Yes, snow. Stark and simple word for the white wilderness that circumscribes our lives here in the Northeast US. I can’t find adequate words to do justice to it. Maybe photos can convey some of our winter:
Our patio at the beginning of December — Chairs stacked and tarped, table with its own tarp. Not as neat as some might get it, but the best we could do.
The first snowfall held off until the beginning of January.
A delightful winter vista it provided, we thought, viewing the snow from our bedroom window.
Pretty on the patio, too, yes? But then came February, and the white stuff really hit the fan. Every Sunday into Monday, like clockwork it fell, until the joke made it to Facebook: Welcome to Massachusetts. Closed on Mondays. (Of course it’s contrived to snow on other days also, Wednesday being another favorite.) By now we are looking like this:
Recognize the vantage point? But it doesn’t show the icicles!
Here they are. We have icicles, and black ice on the roads, and ice dams on the roofs (don’t ask). Temperatures haven’t managed to rise to freezing for weeks now. We drop down to -13 and lower (that’s Fahrenheit!) at night, and struggle during the day to reach double digits. Often we don’t manage it at all. And the wind chill numbers are simply ridiculous.
As for the view from the bedroom window, here it is:
Well, minus the hunters and their packs of dog (even our hunters are out of season). But this painting of Hunters in the Snow by Netherlandish Renaissance painter Pieter Bruegel the Elder is what comes to my mind every time I look out the bedroom window these days, across the trees and rocks and little hills, with the sky an ominous gray and the snow falling —
And falling —
And falling —
And I also think of this line from, who else? Shakespeare: “Now is the winter of our discontent…”
You said it, William!