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Standing Water

Standing Water

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After the record-breaking rain totals of 2018, the D.C. area seems poised to break more records for 2019. Lately there’s been some form of precipitation every weekend and most weekdays. It rains and mists, snows and sleets.

And so, there’s a lot of water in the yard. It pools in the hollows, saturates the grass, clings to the leaves and sticks and other flotsam jiggled from the aging oaks by storms and downpours.

It makes the yard most unsightly. But if you look hard enough and long enough, you can see a blue sky reflected in the standing water.

I hope it is the harbinger of good things to come.

Conversational Snow

Conversational Snow

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It’s March 9 and the daffodils have pushed themselves at least two inches through ground. But the ground is now covered … not in mulch but in snow.

Welcome to what the Capital Weather Gang calls “conversational snow.” This is white stuff that we talk about but do not fear. Snow that clings to trees and grass but not roads.

This snow fell yesterday but lingers today. Conversational? Yes. But not hardly whispered. Just ask the witch hazel tree (foreground), with its yellow blossoms all coated and frozen. It would like to change the conversation, I think. And it will have its chance. Tomorrow, we could hit 70!

Brrrrr!

Brrrrr!

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It was 10 when I woke up this morning, 11 yesterday. A strong west wind has blown in these frigid temperatures and they have settled over the land. They bring with them a brittleness and breathiness that is most unwelcome.

It isn’t difficult to admire winter when a soft snow is falling. But when Arctic air is blowing in your face or down your neck, it’s significantly harder to see the positives.

The birds have tucked themselves away into bushes and brambles. They streak out to the feeder or the suet block then dodge right back in. They need warmth and, even more to the point, they need water.

But water is coming, I read in the forecast. Rising temperatures will take us out of the deep freeze, and rain (what else?!) will greet us on the other side.

It’s the kind of morning that sets my teeth chattering, but what can I do about it? It’s January. The bulbs and buds are sleeping. To everything, a season.

Second Coat

Second Coat

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To live in the mid-Atlantic is to know snow that falls then melts, or is rained out of existence; in other words, snow that seldom lingers. That will happen to us tomorrow—but today, we’re being treated to a rare event: a second snowfall the refreshes the first.

It began late yesterday afternoon. At that point it was mostly just wetting the pavement. But as temperatures dropped overnight, the snow stuck, at least where I live. And now last Sunday’s snow, which was beginning to look old and tired and dirty, has a lovely second coat.

Once again, tree limbs are outlined in the white stuff, each tiny branch made softer and more significant with the addition. Deck rails are padded. Even the air seems filled with snow, though I think it is just fog, posing.

By Monday, I’m told, rains will have washed away all of our pretty snow and Arctic air will scour the landscape. But today it’s soft and white and pretty as a postcard.

Gimme Shelter

Gimme Shelter

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As the snow fell Sunday I glanced out the window to see a little bird fluttering in the azalea bush behind the house. I didn’t see it clearly enough to note the type, but it was probably one of the many flooding the feeder these days, a chickadee or junco. (Look closely at the opening center left and you’ll see its little head and eye.)

What a small, quivering thing it was, preening and rustling in the brush. Seeing it there made me remember fairy stories about animal homes in thickets or under ground and how as a child I could imagine nothing more exciting than exploring tucked-away places like that.

Now I consider the goal that all living things have, which is survival, and how difficult it can be this time of year. There I stood in the warmth of my house, with its insulation and forced air heat and hot water flowing from the tap.

Yes, a part of me wants to beat in the breast of that bird, to be part of the living landscape. But I know enough of cold and ice to appreciate the comforts I have, the comforts I share with other creatures, as a matter of fact, including … two birds.

Snow Day!

Snow Day!

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It snowed for more than 24 hours. It made lopsided lumps on the deck railings, slightly shorter where jays flicked their tails. The bamboo is hanging its head with the weight of all the white stuff, and the covered chairs have odd outlines on this first snow day of 2019.

Snow days have their own routine and rhythm. There is, first of all, the surprise of seeing a world transformed. Upstairs the shades are drawn, but downstairs the deck doors and windows bring the outside in. And it is a marvelously changed outside.

I was thinking this morning that even though I love summer best, no season transforms as winter does. Cars are covered, roads are covered (despite the plows and pre-treatment). No one is stirring. It is as if we’re holding our collective breaths.

Later on, I’ll tug on my boots and make my way to the street and newspaper. Later on, I’ll do a little shoveling and a little work. But for now, I’m sipping tea and taking it all in.

Dreams of Snow

Dreams of Snow

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Here in our nation’s capital, government shut-down talk is being supplanted by possible snowstorm talk. It’s not as if the area hasn’t already been in an odd limbo for weeks. Now we have 40-mile-an-hour winds and an increasing chance of snow tomorrow and Sunday.

All of which makes for a topsy-turvy day. 
For those of us not in federal employment, a couple of days off would be divine. But I doubt that will happen.
Until then … a girl’s gotta dream. 
(Photos courtesy of Snowmageddon, 2010.)
Bouncing Back

Bouncing Back

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It was dark 15 minutes ago, at 7:30 a.m. Now, at 7:57, a wan winter light is finally seeping through the window blinds. But this is fine. I’ll take it. Because from here on, we’re getting lighter.

Reaching the Winter Solstice is like touching the bottom of the pool in 10-feet water. Slight scary and other-worldly—but also buoyant. Touch the bottom firmly enough and you will bounce back, all the way to the surface, where life is how it’s supposed to be.

For me, it’s supposed to be summer. This doesn’t mean I want to live in a place of eternal sunshine. But it does mean that normalcy is shorts, t-shirts and long evenings. Strangely enough, we may just have some of this today, as the temperature hits a freakish 65.

It may almost feel like Summer Solstice. But the early darkness will give it away.

Deluge!

Deluge!

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This weekend the Washington, D.C., region broke a 130-year-old record: It became the rainiest year ever here, with 63.62 inches compared with 61.33 inches from 1889. (The record-keeping started in 1871.) And who’s to say we couldn’t pick up an inch or two more before it’s all over. We have two weeks left, after all.

There were flooded roads throughout the region, including one of the two that leads to my neighborhood, with yellow caution tape strung across the intersection at the top of the hill.

As if that wasn’t enough, we also experienced the greatest three-day winter rainstorm ever: 3.44 inches from late Friday through late Sunday. It wasn’t a weekend to go caroling or drive around and look at the holiday light displays.

In fact, it was mostly a weekend to stay inside, sleep, decorate, cook and write Christmas cards. Or at least that’s how I chose to spend it.

Now that the workweek has begun, we have a clear day with a splendid sunrise. It’s been that kind of year.

Windy, with a Chance of Jet Noise

Windy, with a Chance of Jet Noise

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It is not just a little bit windy today. It is gusty enough to send incoming Dulles aircraft into the dreaded alternate runway pattern.

This means that as I sit here snug and cozy in my house, proofing, editing and listening to a webcast I need to write up, I also have one ear cocked for the sound of sudden jet deceleration.

It’s unnerving! But also, not unexpected. This happens on super windy days.

All I need to do is keep on working, hang onto my hat — and try not to listen.