winter to spring

this winter has been so gloriously mild. lots of greens and browns on the landscape rather than white. when it has snowed, it's been a flaky snowfall that accumulates in miniscule inches and is gone the next day. crocus and daffodils already poking up in soft soil. more sneakers, less boots. walks on grass and asphalt, wearing thin gloves, going hatless. i have been spoiled by this winter's weather. 

until now. here we are only four days past the vernal equinox and we have snow. lots and lots of all day, all night snow. now that it's spring, comes the storm i've been dreading all winter. tonight my body aches from hauling in extra wood and shoveling to keep the walkway clear. it's snowing still and i know that tomorrow will hold more of the same. 

but as i write this, i am distracted by the forgotten beauty beyond my window. in the soft glow of the back door light, the snow sparkles as it flies through the air and settles in high drifts. it silences the night air and insulates this old house in a white blanket of warmth. it makes me remember what i have always loved about wintertime. 

sleepless

it's a dark and stormy night and i can't sleep with the driving wind and the sound of rain battering the window beside the bed. i listen to the stove beep off and back on several times, a sign that power may soon go out, and i get up to draw some water into the kettle so it will be there in the morning for coffee. out the window, the wind bends the lilac and blows leaves horizontally, a sure end to foliage season.

i light a beeswax votive, contemplate and quickly dismiss the idea of a cup of tea at this late hour, and i settle into the wingback chair to try to read a little. the quilt around my bare feet soon warms me and my head sinks into the left hand wing where it always rests now when i read. this is gladys taber, a writer from another era who lived by the sea. her writing reminds me of my mother and her mother before her, and of quieter, simpler times in our world. eventually, as they always do, her words bring me to a calm and peaceful place, far from the night's raging storm and far from the storms that have raged for years. and i blow out the candle, lest i fall asleep sitting right there.

late winter snow

just as roads and pathways were finally clear of snow and ice, just as i changed from heavy gloves to leather dress ones, just as i was able to wear shoes outside instead of boots, this happens overnight. it's another nor'easter for this area, on top of one just a few days back. but again with this storm, we got lucky...lots and lots of snow, but it's warm inside, there's power, and there's no need to complain. forecasts of snow this time of year, when everyone is so ready for spring green and warmth, are hard to deal with. but it's always so magical when the snow actually does arrive. so i'll make another cup of tea, sit at my window and work, and continue to be distracted by the swirling beauty of fat flakes and the quiet elegance of a march snow. 

more like it

so here finally is the winter we've all been waiting for, some for longer than others. it's cold, a monday, and nothing of any consequence is happening. but while washing dishes at the sink, i was pleased to spot, amidst all the new white, the vibrant rose of the not-so-little-girl's birdhouse, its top permanently removed by a persistent squirrel. and i was delighted when a random glob of suds leapt up onto the backsplash and formed itself into this tiny, soapy heart.

january. not much to write home about. 

rainy day in january

sitting inside at the window, looking out at the bleak and rainy landscape, having bread and the last of the girls' strawberry jam. it tastes like summer.

winter storm warning

a winter storm, predicted, anticipated. it sounds like a significant snowfall, with sustained high winds and dangerous road conditions. i hope 'they' are wrong. this winter, i have liked having just a little snow - enough for foot prints and animal tracks, enough to protect perennials in the garden, enough for holiday ambiance, and enough for children to sled. i am not looking forward to amounts that will reach the lower windows or snowbanks so high i have to inch my way out of the driveway. i do not want so much snow that it will remain until april.

but today, i must find my very serious heavy-duty boots, just in case 'they' are right.

afterward

after a fitful night's sleep, the day dawns clear and brilliant. the wind still howls and the weather vanes on cottages can't seem to make up their minds. down the street, the wind fights with a sheer curtain through the open window. the surf is pounding on the rocks. wild weather still!

