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Polar Vortex

Polar Vortex

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Snowmaggedon. Snowquester. And now … the Polar Vortex.

Used to be, only hurricanes had names. Now rain, snow — even cold snaps — do.

There’s something homey about naming a weather system, something that binds us to it. True, there is a cheekiness about it, a bit like the arm-clasping, shoulder-hugging person who calls you by a nickname you’ve never liked or used. But it makes it easy to refer to it later; it’s a handle, a quick reference.

But listening to the wind roar in yesterday, hearing its powerful rush, seeing this morning’s thermometer reading (1!), I have this feeling that the weather would rather remain anonymous, mysterious, even magisterial. That which should not be spoken aloud, only witnessed.

Reducing it to a nickname may make it easier to take, but it doesn’t diminish its power.

Wind and Snow

Wind and Snow

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The wind woke me. It roared in from the west, carrying single-digit temperatures and an arctic bite.

This is cold that takes your breath away, that is no longer bracing but something to brace yourself for.

The bamboo hangs its head, weighted with the white stuff. Maybe the winds will blow it clean.

Deep Currents

Deep Currents

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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.

White World Shining

White World Shining

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Yesterday’s walk took me past evergreens with fondant-icing snow caps and bent
trees aching with ice but still lovely in their brokenness. In the sky was a
wan half moon with V’s of blackbirds flying.
Nature consoles even as it wounds. The forest so deep and
white, the trees glimmering in the sun that appeared late enough in the day that I had already resigned myself to snow, fog and cloud cover.
But shine it did, and I had no choice but to pause in my shoveling and writing and editing and  telephoning  — pause to see the white world shining.
Snow on Ice

Snow on Ice

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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.

Morning Fog

Morning Fog

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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 Other Side of the Moon

The Other Side of the Moon

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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!)

The Backup Plan

The Backup Plan

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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.

Solar Cell

Solar Cell

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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.

Seasonal Confusion

Seasonal Confusion

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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.