Cold
tonight; time to move. Struggle with this decision every year; it’s my change
of seasons. When I pack up my stuff and
move off the boat it means I’ve accepted that the summer is over. Butkus doesn’t struggle at all. When I show up at the cabin, with my life in
the bed of the pickup, he’ll be sleeping on the porch. But as soon as I open—nobody ‘locks’ in
Midden Harbour—the door, he’ll be on his feet and inside inspecting each room
for summer settlers like squirrels and rats.
He’ll wait until I light the wood
stove before claiming his spot on the braided rug.
I’ll move
tomorrow. It’ll take the whole day to
clear my gear off the boat and stow it in the cabin, but it’s a familiar process
and in a way comforting. Wednesday will be a completely different kind of
day. One filled with wrenches and oil
and drain plugs and water tight bags and coiling ropes and putting a coat of
grease on all the external metal on the boat.
We don’t take boats out of the water for winter around here even though
there’s piles of snow and weeks of sub zero weather and big wave storms. You never know when we’ll get a week of
sunshine and shirt sleeve temperatures in February.
Won’t be a
Shoreline this week. But everyone is
expecting it. They know that the
seasonal ‘Move Week” happens twice a year, fall and spring, and there’s no time
for writing or page layouts. Next week’s
edition will be that much bigger.
Geez, Butkus
must have found a creature back there.
Better go see.
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