these icicles are not for the meek. we are, luckily, not meek. we are well-versed in icicles and in the removal of icicles. well, at this moment, make that the continual removal of icicles.
the gutter guy came the other day. it was in the 20s out, so it felt like a heatwave. but not enough of a heatwave to do any work on the gutters. though we are scheduled for the future, we are still gutter-challenged, which makes us icicle-laden.
it helps to drive around our neighborhood of old houses and see other houses with hanging ice sculptures as well. usually, the only difference is that their sculptures are hanging off their extended soffit and fascia – something i wish we had on our steeply pitched cape cod roof. but alas, we don’t. so our icing is a tad more threatening to the inside of our home than theirs. suffice it to say, it does my heart good to see someone else with the same kind of gutter-roof setup as us. no, this is not schadenfreude. it is a shared sense of dread and a big outpouring of empathy.
so i try to take advantage of the unusual conditions and photograph the ice up close and personal, try to see the beauty of it, try to appreciate it. ahyup. it remains ice, nonetheless, and – for us – that is less than enthralling. were we to be viewing an icy waterfall or river we would be captivated. but the ice forming along our roof line holds little charm.
it is most definitely my hope that there is no ice on your roof, that your gutter flows freely, that no damn damming has come your way.
but if it has, know – in your heart – that we are in your camp, we stand – frozen – with you and it warms our heart to know we are not alone. we have wondered if there exist online support groups for ice-damming-survivors. we are ready to help with words of wisdom or tools of the trade should you need them.
we have become backer rod junkies. having never heard of it before this fall, it has been a quick conversion to fanhood, but we are there, nonetheless.
it’s been a week now since i woke up at midnight to the steady drip, drip, drip in the next room. yes. IN the next room. i threw off the covers, which woke d up immediately. and then i ran into the sitting room.
pulling up the miniblind disclosed what i expected: internal window sills of ice and a steady drip from above. it’s called ice damming.
the ridiculously frigid temperatures have caused the water in the gutter above these twin windows to freeze. we have a heating cable in that gutter, but – and here’s the big but – despite checking it before the snowfall, we didn’t know that the outdoor outlet the cable is plugged into had since failed.
so the water in the gutter froze and then the heat from the house started to thaw the snow on the steeply pitched cape cod roof which then melted toward the gutter – which had somehow misaligned itself – and, with the ice filling the gutter the water had nowhere to go but into the window structure behind the wall and voila! an interior (of the double hung windows) filled with ice. this – as you may guess – is not our favorite thing.
so, there we were, at midnight getting our equipment together. david with his 32 degrees base layers and boots and the infamous nike jacket, the ladder and plastic pitchers from which to pour hot water – and me, with my blow dryer, lots of old towels, a heater, a rubber spatula, mallet, and anything i could get my hands on that might waylay water from actually spilling INTO the room.
it was 2:30am before we went back to bed after d had climbed the ladder about 57 times in the frigid night air, melting the gutter and the downspout and replugging the heating element wire into an extension cord.
and then it all started again the next day. and the next. and the next. we are hoping for a 50 degree day, but it doesn’t look promising.
i’m writing this ahead so i am hoping that we have gotten it all under control by this time – hoping the backer rod and the towels and the cold-weather flex paste and the overburdened gutter guy have – in combo – solved this. but, for right now, as i write this, we are still in midstream, dealing with it. yep. midstream.
it is my hope (against hope) that the inordinate amount of backer rod we now proudly own will do the trick – being impermeable to water and such. we are counting on that impermeable thing. we shall see.
but in the meanwhile, we are nevertheless hope-filled-backer-rod-fans and will not hesitate to do the backer rod dance should backer rod help to solve this issue.
ice damming is a royal pain. we do our best to avoid it. every time it snows i hopehopehope it won’t be followed by a period of melting and then frigid sub-zero temperatures. not to mention a failing outlet or a gutter that has shifted out of alignment. eh.
we try to keep it in perspective, though, as we punt through our improvised fix. we feel fortunate, even as we damn the ice damming.
and mostly, i’m trying to decide if we should publicize my new backer rod theme song (to the tune of “edelweiss”) “backer rod, backer rod, every gap you are sealing. backer rod, backer rod, our love for you is revealing…joints and gaps will be waterproofed, that’s no spoof, we’re cheering…back rod, backer rod, you can’t know how much we’re feeling.”
