Thus far, I think Phil was telling the truth. I know we are only three weeks past the sight of shadow, but it does appear that the Seer of Seers, Prognosticator of Prognosticators, that rascally Groundhog … was right. It is cold here, and it seems to be staying cold.
The first two weeks of the year didn’t manage to creep above freezing. We’ve had more snow than normal, by leaps and bounds. When the sky turns gray I’m as likely to see flurries in the air as I am lines of rain, and though it doesn’t tend to stick that often, snow is snow. (and hey, look, it is flaking out there right now!) We aren’t getting the piles of white that others have, but that abundance is close – we’re just below the real snow line. (A line that I think corresponds to the frozen custard belt in some symbiotic way, and probably has roots back to the Mason-Dixon… but that might be too much of a digression even for me).
Still, the point is – cold. We had a balmy almost spring Sunday and we planted berries and grapes, learning from last year’s mistake of waiting far too long. Berries need to be in before spring, and per Phil and the forecast we have no worries – those berries are spending nights under a twin sheet this week. The grapes are potted and living in luxury in the garage. We’re having our deck rebuilt and I feel sorry for the guys working on it – every time I stick my head out to see the progress or answer a question, my nose runs. Cold, cold, cold.
I think, in total, we’ve had less than five days so far this year where I haven’t wanted a scarf and my jacket, and the poor Olympics are having sunny days in the 50s. Our weekend in Seattle was downright mild, and the last day counted as – dare I say it – warm? Sunny, certainly. That’s two for two for us, by the way, of weekends where we landed somewhere with sun while it snowed and stuck at home. I’m kind of put out by that; I moved from semi-desert to a place where it snows only occasionally and I keep missing it. I like winter, at least this incarnation of it. I like the flurries and the desire to make soup, the wearing of gloves and the bite of cold air. I like the different views we have across the hills, the reveal of houses and landmarks that are invisible in summer’s flush. And I like the groundhogs.
Groundhogs. Woodchucks. Whistle-pigs. Marmota Monax. By any name, I’m obsessed. This is not a California animal, and I don’t care if they are a nuisance, I love them. I first saw one driving to a friend’s wedding in Virginia, years and years and years ago. We had no idea what that grayish brownish furry lump on the side of the road was (Mike swore it was a beaver) but we liked the look of it. Moving here, they started appearing along the sides of the interstate somewhere near the Tennessee state line, nosing for lunch under the purple haze of redbuds. I looked them up, learned they had a colloquial southern name – whistle-pig – and that was it. Love. Allegiances to armadillos and llamas and hippos and perhaps even giraffes have been called into question ever since. We leave the house and are on the lookout for WPs, constantly. The only problem with winter is that the crabby little creatures hibernate, and our known WP spots are usually bare.
Like Phil, they’re asleep. The cardinals may be out and about but the crafty whistle-pig is deep in his burrow, dreaming of spring and fingers to bite. (I’m pretty sure Phil is a biter). I think they get hungry, though, and wake occasionally, because we’ve seen two this year, one just Monday. He was on the move, running across the road with fat tail bouncing along behind, and he was deliciously close to home. I’m sure he’s back asleep now (as is poor Phil, wrested from his warm burrow to prognosticate (and bite)) every February 2nd. I suppose it is Phil that makes me associate the WP with winter, though my love for them is year round. And I suppose I sympathize with their torpor; I think I’m hibernating, at least a little.
Our bedroom is dim in the morning, and the bed is warm. It gets dark early, and though we’ve had as many clear blue beautiful days in the 30s as we have had gray ones, the cold itself makes me slower, sluggish like the sap in a tree, barely moving. I think if I cut myself the blood might just ooze out. My brain feels muddled, tasks take longer, I forget things in the other room and then can’t remember what it is I’ve forgotten. Work is harder, my concentration is fuzzy. I just want to sleep. I read, recently, a theory that peasants in the Middle Ages engaged in a type of hibernation – that after the crops were harvested and the cold settled in they all huddled into communal beds and stayed there. The Bed of Ware had to have been that big for a reason, right? I like this idea, it gives historical precedent for my newly de rigueur nine and half hours of sleep. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think the whistle-pig and I have an appointment (yawn) with the pillow.
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Posted by: Coach Handbags | 24 February 2010 at 20:52
some soon mornin comes a snow that puts me in a dream...in the grey light of black and white days...nothin in my way.....spider john koerner
Posted by: bob | 17 March 2010 at 17:05