A Walker in the Suburbs

They were barely more than specks in the sky when Copper and I stepped out for our walk yesterday. Bits of fluff from an errant dryer vent, I thought at first, or airborne ash from a fire. I didn’t know that snow was coming. I should have. All morning the earth had that gray stillness it does before the weather changes, a pause, a turning from one element to another.

As we walked, snowflakes dotted Copper’s shaggy back. This would make a good picture, I said to myself several times — and every time I did he did his little doggie shake and they would all be gone.

When we came inside, I still thought the snow shower was a fleeting one. But it flurried the rest of the day and left us with a thin coating, our first of the season. In winter, the world looks better in white.

The name isn’t mine but I can’t think of a better one for a snowy October day, one of the few we’ve ever had in northern Virginia this early in the, well, we can’t really call it winter, can we? This early in the season — that’s better.

In honor of our snowy day, here’s a photo from the vault. With fond hopes that this is not the beginning of a hard winter to come.

Walks in the suburbs this weekend revealed the full damage from our recent snowstorm. Trees without tops, our own witch hazel decapitated. Large limbs littering yards and driveways. And in the woods, downed trees block paths.

The pears and fir trees took it hardest. They are bent and broken. But there is scarcely a yard that’s untouched. The light brown of sheared wood stands in stark contrast to the silvery gray of weathered trunks.

This is nature’s way of pruning dead wood. But unlike the gardener who trims kindly and judiciously, wicked weather takes what it wants. Its methods are ruthless not artful. The unkindest cut.

It came in with a whoosh and a bang and a crackle of light. At 2 p.m. it was raining, at 3 it was glopping (gobs of slush falling from the sky) and at 4 the snow was falling sideways at two inches an hour.

Through the quick-darkening afternoon and evening we heard claps of thunder, saw lightning flash. By midnight it was over. The west-facing flanks of trees were smeared with white, as if from a wayward paintbrush. Our bamboo was bent with the weight of the heavy snow. Today it is quiet, no plows, no cars. Just the whiteness of a spent world. Until yesterday we’d had a cold, dry winter. The thundersnow made up for it.

You’d think we were preparing for Snowmageddon: The Sequel. The sidewalks are crunchy with “pretreatment,” plows are at the ready and cheerful meteorologists discuss the latest models with barely restrained glee.

I first heard about this storm last week when I bought a cup of tea from Betty in the cafeteria. “Keep your eye on Tuesday. There’s a storm brewing for Tuesday.” At that point no one else I knew had heard about this potential nor’easter. I’m not sure where Betty got her information, but she was spot on.

Since then I’ve heard much talk about winter weather advisories and storm warnings, states of emergency declared in southern states and dire predictions for the northeast. Once again, it looks like D.C. will miss the brunt of it. But until it does, we can look and listen and pretend.

The snow hype is better than the snow.

This snow comes in with a roar and a whoosh, as a fierce wind blows from the west and the flakes fly sideways. Last week’s deluge was relentless but silent. Today’s is loud and dramatic. It’s a storm with more sound than picture, the kind where pioneers perished a few yards from their cabins because they’d lost their way. I have a sudden hankering to read Willa Cather, to tie a rope from our house to our car. I think of the power of the white out, not the correction fluid (which covered mistakes and offered a fresh start back before computers made it almost obsolete), but the white out of nature, which obscures and overwhelms.

As I sit here writing and listening to the sound of the wind and the trees beating against our windows, I hear another sound, a sound we’ve been waiting for these last five days but haven’t heard. It’s a snow plow, or, more accurately, a front-end loader, clearing our street (finally) in the midst of a blizzard. It’s taking a while, since neighbors are offering coffee and breakfast and brownies. (We’re a congenial lot here in Folkstone.) And it seems a fruitless occupation since the snow is blowing back over the road as quickly as they can move it away. Then again, maybe it’s just wishful thinking. On some level I want to stay marooned. I was getting used to the isolation. The white out is fine by me.

This morning a neighbor called us early. She lives on the corner and was going to the store to load up on groceries. Did we need anything? It’s been four days since we’ve been out in the world so I asked for milk and bread and tea. Our food supplies may be dwindling, but neighborliness is in abundant supply.
So, too, is foot travel. With more than two feet of snow clogging our unplowed street and another ten to twenty inches on the way, hoofing it is the only way to go. So into our supercharged suburban world comes a much needed pause. We stroll, we trudge, we slip and slide. We take in the white world at three miles an hour.

Our wide suburban street has shrunk to a single footpath. Why do I find a curious freedom in this restriction? It is, of course, an adventure and won’t wear well with time, but right now I find it liberating. This little path reminds me of how many major highways began, first a beaten trail, then a dusty lane, next a paved road that’s widened to two lanes, then four, then eight. What began as a part of the landscape ends up destroying the landscape. I often try to imagine what our neighborhood was like a hundred years ago. The snow has made this easier to do.