the connective tissue between us is sometimes like strong rope and sometimes like filmy silken thread. yet we are – one to the other – connected through bliss and storm, hot heat and bitter cold, mountaintop summits and chasmic challenges. though you may be peripheral in my every day story, we connect in the subplot of all our stories – the humanity of living – our interdependence, our shared earth.
we – together – in our shared mission seeking goodness – step into the next day. in our joining – together – we bring the best of each of us – the uniqueness of all our strengths, our gifts, our wisdom – and we buoy one another.
when the ice formed on the window in threads – more beautiful than i could have ever created – the feathery crystals latching onto the ice-strand – like tiny preschoolers holding the knots on a rope while walking in a safe-line – it reminded me, once again, of your presence. the threaded crystals remind me that we are not alone, that – together – we may find the beauty we know is there, the pause between the notes, the reinforcement, the ‘ands’ that we each desperately need.
the needlepoint of the universe – crocheted vapor – a talisman of hope.
“if everything around seems dark, look again, you may be the light.” (rumi)
we are the light in this darkness – together – particularly when we make together our intention. though feeling as if hanging on by a thread, i take comfort knowing you are hanging with me, with us.
we’ve seen photographs of other places – not all that far from our house. even 10, 20, 30 miles or so – maybe less – makes a difference. instead of a bit of snow and a lot of ice like we have, there are inches of snow. lake michigan and that ole windy jet stream has been wreaking havoc for every meteorologist around trying to accurately predict what to expect. it’s all situational.
this past saturday was a fun day (notice my pained smirk here). with ladders and buckets and decanters and water boiling on the stove and blow dryers we dealt with the ice damming issues that come with these sudden bursts of arctic air – the negatives. it is never good to open the back door and be dripped upon before exiting the sunroom and going outside. so, we took all our ice-damming know-how and experience and applied it, once again, to our gutters and roofline – particularly near the obstinate newer gutter outside the back door. going back to maybe 2002 or even a bit earlier, i remember clearly being on the ladder out there with a long hose extending to the basement laundry tub, attempting to melt the overlayer of ice to allow the gutter to flow. so it is clearly a tradition at our house and not an unexpected sight; our eastneighbors never even said a word as they passed by. one never knows when this is going to happen and some years are luckier than others. the conditions are specific and, even with heating cables tucked into the gutters, there are unlucky days here and there. it’s all situational.
and so, we have a polka-dotted patio – with slushy-ice making little circles – making us think of the ice circles that form in lake michigan under certain circumstances. a bit of snow has now accumulated on the grass out back and the birds who remain here to winter are occupying the ornamental grasses – eating seeds that remain there, alternating between the grasses and the birdfeeder. i wonder about a way to warm the water in the birdbath so that there is some fresh water for them to drink. they seem happy, flitting about, despite the freezing cold and wind.
it will be another hearty dinner night. something warming, soup or chili. this cold snap is going to last a few more days. i suppose we could go out hiking in snow-covered woods, but the treadmill and the bike call our names from the basement and we wuss out. we plan on adding to our little gym down there – maybe a few mats for stretching exercises as well. there are certainly circumstances during which we’d rather be in our none-too-fancy-but-climate-controlled basement than outside in the frigid air. it’s all situational.
and even though we glance at the temperatures in other corners of the world – and people taunt us with screenshots of weather with 75° and that silly sun icon – we are glad to be here. managing the challenges of the cold weather, soaking up the comfort of a warm home, watching the seasons as they seemingly fly by. it is all situational and we remember to be grateful for this – our situation.
ann’s corner store – forever in my mind fondly known as ‘southport pantry’ – keeps us in ice.
for some reason, and i know it’s a popular problem, our fridge has refused to make more ice. not another cube! not even a shaved kernel. none. it’s not an old fridge – well, it didn’t feel old until a moment ago when i realized i purchased it in 2013 – but, wait…is ten years old for a fridge now? hello? kitchenaid?? anyway, it’s not as old as any of our other appliances, so we sort of expect it to work a tad bit more, say, maybe, completely. it also has this other problem. it’s a bottom drawer freezer and under the drawer a skating rink of ice forms and then, the reason unbeknownst to me since fridge and freezer both imply COLD, it melts tiny puddles onto the floor from time to time. so, from time to time, i defrost this sheet of ice – trying to make the pieces as big as possible – kind of like when you are peeling a (i’m dating myself here) drake’s yodel cake or a sunburn (ewww, you say!). and then, the clock starts all over again.
