Winter Morning. December 2019

This cold winter's morning, as the darkness edges away from the horizon, I find myself wishing that I was--elsewhere. And maybe elsewhen.

 
What would I be doing, and where would I be?

 
Sitting in a rocking chair on a porch, wearing flannels and wool, wrapped in a blanket, a quilt, a comforter. Which or how many of these would depend on the temperature of the air and the prevailing winds.
In my hands a hot drink. It doesn't matter what. Tea, coffee, cocoa, a toddy, hot lemonade.
The steam from the drink both warms and wets my nose. The warmth of the contents warms the cup and the hands that hold the cup.
Or do the hands warm the cup, keeping the fresh warmth from escaping?
No matter. It and I am warm and we hold one another in warmth.

 
Before me are treetops. Behind me, behind my home, are trees.
Layers of trees.
Rows of trees.

Rising solemnly in ranks and ledges and lines.
They stand silent, or Not-so-silent, in the breaking of day. They rustle, they murmur, reminding me of stretching and waking and the hushed voices of rising.
I smile and sip and look.
Below me, I see the stream moving, smoked silver in the pre-dawn. I hear the shushing of the water as it falls into the pool. I cannot see the falls -- not yet -- but I know they are there. I feel the cleansed air against my skin. I smell the freshness. I hear the soothing sounds, and
I walk away from my window looking out on the busy highway, and I wish -- Oh, how I wish! -- that the place I have been was somewhere I could actually be.

Hints of Spring

It seems the winter may never end.
It will never stop snowing.
Snow will melt and freeze.

But, driving down the roads, one sees the signs of spring.
Not, as you may think, in the clearing, brimming ditches, or the yellowing of the willow limbs.
Nor in the increase in road kill or the presence of predators.

The real clue is in the garbage at the curb.
There are mattresses and couches and pots of desiccated plants.
There are outgrown toddler toys, often with a free sign taped on.
There is an old door there, and a busted window frame across the street. (Wonder if both or either of those homes houses any type of ball player?)
There are paint buckets and piles of tree limbs.

Gliders are being painted and left to dry on porches.
Cushion covers are being washed and cushions are fluffed and filled.
Swings are being rehung  -- or new swingsets  are going up.
Windows sparkle and doors stand ajar as in welcome.

Spring cleaning is a sure sign of spring, as all creatures leave their dens and begin to ramble, sometimes half-blind and half-starved (for what? Light, food, companionship? Does it matter?).
Winter's waste is being cleared away.
Light is being let in.
Life returns to bursting-at-the-seams.

Welcome Spring.
You old slowpoke, you.

March is Roaring In. (We Hope.)

March comes in like a lion, goes out like a lamb.
March comes in like a lamb, goes out like a lion.
Or so the saying goes.

As folk wisdom, it's pretty accurate. Especially if you don't insist on March's entry being 12:00m on March 1 of any given year.
The theory is the same as the groundhog seeing his shadow, just a month later.

Summer seems to come sooner and in a more orderly manner when Spring is a series of thaws and refreezes. When Springtime is a Battle for Supremacy against the forces of Old Man Winter.

So, we await one more winter storm, hoping it will be the last one. This one is possibly going to be the Worst of the Winter. A Last Blast.

I, for one, certainly, hope so.

The winter started early for me, with a death.
And there have been deaths all winter long. Few if any have been winter related, but that really doesn't matter. The winter of 2013-2014 has been the Deadly Winter to me. Even now I'm praying that it doesn't end with a (specific) death. I am afraid for my friend. (Any prayers or the equivalent that you offer I thank you for in friend's name.)

I hate this winter.
Hate it, hate it, hate it.

When March roars in, I will be standing on my porch (the one with the last storm's tree limb still thrown on  it) and I will be roaring right back.
"Good bye, good riddance you sorry old killer, you." I may even throw in a few bad words, if it won't shock anyone  too much. Or maybe even if it does.

Afterward, we can celebrate my daughter's birthday with no tornadoes and no blizzards, the way it usually happens.

Happy Birthday, Tammy.

Not Quite "Christmas in July"

We are enjoying a lovely bout of October weather here at the end of July. It's not quite a "Christmas in July" but I'll take it. I think it's pretty darned nice!

I'm not quite sure what the technical situation is . The weathermen on the TV have been talking about "record high lows" and "record low highs". All of this makes sense to me while they are explaining it, with little charts and diagrams onscreen, but my understanding disappears with the charts. Somehow, I don't think a record high low is a record low. That would be a low low, to be a new record.
Am I wrong about that?

I am surprised at their surprise. For the last several years, the weather seems to have shifted somewhat. Spring blooms earlier, summer dies off earlier. The key is not in the calendar, but in the wildlife. We've had daffodils in February, redbuds at the end of March, black-eyed Susans and Tiger lilies in July. Daffodils used to be "Easter lilies" to us as children, the redbuds are more familiar in mid to late April, and the susies and tigers should only now be coming into full growth. Both of these are part of the transition to September.

September and October should be foxtails and goldenrod and grass (hay) drying in the fields. The last few years, we have had the goldenrod before school starts in mid-August. This year it looks as if the same thing will happen. We'll see the first snowflakes in late October or early November. The "January thaw" will be near Christmas.

But, NO.
Not necessarily.
Here I am, doing the same thing as the weathermen and meteorologists -- trying to put Mother Nature and her business into neat little cubicles (dates on a calendar.)

When will we learn that nothing not man-made fits into our neat little boxes?
Just because it's usually gold and orange in September doesn't mean it always will be so.
Just because it has always snowed in February doesn't mean we can't have sunshine and warm southern breezes that month.

There are plenty of people ready to blame man-made sources for the changes in the weather. Plenty of them, but their 'proof'' is that the weather has changed. That really doesn't prove the why.

Weather has never been constant according to Modern Man's demands. The constancy is vague and steady,  seasonal; not date-to-date, not month-to-month. Weather just won't fit our convenience.

Maybe the solution to our (not a) problem will end up being the time-honored tradition of updating the calendar. That is what our species has done historically when the seasons and the dates have become out of sync.



I say let's keep our calendars loose and flexible, and let us not bind ourselves too closely to what our little blank calendar boxes and our record books say we should expect from the weather. Because, no matter how many blacks we draw for time and nature, these things will not co-operate with the corporate mentality.

Above all, though,  let us enjoy  this October weather in July. 

I Like Trees.

There are many visual delights, especially in rural living. Many people like to look at clouds, or rivers, or the reflections of clouds in rivers.

Me, I like to look at trees. Okay, I do enjoy looking more if there's water nearby, a nice reflective surface. That way I can see both sides of the tree.
I like their asymmetric symmetry.
I like trees that arrow into the air, pointing, thrusting skyward, ready to penetrate heaven itself.
I like trees that branch out in so many places it looks as if whole spread out hands have thrust themselves through the hard hard ground and are grasping at all the air and all the space they can find.
I like trees that grow into full, fluffy or bushy circles  so that they look like huge green lollipops.
I like trees that burst into bloom to greet the sun as it warms the air.
I like trees that say "good-bye for now; Farewell" with bright blasts of red and gold before they are wrapped in crystals of ice or snow.
I like  trees that stay green year round.

I just like trees.

Trees are strength.
Trees are growth.
Trees give, even when they die.
They shade us, they feed us, they cool us, they warm us.

Trees are always trees, but they are never the same.

What would our lives look like -- or at  -- without trees?