OK. We have had enough. Really. I don't remember any winter as long or as nasty as this one. Then again, I don't remember where my car keys are. The snow is one thing, but the frigid temperatures to which we've been subjected are downright cruel. On the other hand, if one is an observant type, and I try to be, it has been oddly intriguing to watch how this winter is different from so many others. Here I go, back across the bridge which spans the Fort Port Channel in Boston!
Besides the winds which once or twice threatened to sweep me to a chilly death over the side, the walk has been interesting for the last few weeks. In the middle of the REALLY cold weather, on the days when I needed blueprints to get dressed, the channel started to freeze, but in such an interesting way. One morning after the fifth day or so of silly temperatures I noticed what looked like pale gray water lily pads forming across the surface of the channel. There they were, like flat islands of frosted glass. By the time I was walking home the surface of the channel looked more like the skin of a giant reptile. The water lilies had grown exponentially and had approached one another like the pieces of an enormous puzzle. They weren't touching yet, and the water still outlined their various shapes, and the water under the bridge was still rippling, providing somewhere for the poor seagulls to float. By the next morning the pieces had come together and formed ridges at their boundaries. It looked like nothing so much as a pale gray map with no country names, rather the way I would imagine a pigeon with cataracts seeing the world if only he could fly high enough.
But enough of poetry and pigeons. This ridiculous winter needs to get over itself. It is wearing out everyone's nerves and patience. Mittens are getting fuzzy and tired looking, the way knits do by February. The grit carried in on the bottom of boots is crunching on every floor and rug, no matter how many times one tries to keep ahead of it. And under it all there is that nagging little feeling that perhaps we have stuck a dagger into the heart of Mother Earth and she is in her death throes.
Still I know that within a few weeks the snow will melt and that first brave crocus will stick its valiant little head about the rock hard ground. The first one is always yellow, I don't know why.
What I do know is that I shall startle the new neighbors with my hand-clapping and whoops of joy.
And maybe a dance on the lawn, but I don't want to scare them away yet.
Besides the winds which once or twice threatened to sweep me to a chilly death over the side, the walk has been interesting for the last few weeks. In the middle of the REALLY cold weather, on the days when I needed blueprints to get dressed, the channel started to freeze, but in such an interesting way. One morning after the fifth day or so of silly temperatures I noticed what looked like pale gray water lily pads forming across the surface of the channel. There they were, like flat islands of frosted glass. By the time I was walking home the surface of the channel looked more like the skin of a giant reptile. The water lilies had grown exponentially and had approached one another like the pieces of an enormous puzzle. They weren't touching yet, and the water still outlined their various shapes, and the water under the bridge was still rippling, providing somewhere for the poor seagulls to float. By the next morning the pieces had come together and formed ridges at their boundaries. It looked like nothing so much as a pale gray map with no country names, rather the way I would imagine a pigeon with cataracts seeing the world if only he could fly high enough.
But enough of poetry and pigeons. This ridiculous winter needs to get over itself. It is wearing out everyone's nerves and patience. Mittens are getting fuzzy and tired looking, the way knits do by February. The grit carried in on the bottom of boots is crunching on every floor and rug, no matter how many times one tries to keep ahead of it. And under it all there is that nagging little feeling that perhaps we have stuck a dagger into the heart of Mother Earth and she is in her death throes.
Still I know that within a few weeks the snow will melt and that first brave crocus will stick its valiant little head about the rock hard ground. The first one is always yellow, I don't know why.
What I do know is that I shall startle the new neighbors with my hand-clapping and whoops of joy.
And maybe a dance on the lawn, but I don't want to scare them away yet.
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