Spring Cleaning
I never put the garden to bed last fall, so last weekend I opened the chickenwire enclosure used to keep the deer at bay and waded into the tangle of old growth. There were the tall stalks of zinnias and dried coneflower heads. There were the long stems of Siberian iris and the hollow-core canes of day lilies.
This can be a melancholy task to perform in autumn, less a harvest than a confiscation. But done in late winter, when green shoots are already pushing up from the soil, it’s a hopeful and much-needed clearing, a spring cleaning.
As I pulled and tugged and gathered, a familiar scent tickled my nostrils. It was mint: the plant is already growing. I picked a few tiny sprigs to have in my iced tea.
Can summer be far behind?
(The garden in early July.)
A Prediction
So we have finally come to the end of January, the longest month. I’m convinced it has at least 40 days. No wait, that’s Lent, and it will be arriving soon enough.
But today we’re in the clear. It’s February 2, and the groundhog has predicted an early spring. Based on the blooming snowdrops and hellebores, on the inch-long daffodil shoots in the front yard and the faint fuzz of bloom on the witch hazel tree in back, I’d say the groundhog’s prediction may be true.
According to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Association, though, the rodent has been right only 40 percent of the time. So I won’t pack away the hats, gloves and wool sweaters just yet. I won’t wish him wrong, either.
Soon to be Gone
The snow is falling as I write. It’s piling up on the deck, weighing down the potted ivy, filling in the footsteps, smothering the covered chaise. After having no snow for 24 months, two storms in a week have dumped more than a half a foot here.
As mentioned earlier, I’m not a skier or a snow-shoer, and I tiptoe around ice. But I love to watch the white stuff coming down, to marvel at the way it clings to every branch and twig. I like the way it banishes the wanness of winter, the contrast it provides.
As it grows lighter here, ghost trees emerge from the backyard: spindly white arms, tall dark trunks. Small birds clog the feeder, land lightly on a snow bank, fluff the flakes with their little tails.
Soon I’ll celebrate the 14th anniversary of this blog, which was conceived in snow, made possible by the week off work that snow provided. Snow was my first topic. Strange since we have so little of it anymore. Another way in which these pages celebrate not only the here-and-now but also the soon-to-be-gone.
No Nonsense
When I woke a little after 7, the sun had not yet begun to strike the sides of the big oaks I can see across the road. But it was light enough to assure me not all the snow had blown off trunks, limbs and branches.
Traces of high contrast are still there, the symphony, synchrony, of black and white. The only color I see in my window-scape is the barest touch of dark green from the hollies at the fence line. But I’ll soon find more in the Great Outdoors, having somewhere to be in less than an hour.
“Take winter as you find him,” wrote James Russell Lowell, “and he turns out to be a thoroughly honest fellow with no nonsense in him. And tolerating none in you, which is a great comfort in the long run.”
We’ll see about that.
Finally!
We woke up to five inches of the white stuff, a steady snowfall that has transformed the entire region. Often we’re poised right at the snow-rain line, or the snow-ice line, a result of our particular geography and topography — some parts of the region near the coast, others near the mountains.
It’s been a while since we’ve had this much snow, and with temperatures in the 20s and 30s, it may even hang around more than a few hours. Right now I’m looking out my office window as the bamboo slowly loses its burden and pops back into place, freeing up more views of the yard beyond.
I’m not a big sledder or outdoor winter sports enthusiast, just a snow appreciator. I like how white winter weather turns humdrum landscapes into other worlds.
Double Digits
January takes its time. It does not rush. It dawdles. It sashays down the runway of months with all the model moves. The turn, the pivot, the pout, the graceful sweep.
I don’t want to be rude, but get moving, Jan. We know your power — your winds, rain, snow and cold. We know what you can do. We know you have the days to do it in, too: a full complement of 31.At least we’re in the double digits now.
In my house the Christmas tree has come down, the decorations are boxed and shelved, the living room corner is dark and boring.
Spring has been known to peek around the edges of February, but there’s one long month in its way. A month that feels like it should already be over. I’m talking about you, Jan.
Slow Snow Going
It’s not that I want a blizzard, nothing as extreme as that. But a few inches on the grass, enough for the neighbor kids to build a snowman — that would be nice.
There was a flurry of snow talk earlier in the week, safely couched in disclaimers: It could be rain, or snow, or sleet …
But the latest forecast for tomorrow sounds more definitive: It will start as snow and turn to rain. If we lived an hour west in the mountains it would be a different story. But here, in the suburbs, we won’t have the white stuff for long.
It’s early in the season, though. There’s still time.
(The woods in snow five years ago.)
Post Solstice
The shortest day was mostly cloudy. I took two walks, my first in a while. It felt good to be striding through space, cold enough that I wore gloves in the beginning.
We’ve made it past the nadir and are now on the ascendancy. There’s a direct line from today to June’s long, lingering twilights. A fact to keep in mind during the early sunsets of January and February.
Yesterday afternoon, I heard a springlike twittering in the air. It was a flock of robins who breezed in to hunt for worms and berries. Another sign that spring is out there somewhere.
Darkness to Light
At 6:45 there is barely any light in the sky. Holiday displays mark the boundaries of street and yard. Our beacon, as they’re intended to be. As for other illumination, it’s still scarce. How easy it is this time of year to think that darkness is winning.
I look out my office window, can barely make out each tree trunk. But the longer I stare, the more individual limbs and branches begin to show themselves, a filigree of darkness against the lightening clouds. The sky is a blotter sopping up the light. Darkness still reigns on ground level; nothing distinct down there yet. No trampoline, garden bench or witch hazel tree. All of that is out of sight, a void. Instead, my eyes are drawn toward the sky, and toward a faint blush of pink gathering around the tree line.
My window faces south, so the big show is out of sight, to my left. I walk into the other room, peer out the window. Dawn barely underway. A smudge of red on the horizon. But walking back in here just 15 minutes later, what a change. Now I see the covered garden bench, the limbs of the witch hazel tree, the white husks of the shells bordering its garden, the azalea and its entourage. The border of leaves and grass.
By 7:12 it is unqualifiedly morning. What a difference 28 minutes can make.
