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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.

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.

The Whiting of the Green

The Whiting of the Green

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On Saturday I spotted signs of spring, snowdrops and green shoots, that pinkish haze that appears in the tree tops, proof the old oaks are coming to life.

It struck me as I strolled that I might be imagining the greening branches, the swollen buds, that maybe they were like the puddles of water that appear on a hot summer tarmac.

Because today, St. Patty’s Day, I’m not so sure. It looks like a foot of snow outside. It’s the whiting of the green. And for some reason, I welcome it.

It’s such a quiet, dutiful dousing, wet and heavy, clinging to each twig and bough. It stills me — and fills me with wonder, that such meteorlogical marvels can exist this far into the greening season.

Spring will come soon, no way it cannot. The shoots and buds are biding their time. But for now, on this day devoted to green, we have a different kind of beauty. It’s white.

50 Words

50 Words

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If Eskimos have 50 words for snow, then we tired, winter-weary suburbanites have 50 words for the  substances that keep us going through the snow.

There is snow melt and grit and cinders and kitty litter and rock salt (although that may not be around anymore for environmental reasons). The other day I heard a radio announcer suggest table salt. Sometimes there is just a residue of salt, but seeing it convinces me there’s no black ice and it’s safe to traverse that patch of sidewalk.

Above all, of course, there are the tractors that spread this stuff.

They may not be pretty, but they are our heroes.

A Dusting of Snow

A Dusting of Snow

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A dusting of snow. That’s something we’ve heard this winter — because along with the foot-plus of the white stuff “Snochi” brought us — and the two inches or six inches or (add your total here) we received in December, January and February, we’ve also had our fair share of dustings.

It’s hard not to think of confectioner’s sugar in these instances, sifting it onto a pound cake or sheet cake or, as I’ve done once or twice when ambitious, stenciling a design of powdered sugar.

The snow-dusted yard is still itself. The tufted grass, the untended garden, the fallen log, the bare patches — these are not obliterated as with heavier snow fall. They are highlighted, accentuated.

But they are also beautified. In all their imperfections.

Backyard Moguls

Backyard Moguls

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It has been noted elsewhere that throughout most of these Winter Games, the temperature in Sochi, Russia, has been higher than in many parts of the United States. And the major weather delay there so far has been due not to blizzard but to fog.

Still, to the viewer back home, the snow-peaked Causcasus, the high-tech ski suits and the sound of cowbells can only mean one thing: It’s cold!

So, I pretend.

Olympic viewing has also skewed my sense of place. When I look at the lumpy snow in my backyard I don’t see wind-blown drifts. Instead I see moguls.

This is a temporary phenomenon. I don’t expect it to last.

Sidelined

Sidelined

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I know. I tend to rhapsodize about the snow. I like how it gilds the everyday, how it covers imperfections, changes patterns, shakes up routines.

But one thing I don’t like is what it does to walking trails and paths. Here in the suburbs, walkers are always at the mercy of the automobile, but never more than when snow and ice take our paths away. Suddenly, all walking is street walking, which is fine when there are shoulders and gravel berms, not so good when those are buried under mountains of plowed snow.

Thursday, after a foot fell, I stayed inside, but by Friday I was itching to be out again. Streets were full of slush; my shoes oozed.  On Saturday, more snow, but it wasn’t sticking, so I ran gingerly through flurries. Yesterday, finally, a still cold with dry pavement, a boon to the ice-phobic.

Our paths are still covered, but I’m not sidelined. At least until the next flakes fall. We’re expecting more snow tonight.

Still Life with Snow

Still Life with Snow

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Out and about yesterday, noticing with each turn how snow transforms the landscape.

First, it softens. That which was sharp is rounded; that which is sparse is full. It is landscape’s pancake makeup, its concealer, hiding blemishes, wrinkles and lines.

Next, it obscures. Mounds of white stuff pad corners so I can’t see around them. Parking lot mountains loom where I least expect them. Shortcuts disappear; only the straightaways remain.

And of course, it beautifies. It does so with utmost nonchalance, but it does so just the same. The little triangle park in Lexington, a bench and a lamppost, of no particular note, becomes a still life. The snow drapes itself like an expensive fabric; it sees more in us than we see in ourselves.

The Pause

The Pause

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Four years and a week after Snowmageddon we finally achieved the right mix of temperature and liquidity, of moisture from the Atlantic and cold from Canada. The models were right on — and we have a humdinger of a Nor’easter.

It began last night as I drove home from work, the first flakes dancing in the air, hardly visible in the looming dark. “Be where you need to be by 7 p.m.,” the meteorologists said, and I barely made it, arriving home with only minutes to spare.

The coating I went to sleep with has, uh, filled out nicely during the night, and outside is 10 inches or more of the white stuff. The last time we had this much snow I started a blog. This time I’m just aiming to get the laundry done.

But house work, creative work — none of it matters.  What matters is the pause, the break, the caesura.

No one is going anywhere. And that’s fine with me.