Easter morning. Everything feels changed, and yet some things don't. My son just called from Arkansas to announce that the Lord is risen. He's been doing that for decades; he and his mother started it, I don't know when, and now she's gone, he still does it. The correct Episcopal response – and maybe others; I don't know – is, "The Lord is risen indeed." So I said it. A little later one of my daughters e-mailed me with the same message. We may not be dancing together anymore, but we still know the steps and the music.
Just by coincidence, Easter this year is the second anniversary of the death of their mother. So while we celebrate one presumed triumph over death, we mourn the very real loss of another – in many ways the liveliest, most dynamic person I've ever known. It's been a wonder to me for two years now how all that energy, creativity, and persistence could have been converted in the moment of a single breath not taken to a bag of ashes in the small granite urn in the bedroom. But so they were.
Amid the welter of information and misinformation streaming constantly into my hidey-hole these days is the speculation that Easter will also be the peak of the current viral infection in our state; that henceforth, though there'll be more infection, the rate will begin to drop, along with the number of deaths, until, like Noah and his family, we survivors will emerge into a cleansed, changed world. I doubt it – we're a fractious people, inclined to rebellion and disaffection – but it's an encouraging thought.
Meanwhile, it's impossible not to reflect how little the advice to shelter has affected the lives of the two of us still living here. There's the afternoon walk in Hubbard Park on decent days. We go to the supermarket maybe every five or six days. There's not much we need there – even toilet paper, thankfully. It's hard for me to reconcile the Vermont-bred heroes of Gettysburg, the Wilderness, and Cedar Creek with the panic-stricken citizens who stripped the shelves of that item a few weeks ago. But so it goes; the rest of us'll get along all right.
Hardware store now and then. Strict limit on how many can be inside at once. An employee at the door takes your name and lets you in when someone comes out. No hand-to-hand inside; you pick up your purchase where it's been laid, and put your credit card into the scanner yourself. Gas station rarely. I calculate I've burned less than nine gallons in the past thirty days. There's a downside to that: My Prius lies dead in the garage, the victim of dozens of short trips that have failed to charge her battery. I've been told I need a girlfriend in Buffalo, or at least Cape Cod, to get Pria (her name) out onto the interstate and bring her back to life. I can think of about twenty reasons that's a very bad idea.
As I sit at my desk with Kiki snoozing behind me in the recliner – I'm not "going to church" on Zoom– I have two photographs of my wife at arm's length on the wall. One, a studio shot that shows her as the knockout she was, and the other, of the two of us on our honeymoon (belated by six years) in front of an abandoned, near-derelict log hunting camp in the stillwater at the head of the East Branch of the Ausable River in the high peaks of the Adirondacks. Both are painfully evocative; but actually I'm surrounded by her. This is the last and most successful of the five houses she designed for us. It suited us perfectly; but it also suits me alone. I don't feel at all that I'm rattling around like a dried pea in a tin can. The kitchen is so nearly perfect, and so minimally utilized, it's embarrassing: like a ninety-year-old man driving a Ferrari. It once easily made meals for twelve guests. Now it's just me and Kiki, neither of us a gourmet.
So I'm living alone, and have been for about four years now. I didn't say lonesome – though I'd love to ask sarcastically, just one more time, "Sweetheart, do you have any idea where I might start to look for the Fiskars?" Also, my relatively primitive life is conducive to animism. When I enter the kitchen first thing in the morning, I greet Monsieur Café with a hearty, "Bon jour!" and inquire after his health. The Keurig, my backup for heating cocoa water, gets a "Guten Tag." The microwave is Japanese, and the toaster oven Italian. You get the picture. I figure that a little friendliness can't hurt. Kind of like President Obama fist-bumping the White House cleaning staff. In the garage, it's, "Barcelona Red! Good mornin'! And Helga! How you doin'? You'll be out and about in just a couple of weeks now. Pria, my dear, are you up for a run to the post office? We're getting your summer shoes put on this Wednesday."
It's quiet in the house nowadays. No one on the phone, televisions unused except when I'm cooking, Kiki and I communicating in sign and body language. After a rousing singalong a bit earlier with a choir doing the "Hallelujah Chorus," I've got the ancient master Andrés Segovia playing soft guitar pavanas and galliards as a background. Trying not to regret what is no more, or fear what may be ahead. Rather, to be warmed by what was – and to live only in the moment, like the little character in the recliner behind me.
