Michigan Winter Quotes

There's relief in not having to be outside. No gardening, no mowing the lawn, no tyranny of long daylight hours to fill with productive activity. We rip through summer, burning the hours and tearing up the land. Then snow comes like a bandage, and winter heals the wounds.

We didn't think the library was funny looking in it's faux- Greek splendor, nor did we find the cuisine limited or bland, or the movies at the Michigan theater relentlessly American and mindless. These were opinions I came to later, after I became a denizen of a City, an expatriate anxious to distance herself from the bumpkin ways of her youth. I am suddenly consumed by nostalgia for the little girl who was me, who loved the fields and believed in God, who spent winter days home sick from school reading Nancy Drew and sucking menthol cough drops, who could keep a secret.

Maybe we won't have the beauty of a perfect summer. But neither do we have to endure the callousness of an uncaring winter. Instead, we can all look for our own spring- we can discover where God wants to use us. Do you hear the whisper of spring?

Summer’s dawn broke in Michigan around five A.M., and dark didn’t descend until well after eleven P.M. The state was constantly glowing in light, a contrast to its long winters of dark hibernation.

Winters in Michigan are a lot like John Holmes’s penis: awe-inspiring but way too long, leaving you to wonder—after the

The delivery room is cold and it has a view of the city. A view of smokestacks and snow-kissed rooftops. An industrial grid of squares that seem to go on for miles. And the snowflakes have wings. Big white butterflies suspended in air. The kind kids like to catch on their tongues.

John J. Hendee of Blackman, Michigan, argued that he was entitled to a job simply because he was “governed by the principles” outlined on an enclosed card. Labeled, “God’s Commands,” the manifesto called on its bearers to worship God, tell the truth, abstain from “intoxicating drinks,” and avoid marrying “blood relation[s].” The list of commandments ended with the warning: “Waste not your strength in any unnatural manner”—in other words, do not masturbate.

Hannah Winter was sixty all of a sudden, as women of sixty are. Just yesterday - or the day before, at most - she had been a bride of twenty in a wine-coloured silk wedding gown, very stiff and rich. And now here she was, all of a sudden, sixty. (...) This is the way it happened! She was rushing along Peacock Alley to meet her daughter Marcia. Anyone who knows Chicago knows that smoke-blackened pile, the Congress Hotel; and anyone who knows the Congress Hotel has walked down that glittering white marble crypt called Peacock Alley. It is neither so glittering nor so white nor, for that matter, so prone to preen itself as it was in the hotel's palmy '90s. But it still serves as a convenient short cut on a day when Chicago's lake wind makes Michigan Boulevard a hazard, and thus Hannah Winter was using it. She was to have met Marcia at the Michigan Boulevard entrance at two, sharp. And here it was 2.07. When Marcia said two, there she was at two, waiting, lips slightly compressed. (...) So then here it was 2.07, and Hannah Winter, rather panicky, was rushing along Peacock Alley, dodging loungers, and bell-boys, and traveling salesmen and visiting provincials and the inevitable red-faced delegates with satin badges. In her hurry and nervous apprehension she looked, as she scuttled down the narrow passage, very much like the Rabbit who was late for the Duchess's dinner. Her rubber-heeled oxfords were pounding down hard on the white marble pavement. Suddenly she saw coming swiftly toward her a woman who seemed strangely familiar - a well-dressed woman, harassed-looking, a tense frown between her eyes, and her eyes staring so that they protruded a little, as one who runs ahead of herself in her haste. Hannah had just time to note, in a flash, that the woman's smart hat was slightly askew and that, though she walked very fast, her trim ankles showed the inflexibility of age, when she saw that the woman was not going to get out of her way. Hannah Winter swerved quickly to avoid a collision. So did the other woman. Next instant Hannah Winter brought up with a crash against her own image in that long and tricky mirror which forms a broad full-length panel set in the marble wall at the north end of Peacock Alley. Passerby and the loungers on near-by red plush seats came running, but she was unhurt except for a forehead bump that remained black-and-blue for two weeks or more. The bump did not bother her, nor did the slightly amused concern of those who had come to her assistance. She stood there, her hat still askew, staring at this woman - this woman with her stiff ankles, her slightly protruding eyes, her nervous frown, her hat a little sideways - this stranger - this murderess who had just slain, ruthlessly and forever, a sallow, high-spirited girl of twenty in a wine-coloured silk wedding gown.

