About This Winter

Only dustings of snow. Only brief intermittent frozen rains here, not enough to endanger us (downstate was a different story). It's as if (so far) winter here has hesitated to speak, out of politeness, so as not to interrupt our important activities.

Yesterday I led our "spiritual group" on the topic of raising our vibrations to attract our "perfect mate." We had fun listing the many fine qualities of the him or her just about to arrive, who is looking for someone just like us. I brought unicorn and princess valentines enough for all and wished everyone Happy Valentine's day.

Only one sprinkling of salt has been necessary on the concrete steps this winter. And. . . already the bluebirds are back, very active, and they love to have families in my bluebird box and I can hardly wait. Happy Valentine's Day. Happy day every day. Love is everywhere and spring is gaining momentum.

Spring Afternoon, Winter Morning

Woke at 5:30 a.m. to clomping noises on the roof. It’s still dark. Maybe the roofers, who were said to be coming to work on the cabin this week, begin early, I thought; some workers do. But I heard no voices. I know roofers talk, unless one of the roofers was out last night with another roofer. But no voices. Got up. Big, thick, wet snow, on the border of frozen mix. No trucks in front of my house. My Hughesnet won’t work. I tinker with the modem and router. It occurs to me how good I am at this. But no dice. Through the Verizon phone connection I see the weather radar. Yes, a big snowy mess, eastern Missouri style—frozen mix burying the crocuses.

At full light, I suit up, go outside, feed the birds, and see good-sized branches fallen everywhere, from the oaks and even from the little redbud, and they’re still breaking under the weight of continuing snow.

The old redwood picnic table, over 15 years repeatedly repaired and C-clamped, which I’d petted the other day and thanked for staying upright all winter, had finally given up the ghost. Moment of silence (thump, plop). I broom the slush off the HughesNet dish. More branches breaking. I drag the largest tree limbs out of the road. Thump. Thud. They’re still falling. I add my tracks in the snow to a deer's. Then a branch whomps on and rolls off my roof. It occurs to me that a random limb might fall and crush not only my roof (glad the roofers are scheduled) but my head, and I’d better go inside until all the thumping stopped. I’m shy of it because during yesterday’s high winds, the trash-can lid flew up and gouged my nose. It’s 32 degrees exactly. But in Missouri, we never say we've seen the last of the snow until April is over.

Seasonal Fuzziness

Warm until February; snow and sleet in March: "Seasonal fuzziness" is what it's called by a Missouri Department of Conservation representative whom I heard speak about climate change (he said that he would not say "global warming" because that phrase was too  politicized). He said weather is drifting away from the calendar and our expectations because of man-made climate change. Yes, the weather is more and more confused; it's not a collective hallucination. Numerous outdoor events scheduled for March, when I'm often rhapsodizing about crocuses, have been snowed out, including a Mardi Gras dog parade ("Mardi Growl" -- everyone goes) in Eureka, and my planned jaunt to the back roads of  southern Illinois, inaccessible after a 7-inch snowfall. They rescheduled those events for April. Tonight it will be 0 degrees. This Saturday it'll be 52 degrees. LaBarque Creek (left), always pretty, looking like a poem, freezes and heats like a fever line.

Ticks Don't Die

Planned to list here the good things about a snowy subzero winter, and the first thing I thought was that a hard winter kills ticks so summer will have fewer.

I didn't recall who'd told me that, but facts found on the Laboratory of Medical Zoology site say deep cold will indeed kill the ticks who are above ground--but most winter below ground, sleeping in leafmeal, and when it thaws they'll latch on to the first available warm body. Ticks are always aiming for a place on your or an animal's head or neck, where blood circulation is abundant and good. That's the bad news. The good news is that a tick who's been on you less than 24 hours is unlikely to have transmitted a disease. So the city-dweller freakouts I've seen when my guests find a tick are unwarranted (but fun to watch).

