It’s one of the colder mornings of the year, but the birds don’t seem to notice. They’re rustling about in the azalea bushes, flitting from branch to branch of the denuded oaks.
They harken to some older signal, some lengthening of the day, some freshening of the wind.
They seem to think it’s spring, or at least the beginning of it.
Who am I to disagree?
Because the real thing continues to elude us. Because we are either too far south, too far east or (this time) too far north. (Hard to wrap my head around that one.)
Because the last time we had two inches of snow was almost two years ago, here is a picture of what it was like in the old days.
We have more than virtual snow, however. We have that acrid taste in the air when snow is near. And we have the cold air behind the front. Cold air that pushed the clouds away and gave us back the sun.
If days were colors, Thursday would be yellow. The bright spot at the end of the week. Not yet Friday, but all the better — Friday still to come.
By Thursday, work is effortless. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday are just practice. Thursday is the real thing.
By Thursday, the week is almost over, but there is still room for improvement.
By Thursday, caution is not recommended. It’s a full-stop operation. Do or die.
Is there some ancient prejudice that inclines me toward this day. Or something in my own history? A favorite class? A special route? A piano lesson?
Or is it just that I’d rather anticipate anticipation?
In summer they are backdrop. Essential, green, the air we breathe.
In winter they drop all pretense. They are not smooth and uncomplicated. They are gnarled and uneven.
Here is what lies beneath the leaf, the flower. Here is what they really are.
Give them a gray sky, a brisk wind. They can handle it.
The road from Kentucky to Virginia (or from Virginia to Kentucky, for that matter) is by no means flat. It crosses a major mountain range, of course, so you don’t choose whether to drive through mountains, only how you will do it.
For much of the route the altitude shifts are buffered by the grade restrictions of the U.S. interstate system. In other words, nothing too extreme. If your car is powerful enough and you’re in a hurry, you may not realize how high you’re climbing.
This got me thinking about the gradual ascent, the steady accretion of duties, the daily growth of a child that’s invisible to you until she sees distant relatives who say, “How much you’ve grown!”
So much happens to us slowly, invisibly, without our permission. It’s probably better that way.
I noticed these green shoots more than a week ago. They may have peeked through in late December. The ground has been easy to peek through, after all. A few cold blustery days but warmer than usual for the most part.
Yesterday was mild and foggy, today more of the same. Meanwhile, in other parts of the state, temperatures rose into the 70s this weekend.
The heather is blooming, soon the witch hazel will, too. And from the looks of it, the daffodils will be early this year.
It’s not so much early spring as lack of winter. It’s the new normal.
It’s a bad habit, I know, this tendency to scribble on whatever is at hand. Usually, it works. The scraps discovered, assembled, copied. The ideas, such as they are, saved.
But today I’m bereft. The napkin I used on the long trek through the mountains Monday, all the ideas I had while driving, gone.
There’s one more place I can look, one more dark corner. I dig and search and … success. Found it.
I unfold the napkin, examine the squiggles. Yes, there are ideas on this napkin. Two of them I’ve already used in posts. The others, hmmm — they’re not as brilliant as they first appeared.
Next time I’ll keep my eyes on the road.
It’s Oscar Season! Nominees were announced yesterday, and I’ve seen four of the films nominated for Best Picture. That’s better than usual. Most years I would have seen none by this date.
In the old days, of course, seeing four would mean I’d almost seen them all. But this year, with nine pictures up for the top spot, I have five more to go. Or maybe not. This year proxy viewing is allowed, and a trusted assistant is doing some of the “work” for me. (“I don’t think you’d like ‘Django,’ Mom,” my daughter says. “Too violent.”)
So that leaves four: Two films that only start today and I’d planned to see anyway, and two “about animals” (I know there’s more to them than that) that I might palm off to my trusted assistant. And this is not even including the Best Actor/Actress performances.
What can I say … most of the time, reality is enough for me. But not during Oscar Season.
.jpg)
.jpg)
A funny thing happened on the way to work today. Same thing yesterday and the day before. I blame it on my phone, which is also my camera.
No longer do I stride quickly from Metro to office, car to train. Now I stop, look, snap.
What would before have been preserved only in my mind is suddenly ripe for the taking. A wisp of smoke tinged pink by the rising sun. A bank of clouds moving in from the west.
Pictures are everywhere. Now I have a chance to take them.
I may never be on time again.
My visit to Kentucky entailed more cooking than I usually do. It made me realize how far I’ve slipped in the culinary arts. Take mashed potatoes, retrograde food that they are. If you’re making Swiss steak for someone who’s been longing for it then you must also whip up some potatoes.
Here’s what you must not do. You must not boil the potatoes until they’re a watery mush. You must not let them sit in the starchy water while you finish an email, read another chapter, watch the end of a TV show. You must not mash the potatoes all cold and slimy. They should be warm and well drained.
If they’re not mashed properly (until grainy) then the milk does not make them fluffy, it turns the whole mess into something resembling wallpaper paste. Lumpy, gelatinous and too white. It’s all a matter of chemistry, I guess.
Funny thing about those potatoes, though. People were hungry enough that they gobbled them down. Chemistry is important, yes. But so is appetite.
(Mine did not look like this. Photo: Wikipedia)