Temperature extremes of the last week have us reeling. I walk in shorts and t-shirt one day, in sweat shirt and jacket the next.
A few days ago, in a t-shirt, I walked through air as changeable as water, as strange to the touch as those warm and cool spots you swim through in a spring-fed lake.
It occurred to me then that not only was the air like the water, but the weather was, too. Alternating puddles of days, as mysterious in their origins as those deep currents.
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Yesterday morning we woke to a frozen world, each bough and twig coated and gleaming. By 1 p.m. it was 33 degrees, and I could slide to the corner, where the pavement was wet but not icy. I could run the main road, could see how many trees were damaged during the storm.
Ice is beautiful but dangerous. How much would we pay for such beauty? Not another red oak, that’s for sure — but some bent bamboo stalks, I would gladly trade those to walk through such a strange, glittering, dripping world.
A new day now and fresh snow is falling. We have several inches on the ground and, more to the point, a heavy layer on every branch, bough and twig. It’s no longer a hard, bright, frozen world, it’s a soft, white, feathery one.
But I know the ice that lurks beneath.
After several days that started as cold and hard as a stone, brittle light at morning, we begin today with soft fog and crow-call.
It reminds me of a Thomas Hardy poem:
This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I;
Although reading the poem more closely, I realize that today’s weather is what Hardy doesn’t like, as he says in his second stanza:
This is the weather the shepherd shuns,
And so do I;
When beeches drip in browns and duns,
And thresh and ply;
I’ve not been out in this weather yet, but for for atmospheric backdrop while sitting inside with a cup of tea, it can’t be beat.
The first cold of the season blew in yesterday. I’m not talking about frost on the pumpkin or a nip in the air. This cold meant business. Low 20s with the meteorologists already mentioning wind chill. There was even snow in the forecast for Tuesday.
I’m never ready for this, always find it an affront. What happened to balmy nights, crickets chirping, bats flitting high up, above the tree line? What happened to heat?
Truth be told, it may be with us again by next week! That’s the way our weather goes these days. But even if it warms up tomorrow, it’s too late now. The cold has happened. The gloves are on.
Cold weather is the other side of the moon. Every year a mystery; every year a drag.
(No snow yet, but it’s only a matter of time!)
A few days of rain have sent us into panic mode. Traffic crawls, as it does after even a few drops hit the pavement. Metro seems slower, too.
I try out the new umbrella that I bought when my old one gave out a few weeks ago. The perky, polka-dotted one. The one that felt so lightweight when I held it in the store. No problem to schlep it around in my bag every day.
But when I opened it up I quickly learned why it was so lightweight. It’s teeny! It barely keeps my head dry, let alone my sleeves or pants legs. Maybe I should have paid more attention to the diameter measurement listed on the label.
New plan: this will be the backup umbrella, the one I always have. On truly rainy days (like today), I’ll carry a full-size model. Heavier, true, but eminently more practical.
A chill in the air this morning reminds me that we’re closing in on fall — without really having had summer. A few days of weather in the upper 90s, but for the most part relatively cool and rainy.
Most people rejoice. They say we’ve lucked out. But if you love the summer and don’t mind the heat, coming to this point in the year with a brisk wind and low humidity feels like cheating.
Where are those long langourous afternoons? The scent of the water as it flows from the hose? The long hot walks down the Mall?
Maybe they’re in the future. If not, they’re in memory. Meanwhile, there are still black-eyed susans and sitting on the deck at noon, a human solar cell, storing up heat for the winter to come.
A walker knows what time of year it is, feels it in her bones, knows it because she’s out in the elements and notices the first brisk winds of fall, the tang in the air that means winter is near.
But lately this walker is confused. On my morning walk from Metro to the office I thought it might be early fall. Gray skies, drizzle, an occasional leaf pasted to the sidewalk.
No, it’s still summer. A strange summer, to be sure. But only August 1.
I glance up at the sky, pull my sweater tighter around me, and make my way quickly inside.
The clouds have pulled a big curtain between us and the sun. For once I don’t mind. It’s cool and still for this time of year. Insects muted.
A distant truck downshifts as it maneuvers over the speed hump. I hear the clatter of plastic wheels across pavement as the little boys across the street play a summer game.
In the backyard birds dart and warble. They like these kind of days, too, everyone taking it easy.
I stop for a moment, catch my breath, see the big picture in the page proofs I’m reading, glimpse the forest beyond the trees.
Last night I slept with the windows open, so I woke up this morning thinking about the difference between air-conditioned coolness and bona fide coolness.
I prefer the bona fide, but why? Would I know the difference if I was blindfolded and led into two random, air-differentiated rooms.
I think yes! The former reminds me of walking into a deep freeze, artificial chill, wearing sweaters in the summer. The latter has more moisture in it and therefore more texture. Because it comes in from the outside, it is fragrant and humming with low-level insect buzz. I could tell the difference in a minute … I think.
But this morning I don’t have to. The windows are open, the air is cool and the blue skies shimmer with promise.