even now – as i write this ahead of time – muggy humidity is streaming in the open windows raising the “feels like” temperature and lowering my sense of humor. post-menopause is not necessarily synonymous with “loves to be hot”. i am picturing myself high on a mountain or maybe in the northernmost reaches of maine. (and i’m not even in the absolutely brutal southwest or southeast.) what that means is – we need ice.
that brings me to ann’s little store – morelli’s deli. because ice melts – a natural phenomenon – we try to buy it close and race it home. even with a cooler, it has the possibility of turning into one large lumpy lump of ice rather than chunks of broken up ice, so one must be ever-thinking when one purchases ice. so we buy it at ann’s. i’m pretty sure we are not keeping ann’s corner store going with our ice purchases, but if everyone in the ‘hood were to buy something there – often – it would surely help keep this family business going. it was pretty exciting the day we realized she added wine to her wares, stocking many labels, many varietals. it meant we could take a long walk around allendale and the lakefront and stop and purchase a bottle of wine for happy hour – without getting in the car. all the adult beverages at our wedding were provided by ann, so we do have a soft spot for that place.
there are many places in our travels we glance over at a shoppe and wonder aloud how they are able to keep going, to pay the overhead, to make a little money, to stay open. it’s been a crazy time and i suspect that the craziness – financially speaking for middle-class americans – is not ending. soon, student loan payments will be restored and, i suspect, the power companies will raise their rates again in time for winter. the cable/internet/phone company – with whom i have spent several hours of my life in the last week – will perk up its billing with some additional package fees or the unpromoted end of promotional deals and the health insurance EOBs that arrive in people’s homes will surprise households with uncovered expenses.
so, it’s no small wonder that ann and tom – in their zeal to run a family store and keep allendale in italian beef and homemade soups and guac, chips and kringle, coffee and spirits – are succeeding one baby step at a time. their business challenges must be grand, like so many of us who own a business. but their commitment to this community has been and is commendable and heartwarming and we are fiercely dedicated to their success. they know practically everybody. and still remember tiny craig running in with the car change purse to buy donuts.
and so, for however long it is that our freezer just refuses to freeze water into icecubes, we will get our ice from ann’s. and then, if we are lucky enough someday to have an in-fridge icemaker that works, well, we’ll get other stuff there.
because not everyone is lucky enough to have a corner store around the corner and down the block. but we do. and we love going there.
it needs to be below 32 degrees fahrenheit for icicles to form. this is wisconsin, so that’s not really a problem here. it’s winter. there are stalactites of ice everywhere. when they form on gutters is when i start worrying. ice-damming is a cruelly-lurking by-product of our winter storms. but ice forming elongated frozen crystal teardrops on ivy? that’s another thing.
the howe caverns guide was a handsome young guy. susan and i were mid-teens and, thus, instantly in love with his chiseled face as he led us through the stalactites and stalagmites of the caves. fred prendergast was his name. now – ask me what we did last weekend and i may not remember. but fred? yup. how on earth does that work?
i hadn’t seen these beautiful tiny icicles before. they were a product of the neighbor’s garage eaves overflow dripping onto the ivy on top of the fence during a period of time that the temperature dipped below freezing. clearly, a number of things had to align in order for us to see this chandelier of baby icicles.
they didn’t last and, very soon, they were gone. but in the meantime, i captured many photos of them teetering between existence and not-there. looking closely, you can see the layers – one drop of water freezing at a time – vertical layers upon layers. like snowflakes piled inside long lucite columns, each one different, suspended from fragile ivy branches. they were fascinating and prompted me to research icicles just a bit more.
when we left howe caverns, we were – ok, i was – convinced that fred would be my future…that somehow this summertime-employed-cave-guide would search the world – or at least the state of new york – and i would one day be mrs. prendergast. we would give cave tours together and study stalagmites and stalactites. our children would be the children of two studied scientists and our home in upstate new york would be a place of knowledge-seeking.
fred never found me. somehow – in the way of the teenage crush – i was able to process that he never looked.
but his lessons about the stal-ites stayed with me. and i couldn’t help but remember when i stood in front of these tiny icicles on display.
