We now wake to a freeze every morning. Men go by daily, hauling cords of spruce to ward off the approaching winter cold. Women and children are busy turning freshly picked cranberries and nitzii into jams. Twice a day the fish wheels and nets are inspected and the day’s catch is dried, smoked and frozen. Men and sons are on the hunt for moose and bear to fill their winter caches.
But as twilight falls and a faint chill settles under the trees, friends gather and chairs come out in front of the cabins, and quiet laughter rises and hangs in the cool night air. I’m listening to those voices now as I lie in bed; they remind me of the lyrical strains of The Lark Ascending by Ralph Vaughn Williams. It is a soulful melody, and the laughter outside my window will continue its rising and reluctant return into moments of pensiveness long into the night.