So far, April is proving to be as wet as March was windy. The months are playing their usual roles, in other words.
I feel a certain responsibility on rainy days: unless otherwise occupied, I should use them for cleaning closets or going through old files in the basement.
Which means that after I’ve written, and after I’ve studied, and after I’ve made today’s calls and sent today’s emails, I must get myself to the nether regions of the house … and fight the good fight.
From shorts to shudders: that’s what the weather has given us in the last 24 hours. Yesterday, Lexingtonians were bopping around in t-shirts and cut-offs. Today they’re donning parkas and gloves.
For many people in the middle to eastern half of the country, Standard Time is going out with a bang — wind chills in the teens and (at least in Lexington) five or so inches of snow on the ground.
It’s a good day to stay inside and visit with family, which is what I’m doing.
The sun is bright and there’s a warmup in the forecast but, at least for now, it’s winter again.
(You’d have to look hard to see crocuses blooming today.)
A few days of unseasonably warm weather meant I slept last night with open windows and the early spring air flowing through the room. It reminded me of warm days to come and the freedom of being at one with the outdoors.
It’s another story this morning. Colder and more seasonable air has moved in and the newly popped daffodil blossoms are shivering on their stems.
A good reminder of the halting, sidewise, untidy course of progress.
(Snowdrops along Reston trail.)
On a doggie walk this morning I was stopped short in my tracks. Tree limbs were shiny, glazed with ice. It was unexpected and almost magical.
It was the best of both worlds, too, because the pavement wasn’t affected. There was friction on the driveway, fairyland up above.
I hadn’t known this was coming, hadn’t read weather reports that freezing rain was in the forecast.
It struck me then, and I second it now, that life is more exciting when we forget to read the directions.
When I looked out my office window yesterday morning, the world was an unremitting winter gray, with just a touch of green from the grass and hollies.
Today, I see three sprays of yellow witch hazel, which burst into partial bloom with the afternoon’s balmy warmth.
We’ll see how those spare blossoms fare now, with temperatures falling into the 40s and a wild northwest wind battering the bamboo and waving the sweet gum branches.
I remind myself that the witch hazel is hardy and used to such shenanigans. It’s bloomed in far worse. Plus … those small yellow flowers are out among us now — and there’s nothing that winter can do about that.
I woke up to a meteorological marvel, at least in these parts, something we seldom see around here. Morning fog is a soft way to begin the day; it blurs the edges of the world. It may also be giving the groundhog the conditions it needs to predict an early spring, but I won’t count on that.
For now, I’m content to look out my study window at birds perching on the chicken wire, awaiting their turn at the feeder. At the squirrels, hatching their next plan to commandeer the suet block. At the red fox, skulking behind the covered garden bench at the far end of the yard.
Every time I glimpse that bench, which is often, I think for a moment that I’m seeing the tiny playhouse we had when the children were small. It has the same outline, the same lightness against the dark green backdrop of the fencerow.
But that place was torn down long ago, my girls are all grown up with families of their own. And I’m welcoming the fog, which promises a soft beginning to this new day.
It is February 1, 2022, what would have been Mom’s 96th birthday. On this day, as on several previous February 1sts, I cede this space to the person who inspired me first, and inspires me still. In this post, written in 1994, Mom describes a snowy Manhattan and muses on what the city meant to her.
I have been snowbound in New York now for several days. I look out the window on 27th Street and watch the snow pile up. Hardy New Yorkers trudge through the ever-deepening snow.
At home in Lexington when it snows, we rarely see a car drive down Colonial Drive and almost never see anyone venture out on foot. Here it is so different. The attitude is “nothing will stop us, even 18 inches of snow.” That must be a part of the chemistry that makes New York City what it is.
I wish I had lived my life in New York City. It excites me as no other place has. There’s never been a time when I was ready to leave. And each time I have left, there’s been a little bit of myself that’s stayed behind.
(Photo: Vincent Paul, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)
It was a frozen world I walked through yesterday. Bundled up in my warmest coat, hooded and thick-socked, I made my way along the Franklin Farm trails, which were understandably empty. You know it’s cold when even the dog-walkers stay inside.
The paths were mostly clear, but any pooled water was frozen solid. I stopped and examined the ice, snapped photos, wondered why some ice is milky white and other is clear, thought perhaps I should have learned that in high school but did not. Mostly, I moved quickly. A winter walk is bracing, as long as it’s short.
It is full-on winter now — temperature in the teens when I woke up. How right it feels, when the furnace hums and the clocks tick and the birds chirp, how right it feels for it to be cold outside. The snow falls and stays. The bare trees stand sentinel.
December was lovely but strange, warmer than some Octobers. Lawn care chores piled up around me. Bulb-planting blistered my palms.
Now, being inside is not only expected, it is necessary. There is a kind of relief in that.
Now that winter is settling in, it’s decided to give us another dollop of snow to freshen up the batch we received on Monday. Which means I’ve been scanning the clouds.
Yesterday we had a swirled and mottled firmament, a stingy winter sky. Though it was a montage of clearing and melting, the sky kept its distance.
At about 3 in the afternoon, between errands, I looked up and thought: This is all the light we’re going to see. It’s a sober realization but also a practical one. In weather, as in life, it’s good to know what you have.