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Warm Morning

Warm Morning

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Sixty-two when I woke up, the first warm morning in a while. Taste of rain in the air. A breeze that stirs the ornamental grass and clatters the wind chimes.

There is warmth that builds steadily through the hours, from a chill sunrise to a parched afternoon. And then there is warmth given from the start, a gift to utilize or to squander.

Today we have the latter — and it brings a coziness to the house. We’re here already, no need to strive, to be hopeful about the angle of the sun or the tilt of the wind.

It’s the difference between a day that grows into itself and one that starts off fully formed, has everything to lose.

This, of course, assumes warmth to be desirable, which is not always the case. But on this April 3, after this February and this March, it most certainly is.

Fog and Memory

Fog and Memory

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Clouds have come to earth — or maybe they’ve risen from the earth, ground exhaling deeply now the snow is gone.

Driving to Metro this morning, I passed through great swaths of fog. It was like coming down from the mountain in the days we lived on top of one.

Petit Jean Mountain in Arkansas is 1,000 feet above sea level, and the switchback road to get there moves you into and out of the clouds.

Sometimes the fog there is so dense that it keeps you in place. But other times, the playful wisps hang in the sky like the ribbons from some forgotten banner waving.

Rise To Shine

Rise To Shine

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Yesterday’s freezing rain coated each twig and bough with a quarter inch of ice, and I awoke to a glittering world. It’s too slippery to walk outside but I throw open the window and snap this scene.

Everything is covered — from the mailbox flag to the leftover leaves of last summer’s climbing rose. Everything is covered — and everything is gleaming.

What this photo does not capture is the drip-drop-plop of all that ice melting. It sounds like rain, only it isn’t. It is, instead, the sound of beauty fading.

Snow and Stillness

Snow and Stillness

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How still are mornings that start with snow. How peacefully they begin.

I hold my breath in the quiet, wanting it to last. I hear the furnace hum, watch snowflakes cling to oak knobs and holly leaves.

I need the stillness of snow, even now, as winter dwindles. I don’t need its cold and discomfort but I do need its quiet purposefulness.

Moving Quickly

Moving Quickly

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The story today is the cold.

Record-shattering. Bone-chilling. Cold I must soon confront.

Which raises some questions: Why do I have no corduroy pants that fit? What can I wear that is warm enough for this craziness? And most importantly, when will it ever be spring?

Until there are answers to these questions there is only one course of action — plunging in. No, I won’t be skating anytime soon. But I will be walking, running, moving quickly. That’s my way to get through the winter — and the cold.

Fox Prints

Fox Prints

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Our first real snow of the season — white, fluffy, measurable — and my first real glimpse of it out the front window. As I open the blinds a fox darts across the driveway from the right. He was spry, lean, red, dashing. He was moving from one stand of trees to another, to the woods behind the house across the street.

Maybe I startled him, or maybe not. Maybe he always moves that quickly, bushy tail flying. A wild thing for sure. But a wild thing with proprioception, aware in his animal way of how easily he was spotted.

I wish I could have caught him on camera. His redness so much redder against the sparkly whiteness of the snow. But my camera was many steps away.

Instead, I made do with the prints he left behind.

Laughing in the Face of Winter

Laughing in the Face of Winter

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The best story I have about the weekend’s bitter cold weather happened as I was walking into the grocery store Sunday morning. I had dropped by after church to pick up bagels but was sorry I did. The parking lot was a sheet of ice, and the snow melt being tossed onto it by a earnest employee was being blown right back into the guy’s face.

Snow and ice bring out the little old lady in me. Instead of darting from one errand to another, which is my wont, I do a mincing two-step. My theory is simple: I would like to keep darting from one errand to another. I would like to avoid breaking my leg or wrist.

I was aware there were people behind me but I didn’t recognize them until I was walking in the door. It was the older woman and her son (son-in-law?) who had sat in the pew in front of me at church.

The woman seemed a bit remote during the service, but when a frigid gust struck her, she shouted “whoa” and then exploded with the most authentic, daring laugh. The temperature was in the single digits and she wore no hat or gloves; the 30-mile-per-hour wind was picking up the edges of her brown cape and tossing them around. But she treated the dangerous cold as a petty nuisance, a slightly unruly child. She laughed in the face of winter. She’s my new role model.

Remembering Snowmaggedon

Remembering Snowmaggedon

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Five years ago today the first flakes flew in a storm called Snowmaggedon, which dumped close to three feet of snow here before it was done.  It was, next to a couple of rough Chicago winters, the most snow I had ever seen. It closed schools and offices and slowed life to a pioneer pace. It spurned removal; some neighborhoods weren’t plowed for a week.

Though grocery shelves were empty and some folks were climbing the walls by the time it was over, it was for me — and for many — the pause button I’d been waiting for.

There were long lazy hours for reading and writing, for making soup and baking rolls. Time for walking down the middle of a busy road because it was impassable for cars.  Time to start this blog.

It was, in short, the world upside down and white. Will it happen again? Not this year, from the looks of it. But the groundhog predicts six more weeks of winter. We can always hope.

What’s On Our Minds

What’s On Our Minds

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On the radio. On the television. On weather websites.

 At home and at the office, too.

It’s what we talk about, think about, speculate about.

Maybe it will happen. Maybe it won’t.

I’m leaning toward the latter these days.

Step Lively

Step Lively

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When bitter winds howl in from the west, when temperatures dip into the teens, when the sidewalk harbors little patches of black ice and there’s a quarter-mile of pavement between me and the next warm building, this is what I do. Step lively.

It’s what some Metro conductors suggest. “Step lively,” they say. “Doors closing.”

It’s what race-walkers do, with a bounce in their gait and a swivel of their hips.

Step lively, with its whiff of the nautical, its sprightliness and energy and pep.

Step lively. It’s more hop than saunter, more snap than sizzle. It’s quaint and practical and fun.

Step lively. It’s a good way to get through winter.