A long silence yields to song

American bald eagles are out in great numbers these days. One cannot drive to a nearby town without seeing a couple of the magnificent creatures, feeding on deer carcasses in a ditch, or perched patiently in a tree, watching for tiny creatures moving across the snow. Mice aren’t on the menu like they once were. We know that mice are smart which, unfortunately for them, is one of the reasons science uses them for experiments. If I knew how to put together a mouse union to stop the experiments on union members, believe me, I would. Mice have learned to tunnel under snow, to avoid predators and, in the spring when the snow melts, one can see complex tunnel remnants in the grass. Quite impressive.

It’s an odd time of year, not quite winter, not quite spring, just the melt and muck of somewhere in between. And beyond these woods tens of thousands are dead and dying in Syria, thanks to seismic movements of the earth, and fighter jets are being deployed to shoot down what may or may not be spy balloons drifting overhead, above the political haze of one upmanship, above the same nuclear threat we’ve been fearing since the 1950s. It’s the time of year when, in the soft stillness of winter’s afterwards, we contemplate warmer days, better days, and we look forward to riding easy toward the next thing, the next destination, the next love.

A column or two ago I mentioned nine deer crossing in front of my house, heading west. The same pleasing group passed by this morning, sort of a mini-herd. I don’t know anything about societal norms in wild animals, so I can only assume they gather comfort from/in the presence of others, not something I’ve ever truly understood or appreciated. Many have tried to help me understand, assuming on my behalf that my life will be better if I’m ‘out among ‘em.’ Uh, no thanks. I’d much rather be out in my woods, alone, swinging an ax, while snow falls all ‘round. And besides, standing calf-deep in snow, blade poised overhead and, thinking of a past love, I can forever belt out breathless lines, like those written by the late, great Harry Warren, “My love must be a kind of blind love. I can’t see anyone but you … I only have eyes for you, dear,” punctuated by the only other sounds, heavy breathing, and a blade hewing wood.

All of which is to say that, after more than two years of silence, I have once again begun to raise my voice in song. I have been a singer for more than half a century, not as a full-time professional but, like most of you, as a full-time amateur. That stopped when my wife passed. During her last years I sang to her every day, particularly when I was drying and combing her hair after a shower, usually Christmas songs, easy to do because Christmas lyrics have been rattling about my brain since early childhood. As I write this I’m hunkered down in a snow-globe world, cats in front of a fire, snow swirling about in a field in front of the house, wind blowing hard from the east, furnace humming insistently, and “Sleigh bells ring, are you listening? In the lane snow is glistening,” running through my head, one of the winter songs I used to sing while she smiled, and I brushed. The love remains, as does the song.

Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County. His book “The Iowa State Fair” is available from the University of Iowa Press.