Weather, or not

Another day with some episodes of freezing drizzle and rain. Side roads are sloppy and slippery. If AI is the upcoming thing, why aren't our weather forecasts more accurate and internally consistent? It looks like we've got a January thaw lined up for much of the week ahead, except for periods of fog or freezing rain showers or freezing drizzle.

The Christmas tree and almost all the decorations came down today. Usually we wait until the Feast of the Epiphany, but this year that occurs tomorrow so we're declaring "Close enough." Now it's time to settle in and hunker down until Spring, which too often arrives some time in May around here. If you're getting the impression that I don't approve of the weather aberrations and bizarre volatility that may well be related to "global warming," you're very perceptive. Tuesday or Wednesday this past week the mid-morning temperature was 15℉, a light rain, not snow, was falling and freezing on the windshield and wiper blades of my Jeep. That's far from normal around here.

a "Christmas" amaryllis in January bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

On a brighter note, the Better Half has three amaryllises close to blooming. I was fussing about their varying development rates until she mentioned they're three different species. I was given a potted lavender plant for Christmas. It's in a south facing window but with our persistently cloudy skies, I doubt it's getting the amount of sunlight it needs to stay healthy. We'll just have to watch and see (and hope for the best).

You're correct that there was not a mention of the current regime, Epstein files, or Venezuela kidnappings. I''m trying to follow the old guidance about "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." But I don''t think it applies to winter weather.

Furry Bear

A. A. Milne

If I were a bear,
   And a big bear too,
I shouldn’t much care
   If it froze or snew;
I shouldn’t much mind
   If it snowed or friz—
I’d be all fur-lined
   With a coat like his!

For I’d have fur boots and a brown fur wrap,
And brown fur knickers and a big fur cap.
I’d have a fur muffle-ruff to cover my jaws,
And brown fur mittens on my big brown paws.
With a big brown furry-down up to my head,
I’d sleep all the winter in a big fur bed. 

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First we adjust, then we adapt

Hello, again(?), from the cloud-covered, snow-showered, North Country. You’ve no doubt seen the news that last year was the hottest on record. I’m wondering if this year may qualify as the cloudiest. Here’s what we’re up against, according to the State Climatology Office: “... January 2020 followed a different path, finishing with less solar radiation than any January since records began at the U of M St. Paul Campus Climate Observatory in 1963.” 

cloudy, dreary, day after day

Photo by J. Harrington

According to our Minnesota Weather Guide, late next month is when “normal” daytime highs again reach freezing. That presents us with about six weeks before weather can really be expected to start to improve, as measured by those of us who consider open water, not ice, to be a normal condition. Meanwhile, with the help of the Better Half, I’ve sorted through my assortment of sweaters and reduced my holdings by a handful. It would be misleading to suggest we’re actually downsizing, but we are working on reducing clutter, including clothes that are rarely worn and that limit access to clothes worn more frequently, because closet space isn’t limitless. [If you’re old enough, remember Fibber McGee’s closet. If not, click the link.] All in all decluttering is a moderately productive way to spend time in the winter, given the kind of winter we’re “enjoying.” One of the ultimate rewards is that I’ll soon have space to actually sort out fly rods, reels, lines and gear before the season starts. I bet you suspected I had an ulterior motive, you sly devils.

Winter is a time when nature slows down and life is supposed to follow suite. I’ve racked up too many winters where that’s meant sitting on my duff and grumbling about the weather. As part of my efforts to improve my attitude, this winter I’m actually doing things other than grumble and wait for spring. So far, so good.

Winter Sun

By Molly Fisk

How valuable it is in these short days,

threading through empty maple branches,

the lacy-needled sugar pines.

 

Its glint off sheets of ice tells the story

of Death’s brightness, her bitter cold.

 

We can make do with so little, just the hint

of warmth, the slanted light.

 

The way we stand there, soaking in it,

mittened fingers reaching.

 

And how carefully we gather what we can

to offer later, in darkness, one body to another.

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Hangin’ in there

Thanks to the efforts of the Better Half and a local florist, we have a few sprigs of holly decorating the living room. I continue an internal debate about the pros and cons of cloudy skies, but above seasonal temperatures and little snow, versus cold, blue, sunny skies and inches upon inches of snow. The current situation [chilly, cloudy, little snow] has a very slight lead in the early voting. Sunny, chilly, just enough snow to look seasonal would be a nice compromise.

a too typical December sky

Photo by J. Harrington

According to the record keepers, November and December are our cloudiest months. That suggests, in addition to Christmas music, we should add Paul Simon’s Cloudy to our December playlist. The short days, long nights and cloudiness reinforce the need for candles, greenery, and celebrations to help us traverse this time of year. On the brighter side, two weeks from today day’s length will be almost a second longer than on the solstice. At least we’ll be headed in a better direction then.

