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Weathered

Weathered

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We rushed home from Maryland to beat the snow, six to eight inches predicted and the flurries already flying as we raced around the Beltway. But by western Fairfax they had died down, and though it snowed off and on the rest of the day nothing much stuck. Instead the wind raged in from the west, blowing the few flakes sideways. I felt strangely disappointed; I was looking forward to the excitement of a big snow. But this morning comes the payback: no shoveling, a full house, a full pantry.

Ghostly White

Ghostly White

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The ghostly white on suburban streets is the residue of salt from a snow storm that wasn’t, a phantom blizzard. Rock salt crunches underfoot as I walk. The wind blows into my face, makes my eyes tear and my nose run. Other than that, all is frozen hard.

It’s a bleak landscape, unadorned by snow, wind-gouged and silent. Just being outside is an accomplishment, and walking through the cold reminds me that we have to keep going or freeze. Extreme temperatures are a great motivator. Besides, in my ears is a most unusual version of “The Four Seasons” by Vivaldi, full of strumming and thumping and trills. I could hear the birds singing, the streams gurgling. I listened, I lowered my head, I walked as fast as I could till I got home.

First Frost

First Frost

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When I was a child longing for snow, I would pretend that frost was a thin dusting of the white stuff. Now I see frost for what it is — a frozen exhalation, a definitive end to fall. But I am still amazed by the transformation of water into ice, still dazzled by its ordinary beauty.

Little Cat Feet

Little Cat Feet

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The most poetic of weathers has visited us this morning, the kiss of cloud on earth, that which comes in on little cat feet (as in the short, oft-anthologized poem by Carl Sandburg) — I’m talking fog, of course.

No fun to drive in but so nice to wake up to, fog makes the real world go away. It softens the edges of landscapes, blurs them, smudges them deftly into each other. It’s funny how I can remember foggy weather that happened decades ago: an entire week of mild misty early winter days in Chicago. A hike in the Rockies when I thought we’d lost our way. The glorious summer on a mountaintop in Arkansas, when we were often unable to “come down the mountain” because we were totally socked in by the stuff.

A light fog is fine walking weather. Not so thick as to obscure the path ahead, but soft enough to embrace it.

The Sounds of Rain

The Sounds of Rain

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This morning I woke up to a sound I haven’t heard in a while. It will rain two to five inches today, the forecasters say. I’ll wear tennis shoes to work. Meanwhile, inside the house, the downpour is not yet a nuisance. It is a sound, white noise. When I listen hard, though, the rain isn’t just one sound but many. There is a low roar and a rush to it, those would be the bass notes, layered with a steady drip, drip, which are the treble. And these sounds are punctuated by the ticking of our clock and the chirping of a lone cricket. When the wind comes up it makes its own sound. There is such a coziness to a rainy day. Until you have to walk through it.

Flash Flood

Flash Flood

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Yesterday morning I turned right out of our neighborhood and entered a world of water. At the bottom of the first hill were deeper pools than I thought I should attempt. But the road was too narrow to turn around, so I plunged through, plumes of spray arcing above the windows. For the rest of the 20-minute trip, I struggled to see the road in front of me enough to figure out which side of it was most submerged. Sheets of rain poured across the pavement. I gripped the steering wheel with both hands, turned the wipers to the highest setting, and drove very, very slowly to the Metro parking garage. It was, in short, terrifying. Emily Dickinson said it best: “Nature, like us, is sometimes caught without her diadem.”

Facing the Enemy

Facing the Enemy

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We are not air-conditioning people. If we could do summer the way we wanted, our windows would always be open to the breeze. But we have teenagers, and we choose our battles, so the last few summers we keep our windows up and our AC on. Still, we never lose an opportunity to throw open the sash and let the sunshine in.

Until this summer.

This summer almost every day is over 90 degrees. This summer, heat is the enemy. So we sit outside in the evening, when the sun is down and the air is a balmy 85. Or early in the morning when there’s still a hint (and I mean a hint) of coolness in the air.
I used to think there was no such thing as too hot.
I’m not so sure anymore.

Moisture

Moisture

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We live these days in a kingdom of moisture. A couple weeks ago, it was hot and dry. Now it’s hot and humid. Dew is heavy on the grass. Evening thunderstorms thicken the air. Our windows fog. Walking is best in the morning, unless you want to saunter.

Open Window

Open Window

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Last night’s respite from midsummer heat gave us the excuse to turn off the air-conditioning and throw open the windows to the night air.

Fans whir, crickets sing, a faint smell of loamy earth wafts through the house. By the middle of the night the fan has sucked in enough cool air that I pull the comforter up around my chin.

It’s the best kind of chilly, air that is moist and moving and full of sounds and smells. I’ve missed it this summer.

A Change of Scene

A Change of Scene

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Darkness in the morning. Rain steadier than what I thought we’d get today. Everything left out on the deck: wooden rockers, chair cushions, one very soggy beach towel. For weeks the sun has ruled; there’s been no question about it. Every day a sunny day. And now today, something different. A new game in town. It’s refreshing. As long as it doesn’t last.