Winter lasts way too damn long and every year it seems to grow longer. Usually his grandfather’s metaphorical teachings have a pacifying effect, but now his words just leave Joseph frustrated. Like all living beings, they know their purpose, and what path to pursue when the time comes. This is a crucial time in which Mother Earth, the bountiful Ashkaakamigokwe, finally gets her much needed rest, the blessed spell of renewal, when Giiwedin, the North Wind, brings the purifying snows to cleanse the land, when some plants and creatures discard their weary robes and return to the soil, while others slumber within the nurturing sanctuary of hibernation. Winter-the great snowy Biboon, the season where never-ending squalls roil off Lake Superior, the Gichigami, the vast inland sea of Chippewa legends. In the soft voice of a wind-strummed pine he hears a lesson from Mishoomis, his grandfather, Walter, echo inside his head: Like a metronome, the wipers whip frantically across the windshield nudging him into a hypnotic trance. Bouncing on the padded spring-loaded seat, he inhales recycled stale air, the stench of scorched carpet from under the heating vents, musty in dank corners. With his hands wound tight on the oversized steering wheel, swatches of crystal flakes encapsulate his cab, trapping him inside a globed chamber of isolation, a fetid tomb. Between L’Anse and Baraga on Indian Cemetery Road, Joseph Deer-Running operates the orange, Mac snowplow #7 in near whiteout conditions.
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