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Sculptural

Sculptural

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We will have highs of 40 degrees or more the next few days, a welcome respite to the Arctic chill that’s plagued us for a month. But what we won’t have — soon — is sculptural snow.

I’ve grown accustomed to parking lot art displays and corner exhibitions, to strolls that are more like gallery walks than typical rambles.

Yes, there are advantages to warmer temperatures. Soon, perhaps, we’ll be able to park both cars side by side in the driveway.

But before this happens, the snowcrete will weaken and turn to mush. The chiseled snowbanks and statuesque berms will vanish before our eyes. Soon, we’ll be back where we started — strangely still in drought conditions.

Normal life will be easier. I won’t lie. But there’s a part of me that will miss these bizarre, frigid, sculptural days.

Snowcrete

Snowcrete

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Snowmageddon, Snowzilla and now … snowcrete. The differences in capitalization are intentional. Snowmageddon and Snowzilla were snowstorms, but snowcrete is the oh-so-clever name given to the stuff we’ve been shoveling for more than a week.

It’s a new word, as far as I know, and it perfectly expresses the combination of snow and concrete that last week’s storm left behind. Ask anyone who’s been shoveling it. Their arms, shoulders and back testify to the fact that this is no ordinary substance. It is, or ought to be, an entirely new element.

In the last few days I’ve gotten out more and seen first-hand the devastation this stuff has wrought. A parking lot piled high with snow boulders. Two-lane roads turned into one-lane roads. Bobcats brought in to “shovel” a driveway.

Is it snow? Ice? Sleet? None of the above. It’s snowcrete.

Cold and White

Cold and White

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The snow is no longer a rumor; it’s a reality. It’s also buried under the sleet that fell on top of it, pelting it, falling and falling and falling some more. A day’s worth of sleet atop a night’s worth of snow.

Here from my office window I see a world that is cold and white. Not as cold as it will be tomorrow, when we’ll wake up to 3 degrees or some other single digit. Or even as cold as will be later today, when the winds pick up. But cold enough to keep the world white for the next week.

I want to enjoy it, but this is a snow to be endured. Crispy, crusty, and without the softening that winter precipitation can sometimes give a hard, cold landscape.

Snow and Rumors of Snow

Snow and Rumors of Snow

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It’s 14 degrees as I write this post. The furnace is struggling. It’s gonna be another caffeinated day (see post below). But I’m thinking not of the blue sky and the bright sunshine that accompany these frigid temps. I’m thinking about snow and the rumors of snow.

A couple nights ago, someone I had just met casually mentioned “and then there’s the weekend.”

“What about the weekend?” I asked. In the D.C. metro area you never know what might be happening.

“The snowstorm,” she said, and then showed me the weather app on her phone, which displayed a snow icon for Sunday with “18 to 20 inches” beside it.

“Don’t cancel your plans yet,” noted the Capital Weather Gang, my go-to meteorological source. Check us out on Thursday. We’ll know more then.

I will. Until then. I’ll imagine snow and rumors of snow.

(A wan world awaits. From a November 2019 trip to Shenandoah National Park.)

White December

White December

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It may not last long, so I’m writing quickly, but as I type these words it is snowing in Virginia, or at least my part of it. The flakes are big and wet, which gives us a lovely snow globe effect.

This isn’t a blizzard or even a complete coating. Ground cover peeks around the base of the witch hazel tree. (See real-time backyard photo above.) And yellow buses ply the street behind me. It won’t be a completely paralyzed weather day, which is just as well.

But given the paucity of snow around here, having white stuff on the ground this early in the season feels like a gift. And until it all melts away (unlikely, given the cold temps we have in store), I’m treating it as one.

(Two snow pictures in a row … but they’re very different!)

Polar Vortex

Polar Vortex

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This time of year we’re all hoping for a visitor from the North Pole. I’m talking about Saint Nick, though, not the polar vortex. But, at least for now, the polar vortex is what we’re getting. It’s swooping down from Nunavut Canada, bound for the Midwest and Northeast United States. And it’s ready for action, prepared to break records.

My Capital Weather Gang site tells me that 80 million people in 35 states may have temperatures in the single digits over the weekend.

The last few days, this walker in the suburbs has piled on layers and pulled on hat and gloves. Temps have barely broken 40. Not bad for winter in some places, but not here, where we’ve gotten used to balmier climes.

At least I no longer live in Chicago, where snow has already fallen, making it even harder for days to warm. I have seasonal PTSD from living there for six years. I supply a photo from that era to prove my point. I think I spent an entire winter in a polar vortex … and it wasn’t pretty.

Praying for Texas

Praying for Texas

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They sought shade and the soothing sound of moving water. It was barely raining when they fell asleep, lulled by the gurgle of the Guadalupe River. But hours later, the river would swell with torrential rainfall. It would spill its banks and claim the lowlands. It would take the lives of more than 100 campers and Hill Country residents. Days later 161 people are still missing. We are all praying for Texas.

Who hasn’t been riveted by the images coming out of Texas these last few days? The sodden t-shirts and stuffed animals that mark these historic floods as especially deadly to children. The walls of water. Cars and trucks floating in the flood.

We’ve entered a new era, a harsher and more deadly one. It’s not just Texans who need our prayers. It’s everyone threatened by floods and fires and dangerous heat — in other words, an awful lot of us.

(Placid water in Houston’s Hermann Park)

The Weight of Air

The Weight of Air

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The heat wave has ended … or has it? The “real feel” temperature is 100 degrees today, though we will barely reach 90. It’s those old dew points, working their magic. Today’s is 70; it’s a number you can feel.

I was just out in the soup. What heft! What majesty! This air has presence. It’s an old Hollywood starlet, making an entrance; a heavyweight boxer, knocking out his opponent in the final round.

This air is weighty; it’s a force to be reckoned with. I’m reckoning with it now by writing this post inside, where the humidity is a pleasant 40 percent.

(A patch of shade promises some relief.)

Early Enough?

Early Enough?

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Am I early enough? That’s the question I ask myself now. How early must I rise to walk and beat the heat?

When the low is 80 and the humidity is high, the truest answer is no answer. But the question remains. Yesterday I started before 6. Today a quarter past 7. Monday I was far too late, almost 9.

I tell myself it’s just summer heat. We’ve had it before and will have it again. I try to forget the heat warnings, to pace myself, drink water and stay inside during the heat of the day. I’ve done all of the this, but it’s not enough.

I need to rise even earlier, to take a siesta, to make the day conform to the weather, rather than the other way around. Either that, or I can wait for the heat to break. It will … eventually.

(A rice paddy in Bangladesh, a country that knows how to handle heat.)

Pouring

Pouring

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Our rain saga continued yesterday with morning mist, intermittent showers, and, in late afternoon, sheets of rain that just begged to be photographed.

As I’ve mentioned before, though, rain is tricky to capture, at least with a phone camera. Or with any camera not wielded by an expert.

I did the best I could, and the sun helped, shining crazily through the drops. It was that kind of day.