I’m living in another hotel in Ann Arbor, as Joe and I are here for two days for his 45th fraternity reunion. Mine is a busy world; I leave for England in three days, so I’ve had zero time to compose a new column, though I have lots to say. So I offer this one, published in 2009.
Michigan weather is rarely dull. We’ve received nearly three feet of snow; yet, when I peer through the window just after 3 a.m., everything out there is enveloped in a blanket of thick mist—and it’s softly, almost invisibly, raining! So, naturally, I snatch my umbrella and pop out for a walk in the shining dark.
The thick, slow-moving air seems unearthly. Hannah Park is only a vague outline. I hear the occasional muffled quack; the thick air mutes the sound as ducks, half asleep, note that they’re floating in a vague, blanketed world. Grinning, I decide that those quacks help everyone keep together. Ducky reference points have all but vanished.
There is no sound; even the cars are asleep. The moon, mimicked by frosted street lamps, bathes everything in a white, icy halo, intricately highlighting jet-black trees and shrubs. Structures gleam. I walk slowly; my cleated boots bite into the slick snow as I admire the bright relief of lingering Christmas lights.
Rod Serling is my silent, invisible companion.
Suddenly, a terrifyingly loud bullet-crack breaks the stillness; a large, snow-loaded branch has chosen right now to give in to gravity. It crashes to the ground, shattering into jagged, chunky pieces in front of me, dying between the lawn and the sidewalk in front of the funeral home.
That was close, I muse, but, thankfully, Fate has a lousy aim.
Wary now, I walk down the middle of the all-white street. Tall walls of plow-heaved snow define its edges.
The dead of night is dead—but wait! Just ahead, movement disturbs the fog. Three fat adult ‘coons with bandit-markings appear like ghostly apparitions; their coats are slick with frozen raindrops. They rear up and stare, disconcerted; clearly, I’m the intruder. The raccoons are annoyed, and un-intimidated. Oddly, I feel embarrassed; I’ve been caught wandering around out here, in their world, in their time. Their little eyes skewer me. Oddly, they don’t move—they don’t even blink.
One masked beast is clutching a half-wrapped parcel of something edible; the papered item brings to mind fish-and-chips, a favorite takeaway in England. I’ve interrupted their foraging trip. Whose trash has been lightened?
After a bit, I say, tentatively, “Hello, there.” The words break the spell. They lower themselves to waddle slowly down into Hannah Park with their stuff, never once looking back. I’ve been dismissed.
‘Strangers in the night, exchanging glances’… Sinatra’s voice winds around my neurons as I carry on, grinning.
There is another dimension that operates at night, in the Moonlight Zone; those humans who enter it are enveloped in a sort of enchantment. This parallel, deeply quiet world has its own triumphs and tragedies, missed by oblivious day-trotters. In moonlight, we are irrelevant.
Brown, careless mice stand out against white snow; hungry owls scoop down and snatch them without a sound. Raccoons teach their children how to shop trash bins. Sleepy fish park safely in the river’s deeper middle. Cats slink delicately along snowy walks, intrigued by the menu choices. In the Moonlight Zone, middle-of-the-night dining is normal.
I am a bewitched stranger in a strange land…