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The
Hush of Snow
In
the bleak midwinter,
Frosty wind made moan, earth stood hard as iron
Water like a stone, snow had fallen, snow on snow
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.
—Christina
Rossetti
The squirrels are scared of the wind. I sit here at the desk
watching them skitter in fear each time another gust bends
the big pine trees in my neighbor’s yard.
If I’d ever given it any thought before I would have said
that squirrels are fearless. They are addicted to playing.
They scamper and chitter and chase and jump. I have oak trees
in my backyard and this past fall acorns rained down like
locusts in a plague. Just walking from my car to my back door
was risking concussion.
But my squirrels loved it. A dozen or so rodents at a time,
they’d race around the yard gathering their acorns with more
glee than some people eat chocolate.
They got fatter as the season went on. They got fatter and
they got bolder. Back in September and October, if I opened
the back door to go out or opened the gate to come in, 10
or 12 squirrels would scurry off in different directions,
leaping onto the storm fence, racing up the tree bark.
By November they were so nonchalant about my presence that
they didn’t bother moving until I was a few feet away.
You’re getting bold and fat, guys, I’d tell them approvingly.
I’d watch them from the window by my desk. One time, one was
sitting right in the middle of a clay pot, clutching an acorn
and nibbling and nibbling, as if transfixed by the marvel
of the nut. I, too, was transfixed.
My squirrels know they can ransack my garden, bore holes in
the pumpkins we were too busy to carve. Once they even ate
through my cable lines. Plastic, too, is apparently tasty
to a squirrel.
But now, the gale howls and the early dusk is gathering and
the squirrels are gone. Except for the wind-bullied tree branches
and the tempests of leaves, the yard is still.
The wind is sounding the alarm for winter.
Where had I heard the wind before
Change like this to a deeper roar?
—Robert
Frost
I have been chased out of the yard, too, and sentenced for
a season to remember and renew my winter consolations:
Robert Frost, of course. Not because he is so dark and grumpy,
but because he can infuse a poem with beauty, grace and irony
all at once. That’s a companion for a long winter’s night.
CDs of medieval chanting. It’s like soul-massage. You don’t
have to pay any attention to the words. Chances are you wouldn’t
understand them, anyway, unless you were a Latin whiz or a
savant at medieval French. My current favorites are Etoile
du Nord, songs of legendary miracles, Stile Antico’s Music
for Compline—‘compline’ being the monastic service of
prayer at the close of the day. And winter’s days close very
early.
Movies. But not just any movies. Movies about escaping. Whether
it’s The Bourne Ultimatum, Grand Illusion or
The Wizard of Oz, the idea is to watch movies about
people slipping the surly bonds of circumstance. Jason Bourne
will learn his real name. The French prisoners will make it
safely to Switzerland. Dorothy Gale will get back to Kansas
(although what the hell was wrong with Oz? Was she too good
for all those colorful weirdoes?). But in any case, these
movies assure me that eventually I will emerge from winter.
There is hope for the future
Cooking. Winter is the season for making the things that make
you sick to think about in really hot weather. Hearty soups,
chicken pot pie, hand-rolled pasta, boeuf bourguignon. Everything
au gratin. I’ll just put in my CDs from the Teaching Company
and nerd out. By spring I’ll know the complete history of
Western civilization and all the battle strategies of World
War I. I will be a geek-magnet at parties.
Lubrication. The ready availability of all manner of lubrication
is the key to winter sanity. Lip balm. Bath oil. Moisturizer.
Books. Hot buttered rum. Something for body, mind and spirit.
Last of all, boots. I mean snow boots.
True, I deplore the arrival of winter. I miss my yard and
my unruly squirrels. But even winter has its strange enchantments.
Sometimes there is nothing better than to walk out late into
a dark night of freshly-fallen snow.
On nights of new snowfall, just to step outside is to wander
into temporary wilderness. No one is around—and this is a
blessing in itself. Everyone has withdrawn into their houses
with their televisions or their computer screens. The snow
is as yet untrodden, unbroken, a fleeting moment before tomorrow’s
schoolkids leave their Braille of footprints.
Then, for just a sacred moment, the busy world is utterly
hushed. And a small suburban yard sparkles with reflected
stars.
—Jo
Page
Jopage@graceniska.org
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