Memoirous

Waiting for Blossoms, Spring Break Out Break out spring escape from your winter jail the confines of cold Break forth those cold buds hardened to freeze the onslaughts of this season’s fury Bend toward the vernal sun let the sap run no longer a prisoner, rejoice! Throw a party of color Time for a fling Let the rumpus begin

It’s still snowing . . . and it’s still cold in the morning and the sky cotton candy pink—yet the sun is rising earlier.   Except—after the first hint of spring after being teased by shorts-wearing warmth after pulling out the lawn chairs after the kids got into the shed for the bubble machine— the chair is draped with snow and the toys are MIA beneath ground-covering white   So we return, to Winter. But even the birds and squirrels are saying “It won’t be long now!”

False Spring? I’ll take it. True or false. I can see bare ground beneath the trees. Whether real Or not The icicles are crashing to the earth. It’s not my imagination Not a mirage That square of white is shrinking. Teasing, kidding, Pulling my leg There are signs of life. The birds don’t care. The squirrels are scurrying. The blue sky spreads out overhead. Winter weary Soul crushing Long-enduring We wait with hope— Chick-a-dee-dee, soon soon soon  

“The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow”  “The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow" is a line from the famous Christmas poem, The Night Before Christmas . It’s an odd archaic, Victorian phrasing, but highly imaginative, top of mind last night as I walked home from work under a full-moonlit sky, the white orb casting long tripod shadows from the fir trees in the neighbor’s yards, spidery shadow webs of branches from the trees by the playground. There was the orange square glow of light coming from the front windows of houses—reflected upon the new-fallen snow. There’s always new-fallen snow, these days. The breast of new-fallen snow—is this some reference to the white bosom? Something about purity, something a man would write as an ideal? The ultimate in untouched beauty? The sacred body. A temple, undefiled. Supple, clean, comforting, giving succor. It was cold and I ran a little to keep warm. The crunch and squeak of snow beneath my boots. And, I thought of t...

Snow Tires   I deliberate . . . Now? Yes, there’s been snowfall already and icy patches camouflaged by piles of leaves. But, now? Murphy’s Law dictates that as soon as I put on the studded tires the temperatures warm up and I’m made a fool, jumping the gun. It also means summer is over. Autumn too. Did I do enough? Maybe there’s one more ride out there where I won’t freeze but can stop and enjoy the herons belly-high in the wetlands or the cranes screeching in the tall grass or the geese pooping next to the robot lawnmower at the Meridian Historic Village. More time is what I wish for, one more week, a squeak, smidgen. There’s no reasoning with weather. It comes on it’s on schedule. I leave the bike at the shop with my snow tires necklaced around the handlebars. Moving on, is what I tell myself.

  Winter Comes Early   Is it the light, seeping through the bare tree branches, early—or slipping below the western horizon, late afternoon? Is it the crisp mornings, the deck white with frost, treacherous to walk? Is it the piles of brown leaves suddenly whooshed off the trees? Is it the piped Christmas/Xmas music in the stores right after Halloween? The scurry hurry of frantic squirrels feasting upon the sodden porch pumpkins. Maybe the 4 inches of snow that fell overnight and frosted the porch, the pumpkins, made the deck a blanket, blanketed the piles of dead leaves, and gave the music context, a sense of cozy familiarity, as we lit candles and warmed our hands around mugs of hot mulled cider. Wintery. It came.

  Running Outside I’m sitting at my desk typing away, thinking about running outside. It’s been awhile. *it’s been too snowy *it’s been too cold *it’s been too icy *it’s been too chaotic   Suddenly I am running out of running excuses. Must get dressed and tie up the laces and remember how it feels to push my body through inertia. Through the lack of will power. ** Just back, huffing and puffing—and feeling invigorated. A truly chilly morning.

It’s March on the calendar and flakes are falling. Not fiercely, not fast, but a slow, soft flutter. Ash Wednesday, the start of Lent—and snow hasn’t quite let go. On Sunday I went on a hike with a group called Adventure-ish, all female (plus a dog or two). The path in places was a sheet of ice. Our boots broke through where it was crackle thin and mostly we had to navigate the biggest patches by walking off to the side. We could hear the not quite frozen river POINGG as the ice shifted. There was also a persistent woodpecker—getting the ice cube grub. After a 2-hour hike, with snowflakes swirling around, my hands were cold and I was ready for lunch. Despite all this—I know spring is coming. The sun tells me soon, soon. what's left of square of snow on back deck

 Soldier Sun   Snow-filled white out a lone orb soldier sun pulsing overhead braving to break through thick clouds inner strength to carry on

Hello, kids! How is it that for months you lay dormant, scrubby, blah—and then, open? I saw activity about a month ago in bleak January when it was cold but snowless, a little snow, always cold: There were brimming buds. Of hope, I thought. This is new, my heart said. Ah! There is only so much I can do to beat back the blanket of depression that falls on me in weak light, dark mornings, early evenings, a day that never ripens but stays a leaden gray. I light candles, turn on my grow lights over the spider plant, eat comforting hot oatmeal, get a Netflix subscription. I plan a garden and reread my blog where I ride my bicycle . . . everywhere. For example, last year at this time I was dreaming about my upcoming  Rhine River trip .  Five hard little buds formed at the end of what appeared to be a dead stem. (I never know whether to trim them back or tack them up.) I did a bit of research. Orchids like cold nights and warmish days; they love sunlight but not direct light. So ...