storms like last night's have such an effect on the beaches and the shore. at the sandy beach, lifeguards will not allow children to go into the water past their knees. the high tide is super high, it tries to take my shoes and it forces us and our blankets into the sand dune! but at the small rocky beach, it's a seaglass bonanza! never have we collected so much; never have i seen such a beautiful blue as this piece!

comes the snow

every year on this day i am driven to get out one final time with the camera. for tomorrow promises snow. tomorrow the barren late-autumn landscape will be transformed to winter white and will likely stay that way for too many months to come.

winter brings its own kind of muffled, pristine beauty with mounds of white upon white and dark branches on brilliant or muted or star-studded skies. but, for me, color and interest are hard to come by in winter. inside always looks better to me than outdoors. more color. more contrast. more going on.
but for now, for today, it's frosty and still, with perfect glassy ice on lakes and ponds, with crackling air as branches creak in the chill, with gray banks of threatening clouds looming overhead. my eye, and my camera lens, can see things today that will soon be gone too long with tomorrow's snow.

perennials

there's my perennial garden, taken out the window during a rain storm as i experimented with settings on my new camera. note the milkweed standing tall and proud and the dead lupine pods on brittle brown stems! still, this is about as good as this garden gets. in a few weeks, most of the flowers will be dead on their stems (or composted centerpieces) with only the autumn joy sedum for color and perhaps the rosy morning glories climbing that trellis, should they have enough time to bloom. every year i buy cosmos seed for annual color. and every year i never get around to planting them. and i am always so sorry come august.

inside-out

the view out the window this showery april morning. this rain is much needed, yet inconvenient. it will force me to find ways to stay content inside, which is unplanned - but not difficult to do.

ice twice

for the second time in the same week, freezing rain. it can be treacherous to walk on and nerve-wracking to drive in, but there's no denying it's beautiful...

on a lilac bud, poised and waiting for spring,

in frozen drips running the length of the clothesline,

when bending birch trees right down to the ground,

 even coating the antenna atop my car!

ice storm

the second best place to be during a surprise ice storm is behind a sander. the first best place to be during such a storm is home, which is where i now am and am happy to be.

late night snowstorm

tonight i am up late, writing for online assignments, answering emails, checking the news and weather, watching a few shows. as i sit here, the snow falls thick outside the windows. the lights flicker off and on. it looks like january with snow piled high on the rock walls and the wood pile. but first snow is so early this year that its also laying heavy on branches which have not yet released their leaves. never have i seen this much snow before thanksgiving.

today was a frenzy of cleaning up outside and packing away for winter. i finished up the flower beds, emptied the window boxes, and planted the mints to overwinter in the corner of the compost pile. i packed up gardening tools and exchanged them for scrapers and shovels. sitting one last time in the adirondack chair with tea in hand, i tipped my face skyward and smelled snow. as the clouds grew thicker, i collected a little of this and some of that from my garden cuttings and made a hasty arrangement for the door basket, just as the first flakes began to fall.

no-vember

here in new england, we are in the throes of our first-of-the-season winter storm warning - and it's not even time for the season to begin. if you've been reading these ramblings for any length of time, you know i have a love/hate relationship with snow. normally i anticipate the first flakes with glee and, when it arrives, i am wonderstruck all over again. but this year feels different already. i think it's because i haven't had november yet. i need time to linger in the garden, bedding plants down for the cold, to collect the spent seeds and package them up for spring. time to tidy up the yard and pile away the adirondack chairs and push the little girl one more time before the swing comes down. time to take a last walk in the woods in the quiet, leafless sunshine to collect greens and twigs and vines for the winter window box. i need time to pause, quietly, and wait for winter to begin. i need my november and, if the forecasts are indeed correct, this may be the year november doesn't happen.  

oh, what a beautiful morning

this is the tune i whistled well into the afternoon! have you noticed how the day after a storm is always spectacular? bright blue sky, clean invigorating air? the kind of day when all's right with the world? today was such a day. not much to write about - but a magnificent end to my summer. 

hurricane

squash blossom in the compost pile - through the window, through the rain, through the tropical storm winds. so far, power is holding. hope the trees do, too.