Day One: Between the Stillness and the Storm

The following post is from the night before Julie went into the hospital. The 8-day journal is for family and friends and will continue in posts above. (Names have been changed.)

Sunday, December 12, 2004: Prologue “The Winter Storm”

We’d gone together to the shore to see the breakers crash against the peer. Since our first winter here, we’d seen pictures of the red lighthouse coated in a shroud of ice, and we’d heard the sad stories of this peer during high-sea storms, but we’d never seen one for ourselves.

In the far-reaching headlights of cars parked behind us, shadowy swells rose and rolled across the concrete break wall. And there at the far end, the red lighthouse was awash in arching plumes of foam. A cold mist from the spewing surf and howling wind squinted our eyes as we leaned into the gale to hold our ground.

Julie gestured back toward the car, and we turned and let a strong gust push us toward the calm and common sense of shelter. The doors slammed tight behind us, and we just sat there, in awe of the contrast between the stillness and the storm. I rubbed my gloved hands together and started the car.

“Well, we can scratch that off of our list of ‘things worth doing once.’” I joked.
“You can go back out if you want,” she replied with a quick tilt of her head. The tilt meant: she was staying put, but if I wasn’t, she would be happy to watch me blow around from the car.
“No. I’m with you,” I said. Besides… I heard Bing in the background and turned up the radio to hear “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” It seemed a pleasant omen to stay warm, so I crooned the male part as best I could, and turned the car toward home. Julie smiled but didn’t sing.

As we crossed the Grand Haven Bridge, the heavy snow began.
.
.
Thirty months later, I read this post and tested the prose in quatrameter/enjambment :

We’d gone together to the shore
to see the breakers crash against the peer.
In postcards since our first year here,
we’d seen the storied red lighthouse
coated in a shroud of hoary ice;
we’d heard the stories of this site--
souls washed away in high-sea storms,
but never had we'd seen it for
ourselves 'til then, in the headlights
of the dozen cars behind us
as shadowy swells rose and rolled
across the craggy, concrete wall.
Half-hidden by the falling snow
at the far end was the lighthouse
awash in arching plumes of foam.
A cold mist from the spewing surf
stung our cheeks and squinted our eyes.
We leaned against each gust and gale
to hold our ground then turned back t'ward
the car, letting the wind drive us
to the common sense of shelter
and the assurance of slammed doors
indifferent as the frosty glass
between the stillness and the storm.
I rubbed my gloved hands together
and fumbled with the ring of keys.
“Well, we can scratch that off the list
of ‘things worth doing once.’” I joked.
“You can go back out if you want,”
she said with a tilt of her head.
The tilt meant: she was staying put,
but she would be happy to watch
me blow around some more from there.
“No thanks. I’m gladly here with you,”
I said above the radio
In time to hear my favorite line,
crooned, “but Baby, It’s Cold Outside.”
The song was a pleasant omen.
I sang along as best I could,
'til the rhythm of the wipers
caught my eyes and ears at the bridge
and the heaviest snow began.