maybe May.<BR><BR>We didn’t have groundhogs up here to forecast for us, but if you remember you might have stepped out at daylight on February 2 every year, watching for your own shadow.

A few years ago, I worried about my young children’s eating habits, as many new parents tend to do. Now that I’ve got a few years of parenting under my belt, I have a broader perspective on the eating issue. What I’ve discovered is that there are many things to worry about as a parent concerning children. Eating needn’t be one of them. <BR><BR>My first born was raised on a strict organic diet until he was almost two years old. Refined sugar didn’t pass through his lips, nor did an artificial flavor or color. His first birthday cake was sweetened with apple juice and made with whole wheat flour. I was such a neurotic first-time mom that I kept a food journal to ensure that he ate the proper nutrients daily. <BR><BR>He was the child I insisted finish his meal before being excused from the table. He was the child who was TOLD what he liked (You like peas, remember?) and what he disliked (That is colored sugar water in wax.

Winter Wear<BR><BR>Anyone raised up here will never forget winter dressing or should I say, dressing for winter.<BR><BR>Boomer kids didn’t grow up with Mylar, Polar Fleece, Thinsulate or Gortex to keep out the cold.<BR><BR>Our cold weather duds came in cotton, heavy weight cotton, corduroy, wool, leather and rubber.<BR><BR>Everyone knows dressing in layers is most practical during the winter season and today that’s not so bad as the layers are lightweight and less bulky. But back then, layering meant lots of clothes, adding weight and bulk to even the slimmest of body frames.<BR><BR>Long underwear was the framework. They didn’t come in fancy colors or flowery designs.

The Wimp Factor<BR><BR>Amazing how a cold snap hits after several warm winter weeks and some folks get thrown into a panic. Then, after a few days of subzero temperature, nobody pays much attention.<BR><BR>Friday, Jan. 14, the school was closed. A lot of us could not remember when the Ely school was closed except for holidays. Other schools close. The ones farther south close first, like around Duluth, Proctor and Superior. <BR><BR>You can understand the Duluth School system. By closing Friday and with Martin Luther King Day on Monday, the schools got a four-day weekend. But up here? They don’t usually close the schools on account of weather or even for St. Urho’s Day. Who’s St. Urho? Anybody not familiar with him must be a newcomer.<BR><BR>Anyone who wishes to go back and check on past weather, Global Warming notwithstanding, will find that Ely has experienced weeks at a time when the temperature didn’t get warmer than 20 below zero.

At times, the step I’m taking seems minute, even irrelevant. Other times it looms large and frightening. I’ve decided to stop coloring my hair. <BR><BR>I’ve made this decision against the advice of nearly everyone I know. “You’ll become invisible,” one woman warned me. <BR><BR>“You’ll look older than a grandma!” my kids said (which is probably true because all of their grandmas color their hair). <BR><BR>Even my own mother, whom I usually have to beg for advice, was quick to say, “Honey, DON’T do it,” with more emphasis in her response than I would have received if I had told her I’m leaving my husband and kids to run off to Spain with a 26-year-old matador. <BR><BR>Nonetheless, I’m doing it. <BR><BR>We all know our culture values youthfulness. At least that’s what we hear. But if nothing else, turning 40 last summer has made me realize -finally - that I yam what I yam. And what I yam is grey on top.

A couple in Florida made national news a few weeks ago when they went on strike to protest their children’s unwillingness to do their chores. The parents refused to cook, clean or drive for their children until the two kids, ages 17 and 12, “shaped up.”<BR><BR>Parents’ striking to protest lazy children is nothing new. Unfortunately, such efforts are usually not effective. <BR><BR>For one thing, a strike involves workers withdrawing their labor to place pressure on their employer to meet their demands. We can infer, then, that parents who strike = workers; kids = employer. From the start, parents who strike put themselves in a precarious position. <BR><BR>Also, the Florida parents may have underestimated their children’s ability to hold out. I’m always impressed by how strong the will of children can be, regardless of their ages or sizes.

I’m thankful for the wood burner tonight. I’m up late, which is rare for me. But I need to sit by the fire tonight. The rocking chair is upside down, used earlier in the day as an entrance to a blanket fort. I turn the chair upright and drag it near the fire. I grab the poker and disrupt the log on top to encourage flame. And I rock. <BR><BR>The tragedy occurring on the other side of the world is beyond comprehension. Daily the death toll climbs. I try to calculate all the people I ever came in contact with over the course of my life - friends, relatives, acquaintances, the lady behind the counter at the custard shop, the substitute teachers I had in fourth grade, the man who cashed my first paycheck, and such. I estimate that number to be a few thousand. Then I realize that fifteen - more likely twenty - times that number lost their lives in the span of a day. My mind reels. I add two more logs to the fire.

I wonder if I’ve told some of you this story before, but indulge me if I have. I was talking about the wonderful snow we’ve had with some of my friends and I remembered how when I was a kid my Grandma took us across the road to the woods to sled. There was a large hill and a clearing in front of these woods and we had just gotten a large, deep and wet snowfall.<BR><BR>We tried in vain to get our sleds moving down the big hill (a thrill we’d been anticipating for a long time) and could only manage to move a couple of yards. We were all bundled up against the cold in snow pants and layers of coats and our mittens and boots were beginning to let snow in past their tops. It had been a long climb up the hill and disappointment, like the cold, was beginning to set in.<BR><BR>Without a word my Grandma (in her late 60s) lay down and began to roll down the hill. Over and over she rolled, plowing a firm base about five feet five inches wide all the way down.