Until then, I need to shake my shack nasties, get Christmas shopping finished, and start getting organized for next year. Better days are ahead, just ask Annie.

Snow-Flakes

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow     1807 – 1882

Out of the bosom of the Air,
    Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
    Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
      Silent, and soft, and slow
      Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
    Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
      The troubled sky reveals
      The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
    Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
    Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
      Now whispered and revealed
      To wood and field.

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a winter’s day, after day, after ...

Baking a loaf of kernza sourdough artisan bread on another gray, cloudy January day helps, but not as much as a month’s worth of sunshine and blue skies would. It’s true that drought, wild fire, atmospheric rivers are both emotionally and physically devastating, but our persistent cloudiness makes me feel like I’m being subjected to eternal water torture, drip-drip-drip, and would confess to anything too make it stop, but there’s not even a guard within earshot that I can implore.

a taste of times to come

Photo by J. Harrington

I did get a good whiff of the fragrances from the bulb planter flowers this morning, which made me hope I might live long enough to once again enjoy a real spring day full of wildflowers and sunshine. I bet any wild animals susceptible to seasonal affective disorder are hibernating in a state of torpor. That’s similar to my current condition but, unfortunately, I’m awake, not asleep, although the Better Half might have a different perspective on that.

A hen turkey is again feeding on droppings from the deck bird feeders. I noticed her as I was checking on a load of clothes in the dryer and sneaking another peek at the jonquils and tulips near the west side downstairs window. For a scruffy-looking bird she’s quite handsome; for a handsome bird she’s quite scruffy-looking. I need to remember to dump some sunflower seeds on the snow for her, the cardinals, and squirrels.

Maybe tomorrow I need to take a ride and see if I can find some open, flowing, water and just sit and watch for awhile. Even if everything is frozen over, I’ll feel better for having tried. Beckett’s statement on “fail better” comes to mind, as does the idea that waiting for winter to end in Minnesota is about as useful and hopeful as Waiting for Godot.

The Song of the Happy Shepherd

By William Butler Yeats

The woods of Arcady are dead, 

And over is their antique joy; 

Of old the world on dreaming fed; 

Grey Truth is now her painted toy; 

Yet still she turns her restless head: 

But O, sick children of the world, 

Of all the many changing things 

In dreary dancing past us whirled, 

To the cracked tune that Chronos sings, 

Words alone are certain good. 

Where are now the warring kings, 

Word be-mockers? — By the Rood

Where are now the warring kings? 

An idle word is now their glory, 

By the stammering schoolboy said, 

Reading some entangled story: 

The kings of the old time are dead; 

The wandering earth herself may be 

Only a sudden flaming word, 

In clanging space a moment heard, 

Troubling the endless reverie. 

Then nowise worship dusty deeds, 

Nor seek, for this is also sooth, 

To hunger fiercely after truth, 

Lest all thy toiling only breeds 

New dreams, new dreams; there is no truth 

Saving in thine own heart. Seek, then, 

No learning from the starry men, 

Who follow with the optic glass 

The whirling ways of stars that pass — 

Seek, then, for this is also sooth, 

No word of theirs — the cold star-bane 

Has cloven and rent their hearts in twain, 

And dead is all their human truth. 

Go gather by the humming sea 

Some twisted, echo-harbouring shell,

And to its lips thy story tell, 

And they thy comforters will be, 

Rewarding in melodious guile 

Thy fretful words a little while, 

Till they shall singing fade in ruth 

And die a pearly brotherhood; 

For words alone are certain good: 

Sing, then, for this is also sooth. 

I must be gone: there is a grave 

Where daffodil and lily wave, 

And I would please the hapless faun, 

Buried under the sleepy ground, 

With mirthful songs before the dawn. 

His shouting days with mirth were crowned; 

And still I dream he treads the lawn, 

Walking ghostly in the dew, 

Pierced by my glad singing through, 

My songs of old earth's dreamy youth: 

But ah! she dreams not now; dream thou! 

For fair are poppies on the brow: 

Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.

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