IN MICHIGAN IT seemed as if spring would never come; then when it did, all too soon it was summer. One day I realized the cold was loosening its grip, and then overnight, the weather turned hot, with the sun whitening the concrete streets. As if to reward themselves for having endured such a long, harsh winter, everyone walked around wearing as little as they could get away with.

If you dislike Michigan winters so much,” Connell said, “why did you move here? Why didn’t you stay in New York?” At least there she’d be away from wild lumber camps and towns. The sunshine in her face disappeared. She took a longer drink of coffee before looking at him. The heartache in her expression socked him in the stomach. “I wish we could have stayed. Then maybe Daisy wouldn’t have gotten herself into this predicament.” Her voice was soft. “If you find her, do you think you’ll move back?” “There’s nothing left for us there. No one who wants us. No one who ever did.” She spoke so low, he wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. And he couldn’t help wondering what had happened to the rest of her family and how she had ended up with the cranky old photographer. “When I find Daisy—not if,” she said, her voice growing louder and ringing with the passion he’d heard before. “When I find her, I’ll never let her go. And I’ll give her the kind of home she deserves—finally.” He took a slurp of coffee, not quite sure how to answer her. If he did the math, he could come up with the slim percentage she had of finding her sister, especially alive. But he didn’t think she’d be too happy with the statistic. “I’m old enough now that I’ll be able to get a job and find a place for the two of us,” she said, looking him directly in the eyes, as if somehow she could convince him. “I’ll take care of her. We’ll make it this time.” He prayed she was right. But he had the gut feeling she was in for far more challenges than she expected. But who was he to contradict her and discourage her plans? He hardly knew her. In a few short weeks, she’d move on with Oren to another town and Connell would likely never see her again. And yet, down in the dark depths of her eyes, there was a spark that drew him in, a flicker of loneliness and longing, and it tugged on him, pulling him deeper. . . . And he was afraid

You shouldn’t be visiting the saloons by yourself,” Connell said. She pulled off her knit cap. “I didn’t hear you volunteering to come with me earlier.” “If I’d known you were going to march around to all the saloons, I would have offered to tag along.” Her curly hair tumbled down around her face and framed eyes that widened. “I have a hard time believing you’d tag along with anyone.” “Next time try me.” She hesitated and her eyes flickered as if she wanted to believe him but couldn’t. “For your information, I’ve been searching the dregs all winter, and I’ve been taking care of myself just fine.” Connell shook his head. “You’re just asking for trouble.” “I’m not afraid of trouble.” “I can see that.” He liked her spunk and her bravery.

I’m guessing this one is about a hundred years old,” he said. “Then it’s ancient.” He nodded. “If I’m lucky, I’ll get twenty thousand feet of board out of it. Twelve feet long by an inch thick. Good solid board.” She took a step away from him, her face a mask of shock. “What’s the matter?” “How could you even think about destroying this glorious, magnificent, beautiful tree?” For a long moment he could only stare at her, baffled. “It’s my job. What did you think we’re doing out here? Digging for gold?” “Oh, I know perfectly well what you’re doing. You’ll take all you can get from this land, and then you’ll leave behind a chaotic mess.” “We parcel off the land and sell it to farmers.” “You know that’s not happening.” “Maybe not everywhere.” She planted her fists on her hips. “I’ve traveled around enough of Michigan this winter to see what the land looks like after lumber companies pull out and head somewhere else.” “Oh, come on, Lily.” Exasperation tugged at him. “What would our country do without the supply of lumber we’re providing? If we stop our operations, we’ll deprive the average family of affordable means for building homes.” She arched her brow. “Affordable?” “Compared to brick homes? Yes.” She obviously didn’t know anything about the industry. “As a matter of fact, hundreds of thousands of people in growing midwestern towns rely upon our boards and shingles for their homes. And on the other products that come from these trees.” He patted the pine. “I don’t care.” She reached for the tree, caressing it almost as if it were a living being, trailing her fingers in the deep grooves of the bark. “These trees, this land—they don’t deserve to be ravaged.

