“You’re staying during the week?” she said as she wrapped up the shirt--now priced something near what it was actually worth. “Monday morning you can watch us all do cartwheels down the middle of Highway 42!”
In “season,” and that would be any season but the one right now in the very dead of winter, we wouldn’t have even entered the store, much less buy anything. A retailer whose mark ups regularly drew giggles of disbelief from the wide eyed tourists was reason enough to keep walking. But add on what had to be a corporate decision made worlds away from Fish Creek Wisconsin that broadcasting some kind of bland, tuneless music out on to the sidewalk would somehow entice all who passed to enter and buy stuff; we both had the thought: There is nothing in that place for us. Besides, if you can’t find it at Nelson’s Hardware just a bit down the road; then you probably don’t need it.”
But the friendly and helpful young woman promising cartwheels was not the store or its corporate parent. She just worked there.
Her work was not just in the depth of an icy Sunday in February.
Back when warm autumn winds of orange and golden were heralding the splendor of October and then fading to the crinkly brown and brittle leaves of November just before the cold; she was back behind the counter ringing up the sales.
Even in the height of summer as the apple cheeked throngs of tourists traced the paths of pure geological wonder, walked in the steps of hard and hearty fisherman, and listened for the singing of Moravians trudging through the woods to church, she was folding neat the clothes. Watching from inside the store the lines of lumbering SUV’s, and mini vans, silver and black sheet metal gleaming like money, snake north at the beginning of the weekend and then back south in a hushed and solemn twilight Sunday parade.
In that grand cycle of the seasons, she pretty much worked the year. Maybe March or early April, as the land turned to mud and a wild gray rain marked the days, maybe then you’d find her gone from the County.
But in February she owned the place. At this time of year, she could do cartwheels down the middle of Highway 42, skip through Fish Creek chanting poetry, drive for miles up Highway 57 feeling grateful for all the company, remembering only later that she didn’t pass or see a single other car.
Strange is the tourist that comes here now. Strange and so few that they almost seem not to matter. They are easily tolerated or even ignored.
And that presents a gift of unimaginable joy for those who come now at this time of year. The very best kind of gift because one feels that it’s earned. Come here now and you get the gift of feeling what it’s like to actually belong here.
So different now from the color splayed abundance of autumn. When the supper club machines are running hard on all cylinders and there’s just a bit of a wait for a table.
Now all the tables are good tables. There is no wait.
Chris at the C and C is still working hard on the weekends---because that’s what she does. But as the absent minded diner pays more attention to the blazing fire place in the center of the room than where he is going and so mistakes the kitchen door for the Men’s Room; Chris sets him straight. He then turns, smiles, and jokingly says to her, “Oh, I was just going to help out with the dishes.” Chris smiles kindly. The response of a consummate professional. But then she shares a laugh. A real one. It was funny. And right now, in February, it’s almost like: it’s just us here. So laugh! Cartwheels down the middle of Highway 42!
After dinner, back at the condo tucked into the edge of the looming, dark forest; we’re in one end of the building. Another couple, Wisconsin plates and a Volvo, are at the other end. And there is no one occupying the eight silent and cold units in between. No one. The wind and the night and the unimaginable frigid cold comes swooping down straight from the stories of those woods and it is just that rumbling heater in the closet and a thin layer of plasterboard and insulation in the wall that holds that cold of time itself at bay.
The silence, for us city folk, is just thundering. And a bit scary too. No sirens, car alarms, traffic, drunks stumbling along outside our bedroom window. Just the silence. Just the bone chilling silence. Just like we wished for and got.
An early Sunday dinner at the Sister Bay Bowl. We weren’t really sure the place was open---it seemed so dark inside and the plastic room divider curtain that separates the bar and empty bowling alley from the dining room pulled open just enough to walk through. From the distance at the other side of the pretty much deserted dining room---3 other couples fill the window seats as twilight stills the last signs of movement out on Highway 42 with Sister Bay in the distance---and a voice calls out “Sit anywhere you want.”
The voice hits us and we think: this is different. No tourist show now. Just a smattering of tired couples not wanting to cook tonight. As if a voice is saying “We serve food. We serve it quick. That’s it. No show. No North Woods chic. It’s Sunday night. We all want to go home. The broasted chicken is the special tonight. Will that be all?
The next morning we almost jump out the door and back to the White Gull for breakfast. Ripping into a Chicago Tribune like a child clutching for a worn security blanket we’re back ensconced among the last vestiges of real tourists camped out here by the roaring fireplace with knick knacks and sweatshirts for sale in the warmth of what a fancy Inn is supposed to look like up here alongside the frozen bay.