UPCOMING EVENT - Sunday, October 6, 2024 - Trail Mixer 2024 Windows to the Wild Event
WINDOWS TO THE WILD WITH WILLEM LANGE is generously supported by the Alice J. Reen Charitable Trust and the Bailey Charitable Foundation
Willem Lange’s wardrobe is generously donated by The Kittery Trading Post
Fifty years ago, a group of citizens stopped the development of an oil refinery.
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Thanks to our podcast partner: The Marlin Fitzwater Center for Communication at Franklin Pierce University
Adventure journalist Freddie Wilkinson and a group of indigenous paddlers set out.
We rejoin adventure journalist Freddie Wilkinson and a group of indigenous paddlers.
A team of researchers study the effects of human interactions with Canada Jays.
Joe Klementovich travels along Maine's rivers on a paddleboard.
Marshall Hudson writes stories about interesting and often forgotten places and people.
Scarlett, also known as "Little Foot" has hiked all 48 of New Hampshire's 4,000 footers.
Mirna Valerio does it all. She runs, hikes and skis. She encourages others, no matter who they are.
Willem Lange and a group of New England travelers explore the beauty and culture of France.
The Gulf of Maine offshore wind farm could become New England's next source of renewable energy.
Elevate Youth empowers youth to explore the outdoors and promotes environmental stewardship.
Gregory Rec and his daughter Corrina love hiking together.
Myah Rather is a Meteorology and Atmospheric Science student from Maryland.
As an NHPBS member, you'll be among the first to experience it.
Randy Pierce lost his sight in 2000, but not his determination to keep hiking.
Dogtown, part of the forgotten forests of Cape Ann, Mass.
Wildlife videographer Alfred Balch heads into the woods with Willem.
Find out what attracts our feathered friends to this special spot.
Host Willem Lange takes viewers on a ride along the Scenic RailRiders track in Concord, NH.
A North Conway, NH family shares what they learned about the effects of climate change.
Willem and Wendy Lull explore and discuss ways to record and preserve life on the coast.
Willem goes looking for moose with long-time moose researcher Charles Willey in Colebrook.
A trip along Vermont's Long Trail.
Join host Willem Lange on a tour of a Cambridge oasis -- the Mount Auburn Cemetery.
Willem and a group of people from throughout New England took a trip through Ireland.
What do you do with a section of 170-year-old abandoned railroad track?
Melissa Elam has hiked all of NH's 4,000-foot mountains with her cat, Floki.
A North Conway family shares what they learned about the effects of climate change.
Gabriel Andrus will ski from the northern border of NH to its southern border this winter.
There are gems in the hills. Host Willem Lange learns there's a lot to rock hunting.
Arlette Laan is the first woman to hike all eleven of the National Scenic Trails.
Kayaker Betsy Wish set out years ago to meet the people who catch our lobsters.
Host Willem Lange is at sea on the American Eagle schooner.
The Manchester Cedar Swamp Preserve is considered an ecological gem.
WINDOWS TO THE WILD's good friend and Outdoor Enthusiast, Chaya Harris from Outdoor Afro.
Getting outdoors is important but its also important to be safe.
Susie Spikol is a naturalist at the Harris Center for Conservation Education.
Mt. Eustis Ski Hill opened in 1939 and was a community gathering place until it closed.
Competitive rower Erik Frid takes a break from competition to row 300 miles.
New Hampshire resident Susan Dromey Heeter is competitive.
David Krueger is a Language Specialist / Interpreter, you may have seen him.
Redline guide Ken Hodges hikes with Debby "Bear Repellent" Roberts.
Willem hikes with partners and participants of Summits in Solidarity.
The Lifesaving Station at Wood Island was used for sea rescue prior to the Coast Guard.
The Lifesaving Station at Wood Island was used for sea rescue prior to the Coast Guard.
Conway photographer Joe Klementovich uses a paddleboard to explore 130 miles of the Saco.
Students attend school aboard a schooner.
Join us for an all new season of Windows to the Wild with Willem Lange! Wednesdays at 7:30
Host Willem Lange is with friends on the Tucker Mountain trail in Vermont.