Oh, how can you say such a thing,” Lily cried behind him. He spun, surprised she’d followed him through the cookshack instead of waiting by the door. Her eyes widened with dismay. At the sight of Lily, Duff’s ambidextrous flipping came to a halt. He stared at her as if she were the first woman who had ever stepped foot in his kitchen. But she had fixed her big eyes on Connell. “With as little sun as we’ve had this winter, how can you possibly wish it away?” “Because we depend upon the ice and snow for production.” “You would begrudge us all the bright and beautiful sunshine so you can earn a bigger profit?” Was he destined to clash with this woman on every issue—even something as insignificant as the sunshine? He sighed and handed her the hot cup of coffee.

Michigan, the state that invented winter.

Summers in Chicago are special to me. I love how the sky stays light right into evening, how Lake Michigan gets busy with sailboats and the heat ratchets up to the point that it’s almost impossible to recall the struggles of winter.

..technologies are being created to help us beat jet lag. Researchers at the University of Michigan are developing an app called Entrain, which uses sophisticated math and data analysis to tell users how and when to utilize light to more quickly shift their sleep cycle in a new location. And then there is Re-Timer, an eyeglasses-like piece of headwear that can be used not just by travelers but also by shift workers who need to make regular adjustments to their circadian rhythm, especially in the winter. Worn over the eyes, it exposes the wearer to a simulation of outdoor light, which, when used in the morning, can help reset our body clock so that we can fall asleep at the right bedtime.

The Kehoes also enjoyed playing cards with other couples at evening get-togethers, held every two weeks or so during the winter months. The pleasant evenings of progressive euchre were marred only occasionally by Andrew’s tendency to chew out other players who didn’t stick strictly to the rules or who committed inadvertent errors. “The people didn’t get angry at him,” reports Monty Ellsworth, “but they didn’t like his severity at a social party.”5 What Ellsworth calls Kehoe’s “severity”—his scorn for those who failed to meet his own exacting standards—was consistent with other aspects of his behavior. Priding himself on his time at Michigan State Agricultural College, Andrew regarded himself as a man of exceptional education and knowledge and cultivated a corresponding air of superiority—a distinguished image that was at odds with his occupation as a farmer.

Painted oxide red, tall against the expansive fields of summer crops or winter snow, silhouetted against colored skies of a setting sun, the barns were a dramatic, strong architectural presence, primordial in intent yet graceful in presentation.

Monarch butterflies born in the fall are different than all the other monarchs. They are a super generation. They can live up to eight months as they travel from Canada all the way down to our forest. Then, after waiting out winter here, they’ll head up to warmer places like Louisiana and breed. Their children will live for only six weeks. It can take five generations of their children, who live so much shorter lives, to get back to Canada. Then those born at the beginning of fall, they become the super ones again. Then those ones begin the great journey. They can fly from Michigan all the way here, to Zitácuaro.” As we

January and February are long months in Michigan. The days are often cloud-filled and dark, and night falls in the early afternoon. My grampa used to always say it took a certain type of person to weather winter in Northern Michigan. Yes, one had to love the snow and cold, the dry skin, a running red nose and the warmth of a wood fire, and, yes, one had to be hearty of soul, but—more than anything—one had to be ever patient and hopeful.

It was December in the cold state of Michigan. Twinkling lights and Christmas carolers lined the busy sidewalks. The bare trees shivered in the wind, already anxious for Spring's arrival. Grey clouds filled the sky, promising the season's first snowfall. As the end of the year approached, Hadley held a bittersweet feeling in her heart. This year had brought the best and the worst of things, things that altered her life forever.

Winters?” I prod, amused. He tears his eyes away from her. “Oh, yes. It was a pleasure,” he mutters, shaking my hand, and before I can say another word, he strides back into his office and shuts the door behind him. As I promised Rosa, after the meeting I take her shopping on the Magnificent Mile—also known as Michigan Avenue. As she tries on a bunch of dresses at a department store, I take a seat next to the fitting room and check my email again. This