Unless you are from the northern Midwest or have watched Grumpy Old Men, you may understand the lure of writing in an ice house. I am alternating between taking my gloves on and off as I type, although it is almost balmy at 38 degrees. There is a front coming in. It’s quite possible that the fish will not be interested in the minnow-loaded jig reels floating in the augured holes on either side of my folding table. But, the view out the window is crispy white. Just a little while ago, two Girl Scouts stopped by in their four-wheeler, selling cookies. The only thing that would be better would be a steamy cup of black coffee. But, I will wait until we drive to the restaurant on shore for dinner.
So, here I am writing. After all, writing can be done everywhere, even on a frozen lake.
Where are you writing today?