i wonder what fred and the missus (or the mister) are doing.
even the lake moaned in answer to the cold. waves pummel the ice from below, desperate for release, anxious to swirl and crash, and we can hear the sound of cracking, of squeaking, of water begging to be free. we stand and listen, transfixed by it all, this symphony in a frozen-solid world, a bit of music in the stillness of sub-zero.
for thirteen seconds we record the song of the lake, feeling a little like mother-nature-copyright-infringers. we marvel and watch, up over our knees in snow on the edge of the giant rocks that line the lake shoreline. ice, for as far as we can see, is shifting and the groans signal to us that, soon, water will win over ice, flow over stasis. soon, a lake that appears unmoving will reappear in all its moody glory and the suspended moment-in-time will pass. in the meanwhile, the lake will appear as a tundra, vast and flat, the horizon meeting the clouds, a straight white line of demarcation. the fury, the passion, the tides are hidden below the surface, furrowing their brows and incessantly working to break down the ice.
we stand there inside the song of the lake and take note of this measure of transformation.
we know in a day or two the ice will be broken up, the waves will return and the lake’s song will resume a cacophony of crashing, a minuet of quiet lapping, wild some days and gently calm others. just as we ourselves seem in suspended moments, we, too, trust the return of movement, of purpose, of the tides.
there is a price to pay for having an adored old house. ours is 93 years old. sturdy, charming, with wood floors and crown molding, built-in cabinets and solid doors, details that wouldn’t necessarily be affordable in new construction. but then there’s that thing that many of these sweet old houses don’t have enough of — called insulation.
many’s the time i have been on a ladder in the winter with a hose that is stretched to the basement laundry tub spigot. just me and hot water tending to the ice in the gutters. one year, when it was a particularly big problem, big jim came over and performed magic. i remember driving to illinois to purchase the proper tools: heating cables (they were out in wisconsin stores) and one of those really long telescoping snow rakes. and now d has had the distinct pleasure of dealing with this as well. each fall now we check the gutter cables – i’m always holding my breath to make sure they are still working lest the winter comes and they cease being warm in the middle of ice-damming weather.
and ice-damming weather it is.
it’s not like i’m happy that other people are dealing with it, although there is a little bit of content that we aren’t alone in this. as we walk around the neighborhood or drive around town we point at houses and icicles, inches of solid ice clearly stoked up in the gutter, snow falling off roofs like icing sliding from a cupcake on a hot summer’s day. even newer houses and brand-new construction have ice-laden soffits and fascia. and i listen and just keep hoping i don’t hear the telltale drip-drip-drip sound somewhere inside the house; that is never a good thing.
my first experience was memorable. i was alone when i walked in the front door and could hear water literally pouring somewhere. thinking someone had left a faucet on, i immediately went to check the bathrooms, but the sound lured me directly to the sunroom where i stared at the scene that ice-damming had created. my dad and a friend, neither in town, provided some pretty healthy support over the phone for my first adventure on the perilous ladder perched on the icy deck with an unwieldy and uncooperative long garden hose that i had to first thaw from its frozen coiled state as i tried to win against mother nature and too little insulation. eventually, i did win, but not until i was solidly drenched in 20-degree temperatures and i had earned the nickname ‘hoser’ over my moral-support-suggestion-laden-phone-calls and their quest to keep me laughing.
another time, my son can attest to walking into the sitting room one day to find water coming in from above the windows. we both stared at the phenomenon (staring is a requirement as a first reaction in ice-damming). then we got to work with every spare towel we could find. so, yeah, it’s not like i’m happy other people are dealing with it (isn’t that something like schadenfreude?) but i am happy for company in misery. and i know that in the summer, when we are calmly sitting outside in adirondack chairs in the warm sun having an iced tea, these will be funny stories.
but now? this year? yes, i am still holding my breath. the ice is particularly stubborn and the temperatures are lingering in ice-damming territory. facebook posts are abounding with pictures of dammed ice (or “damned” ice, depending on your level of zen) and people’s comments are empathetic and knowing. i don’t remember this from long island at all. i blame wisconsin. nevertheless, in the words of my momma, “this too shall pass.”
i seem to be thinking about those words a lot these days.
