The snow piles at the edges of our driveway are now over my head. My study, with its walls half-underground, has snow mid-way up its windows. Some days, this makes me feel warm and snug, like I’m in a grouse’s snow burrow; others, it makes me feel trapped. As New Englanders and Midwesterners alike will tell you, it is the winter of too much snow.
The snow is powdery soft and has drifted high in many places. It’s difficult to get to the bird feeder on the side of the house. I think about using snow shoes to get there because, in some places, the snow is well over my knees. There isn’t enough crust on it to support anything much heavier than a gray squirrel. I wonder what the larger animals are doing for food. One day, I see fox tracks in the driveway. Another, I catch a glimpse of unusual movement outside the front of our house as I walk down the stairs. Three deer are walking down the middle of our street – one doe and two youngsters, probably born last spring or summer. The youngsters have no spots, but they are smaller than their mother. Their heads are just – just – above the snow along the edges of the road. Somehow, they see me through the small window above the front door even as I immediately curtail my movements. They stop, their ears swiveling as they gaze towards the house. A car comes along, and they bound away, over the snowdrifts toward the pond, and then out of sight into the woods, following the cross-country ski tracks my neighbors have made.
After dinner out one evening, a medium-sized furry creature runs out in front of our car as we’re almost home. It’s a blur in the smeary salt-covered headlights and windshield. Fast. So fast. And, then, it, too, like the deer, leapt over the snowbanks on the side of the road and was gone. It wasn’t a dog. It appeared golden blonde in the lights. A bobcat, maybe. I know they’re around, though I haven’t seen one. I’m still puzzling over it when we get home, so very grateful that we didn’t hit whatever it was. I glance through the field guides I’ve spread out across the bed. I’m pretty sure I didn’t see any spots. It wasn’t a coyote. I don’t know how I know, but I do, and I’m positive. Hours later, I remember that I saw the animal’s tail clearly. It was full and bushy, held out straight behind its body. It was beautiful. It was a fox.
One blue and indigo moon-lit night, I can’t sleep. It’s around 2:00 a.m. I learned long ago that fighting sleeplessness is a waste of time. When you’re not afraid of not being able to sleep, the night world ceases to be so scary. When I lived alone, I’d wander through the house in the dark, usually ending up in my big blue chair, looking out over my sleeping street, my white dog glowing faintly in the dark, calmly resting at my feet. Now, I lie quietly, just resting, thinking. I hear a noise coming from a distance, one I haven’t heard in a long time. It’s a Great Horned Owl, hooting in the dark. The furnace comes on, and I can’t hear it for a moment, but, then, when the system shuts off, there the owl is, still. It’s a ways away, and the snow and ice combine to trick my ears about direction, but I hear it hooting on and off for a long time. There’s some kind of music there, and rhythm, too. I think it must be calling for a mate. We haven’t had owls around since I’ve lived here; maybe this one will stay.
Finally, the February thaw comes. The snow sags and settles. For a few days, it’s warmer, too warm, in fact. We play hooky in Harvard Square one afternoon, and we realize it’s almost 60 degrees. We wear lighter coats, and our gloves stay in our pockets. We walk down Mass Ave, talking to each other about the conflict we feel: the weather feels so nice, and, at the same time, there is no way that it’s normal. A day or so later, temperatures cool again, the melting spots become icy, and we can practically skate in our driveway. It isn’t exactly what we have in mind. The car-that-is-not-a-Subaru gets stuck in its parking spot. The temperature moderates, and the days hover right around freezing for awhile.
Two weeks ago, it snowed again after a break of some days. Though I’ve seen more than enough snow since the start of the year, it was the most beautiful snow yet. It was cold, in the low 20s. Large, distinct flakes stayed separate from one another as they nestled and accumulated on the trees, as well as on my car when I went out for a much needed visit with a friend. It wasn’t wet or heavy snow. It was pure lusciousness – the lightest of fluff.
And, then, rather suddenly, my roll-with-the-punches, being-unphased-by-the-weather, fairly good humor wavers then tilts. The news here at home and around the world is bad, then worse. I’m tiring of being cut off from the pond and its surrounds. The winter has been tough on my health. My asthma has been barely in check even when I stay inside. Outside, with the smoke from fireplaces and wood-burning stoves, smells I used to love, combining with the bitter cold, my lungs spasm, I feel a searing pain in my chest, and I can’t breathe. My head, touchy about the frequent changes in barometric pressure with all the storms, is in the midst of a migraine stew.
Last Friday, it snowed a little again. But then it rained. And sleeted. And then it rained some more. I saw a green tinge under the ice, close to the shore, where a tree grows half in, half out of the pond. While I know it’s too cold yet for anything much to be happening in that shallow, viscous sludge under there, something’s going to.
The car-that-is-not-a-Subaru is no longer stuck. We all cheer the Master of the Universe. I swear I hear a robin singing. The wren couple has been singing on and off for no particular reason for some time. A sparrow tries out its rusty voice.
Snow comes again on Sunday, and Michael shovels it without me. I am unabashedly happy about not having to do it, though I do feel a little guilty. Freezing rain on Monday covers our trees, and everything else, with icy casts. A friend writes about trees with agoraphobia (here); I am utterly charmed by this, and I feel much lighter.
Time, tide, and moon cycle continue forward, and it’s the beginning of March. As I stand in the kitchen, making our afternoon tea, I begin to notice that the sun has a new slant to it. It stays light until much later in the afternoon. Today, I hear a mourning dove’s plaintive call for the first time since late autumn. I also hear the owl’s who-who-whoooo-who-who in the middle of the day, and watch as the blue jays sound the alarm by imitating hawk cries, which scatters all the small birds from the feeders. None of my many field guides have anything to say about why that big ole owl might be hooting in the daytime. For now, it’s a mystery. A welcome and intriguing mystery.
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