As promised: we got snowed! Perhaps blasted would be more like it. The wind painted the sides of the house with a layer of heavy wet snow. It’s splattered on the screen and windows. Right now outside the sky is a fervent blue and there is bright sunshine. Everything is buried—even my boots. I put them out in the shed on Sunday because they were just taking up space on my door mat. I’ll have to dig my way out to the shed before I dig my way out to the garage and before I dig out the car. Last night when it was still hammering down I saw a flash of light and then thunder. I hadn’t heard thundersnow in a few years. I recalled a time when I was in high school, I’d have to have been at least 16 to drive, that I drove out to the mall and bought a pair of snow boots that were on sale. They were canary yellow and zipped up the front and were cheap because it was already April. April! Past the time of snow I thought—just as I reckoned the other day when I moved my boots to the shed. But a...

We’re being teased. One day it is birdsong and walking outside with no hat or gloves to the next day biting winds. I drag my lawn chair out of the shed in order to sit on the deck in the warm sun and drink my tea, only hours later to inside when a cloud passes overhead. In the past two weeks we’ve had snow, freezing rain, an ice storm, and now waiting on a snow storm predicted to dump up to a foot of heavy wet accumulation. Even the birds are subdued. The last heavy winds knocked the squirrel’s nest out of the tall hardwood next door. Temps are right around the freezing mark. Highs and lows collide. Writing this I had a movie memory flash—that moment in Enchanted April when the two women journeying to Italy in a torrential rain awake the next morning to brilliant sunshine, warmth, to Spring. I await that moment—it won’t be today.

Likely by the time my readers (both of you) read this the cold snap will be over, but for now—it is cold cold cold. Thankfully, my tiny house is up to it. Nevertheless, the floor is ceramic tile and retains the cold and there are pockets in the house that are cold. In the morning when I resuscitate my composting toilet by rotating the arm inside the bottom basin to break down tissue, etc, it feels as if I am moving a block of ice, as if I’m in an outhouse. Maybe not that bad. Even a nature lover like me has her limits. The night time sky has been clear and the moon bright—but I’m not likely to stand out there and admire it. I rush from my door to the sliding back door of my daughter’s house. Riding into work has become an exercise in layering. Thick wool socks, boots for the feet, leggings, pants, then over pants for the legs, up top a turtleneck under a shirt under a sweat shirt under a puffy coat under a windproof outer layer. A balaclava, hat, liner gloves and then super thick...

We haven’t had any snow since the big dump around Christmas (the same storm that buried Buffalo). The weather has reminded me a lot of Eugene, dreary and rainy and temps near freezing. Somewhat static. We’ve now, just as January is almost over, entering a pattern of snow waves. Every day now we are predicted to get a bit of the white stuff. I was nervous, wondering how I was going to get to work. It’s not that far—I could walk, but walking home at night didn’t appeal to me. Grace and I were back and forth about taking the car or dropping me off, which meant bundling up the baby for a 5-minute drive. Finally I decided I’d ride my bike. In a word: beautiful. The world was white. It was globby snow that clung to tree branches and piped the bushes. I was inside a wedding cake. Everything glistened and glowed. On one hand, I was glad I didn’t have far to go, and on the other, I wished it would never end.

On Sunday, my day off, I did all the necessary stuff: laundry, dishes, etc but I also was outside in the cold bright and early just taking in the sunrise and snow, when I trundled to the shed for Christmas decorations. It’s been a number of years since I put up a tree—just doesn’t seem worth it—but, yet, I continue to hang around me the orbs, glass fangles and dangles, and tape Christmas cards to the walls. I’m overwhelmed by the love each object represents that I want to remember those who have remembered me. Thus, over SEVERAL hours I carefully went through my bin. In Chicago I had a schematic in my head where everything went, now it is new territory and I had no idea where things might go or work best. Several bigger framed pieces had to vacate a hook or nail and my nature shelf sacrificed space, so that in the end I have a cozy Tiny House ready for Christmas—complete with a poinsettia! First, playing with my theme of blues against the far facing wall, I stretched a piece of h...

 More Snow! (Friday, 11/18/22) Even the older climate deniers here in Michigan say: I remember when I was a kid, we’d have a foot of snow by Halloween. And, I’m thinking . . . I don’t. But I grew up in Dayton, Ohio, so a little further south. Plus we didn’t have a Great Lake at our doorstep. Up here, Michigan is bordered on three sides by Great Lakes. So, yeah, from the north and west the winds and weather blow through and take that moisture and voila: Snow! When I woke up this a.m. in my cozy Tiny House and climbed down the loft ladder and in the dark looked out the front door windows—there was literally, but not literally, a blanket of snow cascading down the decks off the main house sliding back door. It was perfect and pristine. I wish as a writer I had another word than blanket or carpet. But, it is not a cliché, it is soft and inviting like a blanket and the undulating folds really do resembled mussed bed clothes. When it is this fresh and white and glistening, one on...

I awake under my warm blankets in my little loft My nose close to the ceiling where my breath and The frigerator humming down below create its own heat After climbing down, the cold ceramic tiles stun the feet I hustle to my toilet, as cold as an outhouse, soon though The thermostat is pushed up and the tiny house is cozy And the light is on, paler light still outside my window, trying trying To wake up the world, the sky almost a haze, then The first specks, not even flakes, more like paint splatter appear Dotting the deck, optical illusions, almost, could be But soon the leaves are covered in a carpet of white and a hush As it comes down, ticket-tape confetti to celebrate the season It’s November and the bare trees hold forth catching snowflakes On their tongue boughs, the first taste of winter   We expect an inch or two