The weather on a winter day in northern Michigan is nothing to write home about. For starters, why would you be writing? The ink in your pen is frozen. Your fingers are too numb to grip a yellow #2 pencil. And a trip to the post office would be like an Iditarod run, only without the dogs.
And when the short January day ends, the weather worsens. Shadows, heretofore hidden, suddenly lengthen as the day darkens. Then, when full dark arrives, all outdoor life known to mankind comes to a glacially quiet standstill.
Squirrels, huddled high in a nearby tree nest, are spooning to preserve body heat. Dense, furry tails are comfortably comingled like coats on the sale rack at a downbeat fur salon. The moon, hanging low in the winter sky, appears to be perched on the neighbor’s rooftop, casting a pale blue aura across the land. Meanwhile wisps of gray smoke slowly curl upward and outward from a nearby chimney, as if fearful of wandering too far from home.
Under that roof, four of us are playing bridge, oblivious to whatever is going on outside. We’re warm as raisin toast. The once roaring fireplace, now down to a gentle crackle, issues an occasional pop. Warmth is felt from the hypnotic, dancing flame as well as from the obvious friendship between these card players.
Bridge requires a fair degree of concentration. You’re thinking about your hand, what to bid, what your partner may have in their hand and more. Then once the game gets rolling, the concentration and quiet increase as you mull which card to play.
Sometime during this somnolent time, one of the players was taking forever to decide her next play. So I made a faint whispery whistle, not unlike the sound wind makes as it sneaks under a window that’s a little ajar. Six eyes looked up as one, all with the “Did you just hear that?” look. Then, deciding it was nothing, the somnolence continued.
A minute later, I did it again. This time, the host asked, “Is it getting cold in here?”
We all murmured different versions of, “No…I’m fine…it’s good.” Just then, another howling sound was heard and all eyes searched for the offending window.
The host rose, checked all the windows, disappeared into a closet and came out wearing a heavy cardigan sweater. “I’ve got some other sweaters and jackets if you start feeling as cold as I am,” he said, chattering through his teeth.
Years later, I bumped into this old friend. He asked if I remembered that fierce January evening. Furrowing my brow as if in deep concentration, I slowly nodded and emitted a soft, subliminal whistle. “Yeah, actually, I do.”
Spotting a nearby bar, he said, “Hey, let’s go wet our whistles.”
To this day, I don’t know if that sly smile of his was a hint that he was onto the gag or if his whistle simply needed wetting.
Jim is a former creative director at two prominent U.S. ad agencies. Today, in his chilly mountain town, he enjoys word-wrangling, playing pickleball and staying warm.