Last nights broasted chicken now a topic of conversation over cream cheese stuffed, French toast smothered in cherries and an endless refill on that coffee.
But the lure of what’s behind the wonderful warmth of the hospitality machine—the chance to go behind the stage and watch the levers being pulled—beckons once again. And we find ourselves so deep inside our walk on the usually well traveled trails of Peninsula State Park; that we realize something else has happened for the very first time. We’ve walked, without knowing it, in a circle. Right here in this clearing, pointing up, here is where we heard the sound of that wind through those winter trees. We just walked by here! And in the unknowing circle of the walk we find another gift: the absence of time. A longer walk. A better walk. A deeper walk. Familiarity and adventure at the very same moment: because we had stopped paying attention to things like trail markers and the walk walked us.
Just the sound of the winter wind in those very same trees that we passed by before.
After that new kind of walk—cartwheels down the middle of our twice walked trail if we had wanted them—we had earned our dinner at home that night. Back with our own fireplace blazing, the wind outside still sweeping through the forest somehow now showing mercy on the faint lights of our little outpost.
As if we actually belonged.
This trip, right before the bridge that spans the frozen Sturgeon Bay delivered us back to the Door Peninsula, we began talking about medical care and where to get it---fixing the locations of the Urgent Care Clinics and hospital in our heads. As we’d drive by the one just south of Sister Bay, an unnamed concern bubbling up in the back of our minds about why it is that we’d need to know where this place was now.
The answer appeared as we woke up the next morning, an angry red splotch of what looked like a burst blood vessel in Maria’s eye. Her first reaction was her standard diagnosis of “No big deal.” But agreement was soon reached on the thought that it might be nice to have an actual doctor or nurse say that. And at the Aurora Urgent Care Center just south of Sister Bay, we found a wise nurse who could immediately confirm Maria’s self diagnosis and shoulder the tougher task of calming me. She suggested that we come back in a little while to see the doctor and seal this deal; so Maria and I we set off to do what we always have done on every trip, in every season over these past many years. We simply set off to wander.
One stop we’ve never made in past years was The Clearing.
Like so much of what is Door County, one can easily know The Clearing before you set foot anywhere near the place simply by reading Door County’s preeminent writer Norbert Blei. That Jens Jensen, a landscape artist of the early 20th century whose work graces parks all over the world saw a school for the folk arts right here on the shore of Ellison Bay did not come as a surprise. The thought: “Where else?” came easy. The Clearing looked and felt just like Blei said it would.
But right now, in February, as we opened the door to the Visitor’s Center and saw a class going on to our right and a deserted gift shop to our left; once again we received another gift of what it means to belong here in February. We were greeted by perhaps the kindest, tail wagging, soulful eyed back lab that has perhaps ever walked these woods. In the pure joy of that greeting, the dog guiding us into the gift shop, once again another welcome here as if Jens himself had found a way to say hello...
Back then to the doctor, who added a prescription for an antibiotic salve to the diagnosis of “this too will pass,” back again to our warm little place on the edge of the winter forest and we remembered it was Valentine’s Day.
In Door County in February one does learn that 6:00 pm can feel like 3 in the morning. So 5:30 seemed like a good time to reserve a table at the White Gull. And walking in to the darkened room, white table clothes and a harpist having somehow miraculously transformed the breakfast place into a special occasion, fancy dinner out wonder that would shine in any city or small town; we celebrated a meal and a bottle of wine that somehow, someway blurred all the lines between all who found themselves blessed by this place. The artists, the merchants, the retirees and maybe even if you look hard enough the fishermen and the farmers.
Joined right here, right now as that food poured out of those swinging doors and on to the tables where women were smiling and the men quietly beamed.
Finishing up that magnificent meal, walking out past the fireplace and in to the lobby of the inn. A look to the right. There on the couch, telling stories surrounded by friends. There on the couch sat Norbert Blei, waiting to go in to eat dinner.
His work having originally told the stories of this place. His work having drawn us here. His work having turned out to be so true.
But he was out for the evening just like we were; so we didn’t stop to pay our respects in person.
Because this time, in February: at was almost as if we belonged here. And when you belong here: you don’t intrude.
So we heard the hostess say, “Your table’s ready Norb.”
So, as the writer walked inside to get his dinner, we zipped up our coats and walked outside under the stars of the Door County winter night
And did cartwheels down the middle of Highway 42.
3:52:07 PM 
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