How to catalog the sounds of the walk I took this morning? The crunch of stiffened grass, the swish of my parka as I strolled through the chill. The pounding of my feet on frozen ground.
It’s been for the most part a warm, gray, sodden winter. But today it’s blue skies and brisk air.
Most of all, it’s the music of the a frosty morning.
Washington, D.C., had its first official snow day yesterday, with a quick-moving and more-powerful-than-anticipated storm closing federal government offices and sending commuters and school kids out on deteriorating roads.
It was a chaotic scene that’s now replaced by the peacefulness of a snow-crusted Wednesday morning. I’m working in front of a window with the transformed world spread out before me. Every limb and branch is coated in white with crows providing the contrast. When birds land on a snow-covered limb, a bit of the white stuff falls to the ground in a small clump, creating a second gentle snowfall.
I’m not a skier or skater. Walking and shoveling are the occupations that get me out into the elements. But I love these snowscapes just the same. They are a monochromatic, matte version of the usual scenery, a flip side, so to speak.
I was already writing another blog post for today … and then I stepped outside.
It was the very definition of a “misty moisty morning,” warmer since yesterday’s cold rain, but still delightfully soggy with cloud swaths and drip-drips and absolutely no reason to be outdoors. Unless, of course, you have a dog who needs a walk.
And because I do, I was thrust out into this watery world, there to admire the droplets of water that grace the tips of each weeping cherry bough. They glittered, these droplets; they looked like the tiniest of flashlights, or maybe the ends of lighted scopes.
Undoubtedly there is physics at work here, surface tension perhaps, or maybe even something that involves an equation. All I know is that each droplet seemed so fabulously close to bursting that the sheer improbability of that made me smile.
Photo by John Thomas on Unsplash
If I blink I’ll miss it, but my part of northern Virginia is awakening to a dusting of snow on grass and cars. It will melt away as soon as it has a chance but it’s good to see it again, if only briefly.
Even as I write these words, I ask myself, why the excitement? Cold weather bothers me and I don’t like driving in snow. The vague tingle has to be left over from childhood, the sudden gift of a day off school.
But there is more, too. Snow transforms; it softens the landscape, makes it otherworldly. There is wonder in that, and a release, too.
(This photo was taken a few years ago when there was considerably more accumulation — but it proves the point!)
A foggy dawn has given way to a partly cloudy — wait a minute, make that sunny — morning. But my head is still in the clouds as I remember great fogs I have known.
There was a stretch of misty weather in Chicago long ago, unseasonable November warmth that steamed up the city’s windows for days. I walked from my house to the corner where I met my ride as if in a dream, passing stately homes and the distinctive domed church on Deming, pretending I was in Europe instead of the Midwest.
And then there were the pea soup fogs in Arkansas, so thick they made it impossible to drive the 25 minutes from Petit Jean Mountain to Morrilton. Since there were very few services on the mountain, a few days of fog created a desert-island feeling.
Finally, there were the fogs of my youth, which swirled around the big oaks in the Ware Farm behind our house, making those open fields look haunted and lonesome. The farm is filled with houses now, of course. But through the miracle of memory, the fogs and the fields are there for me whenever I want to see them.
Snowflakes were spotted yesterday, and the temperature never rose about the “high” of 37 that greeted me when I woke up. It’s Arctic air, the weather people said, and I wonder: Does Arctic air feel colder than plain old winter air?
Today I’d have to say yes. That may be because it was 15 degrees when I woke up and there’s a stiff breeze out there, too. Emerging from the Crystal City Underground felt like a slap in the face. Even just a few hundred feet of exposure was enough to send me shivering inside.
But the sun is bright and a big old moon was still up this morning when I walked Copper across the frost-stiffened grass. We’re moving closer to solstice, so ’tis the season for shivering. Which is just what I’m doing now.
(Caution: Snowflakes in the window may be smaller — and less real — than they appear.)
Yesterday began with a deluge, a rainstorm that settled in over the region and sent me into a reflective, closet-cleaning mood. Not that I actually cleaned any closets — though I did do some straightening up and pruning of old clothes in the basement.
But I had no sooner hunkered down for a day of inside work when, about noon, the rain stopped and the sun peeked out. I soon abandoned the basement chores for a walk and some outside tasks — such as cleaning up a pumpkin that was apparently mauled by hungry deer (that’s a first!).
Days with dramatic weather changes can throw off one’s rhythm and to-do list. But they can also foil the routine thinking that sends me into auto-pilot. By mid-afternoon, I decided that the best thing I could do would be to sit on the deck in the rocking chair, bask in the 70-degree temps and describe the scene in my journal.
“The low sun bends behind the big tree in the back of the yard, the one that will probably have to come down soon since half of it is already dead and the other half sports two large lifeless limbs. … Ah, but it’s lovely sitting here on the deck in the warm wind, a few clouds scudding by above, as the oaks flash yellow against the blue.”
We’ve needed a long rainy day for months, and today we finally have one.
Rain is pouring off the roof and into the gutters. It’s flattening what’s left of the ferns and beating the petals off the second-bloom roses.
It’s also seeping into the basement. But at least we know now why the flooding occurred in August. It wasn’t just the volume of water, though that was certainly a factor. It was also because the bucket placed to catch the seepage sprang a leak. Luckily, this was discovered before a plumber was called.
I think there’s a life lesson here, something akin to “check the life raft.”
I write from the comfort of an air-conditioned living room, a living room that, I believe, may never have been air-conditioned before in the month of October. But this is no ordinary fall.
On the first day of autumn, I walked outside after dark to get something from the car. I was wearing a white nightgown, not the lightest one I have because after a sweltering 90-plus-degree day, the air conditioning was back on.
My purpose was purely practical, but the night was alive with balmy air and the sound of crickets and katydids. I was suddenly aware that despite the seeming permanence of these summer sounds, they are extremely time-limited. The bugs chirp as if they have months to live when it’s probably more like weeks.
I was sorry to walk back into the quiet of a darkened house, windows closed against the heat and humidity. It’s been a warm summer, and many are longing for a spate of coolness. But I’m not. Say what you will about crisp autumn air, warm wool sweaters and chili simmering on the stove… I wouldn’t mind if we had another month of summer swelter.