What is it about snow that makes everything quiet? Rain does not have the same outcome. Rain can be heard, on the ground, on the roof, on the windows, but not snow. The snow, the “polar vortex” arrived during the early evening hours. We watched the snow float serenely to the ground, then, as the hours climbed, the skies turned wild. In our warm den we watched. The fireplace was ablaze, the wood pile outside the door well stocked. “Oh, the weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful, and since we’ve no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow”. And snow it did. Finally, we went to bed, enjoying the sound of the wind howling through the trees, and grateful to have a forest between us and the Chesapeake bay. The woods kept the drifts at bay.
The next morning we woke to white. Great piles of white. Nothing but white. Everything was white. Dr. Zhivago white. The movie’s snow was a key element to the plot; Zhivago looking for Lara. “Lara, “Lara”, trudge, trudge, “Lara, Lara”, trudge, trudge, “Lara, Lara”, trudge, trudge. We only had to make it to the mailbox and that was far enough. Zhivago should have stayed with his wife. He wouldn’t have caught the illness that eventually killed him; another good reason not to cheat on the spouse and stay indoors while all that snow was falling.
Meanwhile, our two cats sat at the window sill, unblinking, unable to take their eyes off all the white stuff that was descending to the ground. If only they could talk:
“what is that white stuff? where’s the green?”
“dunno, it’s taking over.”
“can we eat it?”
A few days later, the roads were cleared; sand and/or salt covered the tar. Here and there, though, wherever there was a forest clearing to the bay waters, the winds from the ocean had pushed the snow back on to the road. The drifts made for some interesting driving moments, but nothing that required consideration of life’s great meaning or the end of it.
We did contemplate the enormous thrills and raptures that the weather had brought us: wild winds, exciting car rides through the snow, sensational white outs, not to mention the hilarity in watching ducks and geese foolishly attempting to land on the 'waters' of the cove, only to be bounced off the ice. Each morning we’d look for any sign of spring on the horizon, looking forward to reacquainting ourselves with the color green, any shade of green, even brownish-green would exhilarate.
And another few days later, the sun shone brilliantly, warming the ground, melting the snow, turning white to brown to green, as we had hoped, but what came next? Fog. London fog. Soup fog. The ground was warm but the air was cold. Our world once again became very small, and very quiet. No noise in the fog. No sound. Even worse, we couldn’t see anything, other than the occasional dead deer by the side of the road; evidence that someone else had not seen anything either, until it was too late.
Looking forward to March 21.
