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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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| January 22, 2016 1 p.m. |
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| January 23, 2016 11 a.m. |
A gray sky, a Christmas morning anticipation. The snow is coming, the snow is coming.
It’s coming to cover the leaf piles and the brush piles, the trails and the sidewalks. It’s coming to bury the daffodil shoots that began emerging from the ground in December. It’s coming to cover the yet-to-be-picked-up leaf bags and the two cars that aren’t in the garage. It’s coming to transform the peeled brown landscape into one of perfect white.
I have books to read, chocolate to eat and movies to watch. The house is packed with people and with food. I’ll bundle up and take a walk soon, because there won’t be a chance to take another for quite some time.
Meanwhile, in the heavens, a great storm gathers. The systems have converged, as have the models. What started as a rumor, an office “have-you-heard” on Tuesday, is now (almost) a reality.
It’s the calm before …
A foggy start to this December morning. Moisture beaded up on the car windows, so I took extra care backing down the drive. From such cautious beginnings come slower, less urgently paced days.
Today’s Metro ride on the Silver Line took me through bands of gray clouds with neon signs flashing: “Walmart,” “Exxon.” Tyson’s Corners were softened by the mist.
Clouds had engulfed the city, too, graying the red-brick Building Museum and hiding the pockmarked steps at Judiciary Square.
I hurried to the office, energized by the anonymity, seeking the quiet that comes with still weather, a place to sit down, open the book, call up the screen — and write.
It’s 90 degrees today in Cotonou, Benin. It was 40 degrees when I woke up in Oak Hill, Virginia. Fifty degrees of separation — that’s a lot for a person who’s never experienced winter.This is just one of the many adjustments we’ll be witnessing in a few days.
I’ve been pulling for one of those warm winters that can sometimes grace these parts, especially when there’s an El Nino pattern. But the next few days promise brisk winds and seasonable temps, and my purple (excuse me, aubergine) wool coat has already been pressed into service.
Nothing to do but go with the flow, whether it’s warm or cold. Nothing to do now but hold on for the ride!
(Rush hour in Cotonou from the back of a zemidjan.)
Actually, I have done little of this. The rocking chairs are inside and the rest of the deck furniture is too heavy to blow away.
I’ll collect some extra tap water tonight, keep it around in pitchers and bowls. And I’ll check the basement frequently to see if rain is seeping in.
Beyond that I’m planning to clean, organize and watch movies.
It’s blizzard mode, only with rain instead of snow.