![]() ![]() We were practicing social distancing by the end of February. Andrew Cuomo asking New Yorkers “Who are you sheltering for?” For me, that answer is my dad. Tomorrow is predictable because our favorite blueberry patch now has blossoms on it and it looks like it might be a good berry year because we had snow to protect the bushes. We will still head out into the wilderness to check for bear tracks. Do we want to be hooked up to a ventilator? Do we want to die at home? When do we want to go to the hospital? Whatever our decisions are, we still stand on the porch listening for grouse hooting on the hillside. Not in a morbid manner, but matter-of-fact. My dad, my husband and I, all live together at our fishcamp and we’ve been talking about death a lot. In the truck, it’s easy to feel like things are normal, but the world now is hardly that. Today, my dad and I are out of our official hunkering down abode, Mickey’s Fishcamp, to get some fresh air and look for signs of spring at Pat’s Lake. ![]() The grass on the side of the road is still pale and dry, but sure enough, four bright yellow tubes protrude from the muddy ditch. My shoes squish into the mud, newly thawed from spring sunlight. At any moment the deer can nibble off the new spring growth or the bears can dig up the roots. Between disbelief and wonder there’s a place of uncertainty keeping you rooted like the skunk cabbage in the mud. ![]()
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