i’m sure the tree held on for dear life. perched among the big boulders on the shore of lake michigan, these trees have held on through many a storm, waves crashing past them, wind howling. only this time it was too much. it didn’t have a chance.
we could hear the lake from our house. the winter storm was raging and the intermittent crashes and booms were clearly devastation-in-the-making. when we drove big red over to see, it was astounding. the wind, the waves, ice had torn up and thrown entire chunks of sidewalk. boulders were thrown twenty feet. waves pelted the gazebo that sat back from the lake’s edge. trees were uprooted, glazed in thick shrouds of ice. the storm came and the storm left and the lakefront was forever changed.
in the littlehouse on island we watched the shoreline fade – many feet – over the course of a few months. waves from the south pounded the shore, eating away at earth and trees, demolishing the new dock. what it looked like when we first lived there is not what it looks like now, merely six months later. it is forever changed.
we aren’t big sitcom-watchers. but we are earth-show-watchers. it’s astounding to see how our good earth is mutating – through no fault of its own. profound. fires destroying ecosystems, displacing and killing wildlife, changing the horizon forever. glacial ice melting, challenging the arctic. earthquakes and tornadoes, hurricanes and tsunamis. toxic air forcing the use of face masks, and even of oxygen, the prevention of carbon dioxide in an environment less protected by photosynthesis and more consumed by greenhouse gas emission.
i have lived a couple blocks from the shore of lake michigan now for thirty years. the storms in the last ten years have been fierce. each one erodes the coastline a little more. walking along the water’s edge the-day-after made it all feel apocalyptic, these changes. ‘less is more’ the saying goes. then it alludes that more is even more, perhaps too much.
the tree held on for dear life. and lost. are we holding on for dear life? how are we long-term helping our good earth? how are we long-term hindering it? do we have a chance?
the ice-breaking bow of our ferry made its way across “death’s door”, the strait that connects lake michigan and green bay. the windchill below zero, you could hear the hardy vessel crunching its way through the ice. it was other-worldy. no one else on the ferry appeared to be as enchanted with it as we were; clearly, they were big-I islanders, unmoved by this half-hour jaunt across frigid waters to washington island. unfamiliar vs familiar equals enthralling vs mundane. it’s all how you look at it. and where you start from.
when i moved to wisconsin 30 years ago (kicking and screaming at the time) i stood in the pasta aisle of the grocery store – a local piggly wiggly. there was no mueller’s pasta. none. the brand i had grown up with on long island, the brand i found in florida publix grocery stores…it was not here in wisconsin. i felt instantly lost, instantly homesick. i sensed people moving around my frozen-in-the-spot-trying-not-to-cry body; they were choosing boxes of spaghetti and penne with no problem. for me, it was a telling moment. it was an indicator of change, despite its seeming insignificance. standing in that aisle i can tell you it’s all how you look at it. and where you start from. (*for an update on this incident, please see below.)
the ferry docked on the tiny island, a mere 35 square miles. we disembarked and met our friends. they drove us around, on snow-covered roads, through canopies of trees, past glimpses of water between the pines, their limbs bowing to the snow. at one point they said we could go to the house if we were bored. “no,” we answered. how could we be bored, we wondered. the quiet, the stillness, the solitude was compelling. it’s all how you look at it. and where you start from.
it was quieter on the ferry ride back with fewer people. we were just as enthralled. the ice pieces broken by the bow skittered along the ice plate on top of the water. lines cracked through the sheet, paths drawn by nature’s etch-a-sketch. some large slabs of ice raised skyward. we looked at each other and quietly let out a breath. we couldn’t imagine how this trip across open water could ever become run-of-the-mill. but around us were people who acted like it was piggly wiggly brand pasta and they were in the aisle racing to get to the next aisle. it’s all how you look at it. and where you start from.
*(the rest of the story) i called my sweet momma when i returned home from ‘the pig’ as they say. she answered and i instantly recounted my no-mueller’s-pasta story, i’m quite sure teary in the telling, yearning for the home we had left. four days later the UPS truck pulled up at the end of the driveway and the driver lugged a very large box to the front door. in it i found every shape and size of pasta available…all made by mueller’s. moms are wise beyond words sometimes. by the time i finished using the boxes-in-the-box, the unfamiliar had begun to be familiar. the crisis (yes, fundamentally not a physical crisis, but definitely an emotional one) was over.
reverse threading 