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Last Stand

Last Stand

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Woke up to a white world. Each twig and limb covered with heavy, clinging snow. Deceptive in the gloaming, when shapes are not what they appear.

As the morning grew lighter I could make out black roads and driveway, grass tops bursting through the blanket. But the holly is still dolloped, and the first faint blooms of witch hazel, that thin yellow furze, are coated in frosting. Every few minutes the wind loosens a clump of snow, which retains its twig shape for an instant, then vanishes in a pouf of powder.

I looked ahead at the forecast; in a few days we’ll have 60s and 70s. This morning’s weather is a last stand of sorts. It is beauty at its most basic, which is fleeting. By noon tree limbs will be barren bark.

Meanwhile, I fill my eyes with the scene out the window. Today it’s winter; next week it will be spring.

Four Walls

Four Walls

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Cold rain, and plenty of it. Wind, too.  Even the hardiest walker would have found yesterday’s weather tough going.

Commuting by public transport, though, makes us all walkers, which means we have a taste of the weather, like it or not.

So I dodged puddles on the street and jumped over them to reach the curb. I stood shivering on the platform, waiting for a train.

 I dashed into buildings gratefully, shook off the umbrella, stamped the feet, brushed off the coat. It was too cold for a raincoat so the wool one was pressed into service.

And at the end of the day I marveled at the warmth and dryness of this house I sit in now. Four walls that, among other things, keep out the elements. And yesterday, that was a very good thing!

Monochromatic

Monochromatic

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More snow last night, a few inches, enough to coat the mud and the leaves, the daffodil and crocus shoots. Enough to make it clear that it’s still winter.

Temperature-wise there has been no doubt of late, with single digit wind chills. But palette is important, too, and today February looks the part.

We are back to a monochromatic world. Black trees, leaves, lamp posts and pickets. White everything else. It’s better this way, I think.

The Climate of Reading

The Climate of Reading

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The Wind is Not a River is not a book to read in the winter. When his plane is shot down, journalist John Easley bails out and lands on Attu, the westernmost of Alaska’s Aleutian Islands and the site of the only World War II battle fought on U.S. territory.

Easley has come to report on the war but instead finds himself in a damp, cold place known as “the birthplace of winds.” He survives by eating mussels and coaxing fire out of grass and driftwood. He wraps up in a parachute to sleep.  He is never really warm.

When I read this novel I find myself pulling up the covers or tightening my scarf. Such is the power of fiction to take us out of one place and plop us down in another.

But I must choose books more carefully. Read in the warm months, this book would be a cool breeze. Read in the winter, it’s yet another nail in the coffin of cold.

Sculptural Snow

Sculptural Snow

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A walk over the weekend took me past snow piled in fantastical shapes. Snow like the wind-scoured face of an ancient mountain. Snow like an architecturally inspried installation of an avant garde exhibition.

What snow we have left has blackened caps and sides. It has hardened into peaks and valleys. It is nothing like what fell here 17 days ago.

What’s left now are the remnants of plowed mountains, covered with exhaust and road soot. It’s snow as refuse, snow as sculpture.

Late Walk

Late Walk

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The snow didn’t just melt yesterday, it evaporated. It left us in a great sigh of fog and cloud. A late walk convinced me of this, put me in the midst and the mist of its vanishing.

Along the shoulder, snowbanks receded, and rivulets streamed across the pavement. The air was alternately cool and warm, pockets of moisture and of scent.

Car lights cast rainbows in the air. I kept my distance, knowing they couldn’t see me. But I marveled at the diffused light they cast, and used it to find my way.

In the west the clouds parted just enough to showcase the sunset, its pinks and violets a simmering, shimmering band of unexpected color.

Making it Official

Making it Official

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Yesterday morning the plows made it through, so four days of newspapers landed in the driveway with a thud.

We weren’t exactly information starved over the long weekend. I always enjoy the hyped-up local TV and radio news before, during and after a snowstorm. And there’s the Capital Weather Gang, my go-to website with more analytics and blizzard models than you’d ever want to know.

Still, it was a relief to get the print product, to see this recent meteorological event dubbed one “for the ages”. It was almost (not quite) as if seeing it in print meant it really, truly happened. At the very least it was verification and retrospection.

But, this being a lively and full house, the papers were soon scattered across the counter and coffee table. Drinks were set down on them, breadcrumbs shaken on them.  And more than anything else, they — their late arrival, the news they bore — became part of the memory of this moment.

Nowhere to Go

Nowhere to Go

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Here in our little corner of the world neighbors plow your driveway because they have a snow blower and you don’t.  It’s that kind of place. There’s a lot of kindness here — and a lot of plowed-out driveways.

But it’s a classic case of all dressed up and nowhere to go.

Because every one of these neatly dug out, snow-walled stretches of pavement ends in — a snowbank.

The little plows have arrived but the big one has not.  So I remain blissfully snowed in with the driveway clearing, the pantry emptying and my hopes high. Not for a rescue. Oh, no. But for another day of being snowed in.

Transformed

Transformed

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I’ve lost track of the tally, but somewhere between two and three feet of snow fell between Friday afternoon and early this morning. The storm has moved on now, leaving a world transformed.

The cars are mountains in the driveway. The inverted birdbath a pyramid of white. Tree limbs are sugar frosted.

Inside, we are transformed, too. Or at least I am. Every time we’re pelted like this I’m a little more humbled, a little more gladdened.

Blizzards are good for the soul — as long as the soul is housed in a body that’s housed in a heated home well stocked with food!

… The Storm

… The Storm

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I was working outside yesterday morning, trying to bundle the last of the leaves into bags, when I saw the first flake fall. It could have been a cinder from an errant chimney, or a bit of fluff from a milkweed pod.

But it was, of course, a snowflake. As benign and unimposing a beginning as you could imagine. I thought at first I might have imagined it. But then there was another, and another.

Even so, it was a gentle prelude, giving no hint of the long, strong storm that would follow. It’s been 22 hours and it hasn’t stopped. From such a simple beginning this whole white world was wrought.

January 22, 2016 1 p.m.

January 23, 2016 11 a.m.