April Wamhoff

I want to thank you all, from the bottom of my cold dark heart, for saving that last winter storm for me. Well, maybe the last. And in all sincerity, I am so very glad to be home that I hardly even noticed the two and a half days of near constant snowing, the slippery sidewalks, or the entire morning of snow removal earlier in the month.
I made it to my island home across the ice. Twice walking in ice cleats and twice on the side by side. Everything is good there. Most of the plants survived. I plugged in the water pump and, just like magic, water came right out of the faucet. It was pleasantly warm-ish inside and a fire in the wood stove made the temperature just perfect. I just love it there.
Thing is this, I believe the waiting hour is upon us. The ice at the Stuntz Bay landing is showing serious signs of wear and tear. Though I hate to see it come, it’s good that the landing goes first. Safer for someone like me who may, on a rare occasion, push the limits of safe ice travel. After all, it just doesn’t matter if there is six or sixteen feet of good ice in the middle of the lake. If the landings and shoreline are gone, well, we just wait.
And wait we shall. In good-natured fashion the dogs and I will stalk the shoreline. Oh sure, at first we’ll be very nice and matter-of fact. “Well, you know, Lucy, it’s just that time of year, blah, blah, blah.” 
And we’ll bring home encouraging springtime reports to my dad: “Boy, she’s sure gettin’ black out in the raceway.” Or, “The pussy willows are out along the boathouses.  That’s gotta be a good sign.”
But after a while, oh, maybe 4 or 5 days, my impatience will start to show. What was cute little inquiries at the coffee klatch and in town will begin to sound urgent and, dare I say, possibly, umm, whiny. “Excuse me, MUST you tell me what the very latest ice out day EVER was?” I’ll start checking the weather reports at least twice daily and watching the Vermilion ice cams.
I’ll start calling and texting my “ice people,” until they quit responding. I’ll check any remaining ice in the boathouse ‘cause, well, clear boathouse ice must show something, right?
Then I’ll start checking the earliest and latest ice out days on Lake Vermillion myself. Like they change daily, from year to year.
And then, on a considerably windy day, the cracks in the ice that have been ever widening and making bigger and bigger lake spots will start moving and breaking up that ice.  It will start blowing and shifting and end up piled on some shoreline or melted in the lake.
Then I’ll go home, over soft liquid water, in a boat. I’ll talk to my plants and give the house a hug. I’ll take a long deep breath of island air, because I’ll be home and that’s where I’m supposed to be. I love it there.