It's fleas who are killed by cold. But their eggs, wherever they laid them, are just fine and can take as long as three years to hatch.

So: One good thing about a miserable winter (sneeze) is that ticks are inactive.

Second good thing: Snow is picturesque. Photo is of my pumphouse this morning. That little plastic table I got from LaBarque Creek when it flash-flooded. I've never opened that door, having witnessed bees and wasps disappearing beneath its eaves into the pumphouse interior, maybe forming a whole colony. I can only tell you that it works and that its water is tasty but very hard. I've lived here 13 winters now and the pump (electric) has never frozen.

Hungry Pileated Woodpecker

This male Pileated was hungry enough, in the seven inches of yesterday's snow, to allow me to stand in the open porch door and take his picture while he breakfasted on suet. His mate was nearby, but it wasn't her turn yet to leap onto the suet cage, clutch it with her long black toes, and eat. Not only that, but when they fly back to the tree trunk they wipe their beaks on the bark like it's a napkin.

Snacking on Snowballs

The other day having coffee with a friend I denied myself a pastry from the shop's lovely pastry case and later wondered what kind of person would deny her desire for a pastry when she really wanted one. I decided that was unhealthy. And it awoke in me a desire to live that moment over and choose differently, which gave me the bug for something gooey and sweet. . . So I drove seven miles into town and in the gas-mart's most forbidden aisles where I never go, I in my purple parka shopped among packaged creations spun up from high-fructose corn syrup, white flour, partially hydrogenated oils and artificial flavors -- treats that no Pharaoh or Chinese warlord, no matter how wealthy, ever saw or tasted or imagined. Because I am sensible I allowed only one item. It came down to brown-sugar pop-tarts or Hostess Snowballs, their coconut tops dyed pink for, I think, Valentine's Day. How very festive. I contained myself until I brought them home, and at 4:30 p.m., very civilized, I set them on a plate and had on the side a cup of rice milk in my Kansas State University mug. I think that on one of my birthdays, back in my salad days ("when I was green in judgement") I bought Snowballs and stuck a birthday candle in one. Or maybe I dreamt that. Or it was someone else's birthday. Anyway, please be seated and share this rare and beautiful moment with me.

March 26 in Missouri

They say here, "If you don't like the weather, wait 24 hours, and you'll see how good it was." Hamster-sized snowflakes fell today. Thursday was a mildly sunny day, about 70 degrees, a great day for walking and climbing...I enjoyed the tiny buds on trees, small mayapples and wake robins springing from the forest floor, and looking for a jack-in-the-pulpit. I told a friend, "It should always be early spring." Then last night it got cold. Nothing on the ground this morning. But 5 inches of freakish snow on the ground by 7 p.m. It covered up my daffodils, violets, hyacinths. I baked chocolate chip cookies; what else could I do?

Neighborly

The other house on the Divine property has stood empty for as long as two and a half years while seeking a tenant who can appreciate its quaint and rustic winter drafts and hard water. It's not a cabin, more of a cottage. When I first got here it housed a couple with the prettiest three little girls. Then there was a couple with a young boy; they moved away to a subdivision because he needed friends and playmates. Then Shelley, the Harley rider who has moved back into the country area she came from. Now I've got a great neighbor who invited me over for New Year's Eve, and I've repaired some of her costume jewelry, and baked her some cookies, and she's taken me to lunch and given me cookies on a holiday plate, and I've encouraged her to take art classes and she did, and she politely grants permission for me to shoot off fireworks, and we talk about gardening and about boyfriends, and she is my exact same age...just the kind of neighbor everyone dreams of.

A Little Snow

We've had three snows so far, the deepest three inches just the other day. In eastern Missouri these are called "snowstorms," and the people in charge call out the snowplows and MoDOT and the national guard, while I sit snowed in telling my employer, "Sorry, I'm snowed in," until the plows scrape off and salt Highway F. A few inches of snow here is big scary news and folks run out and stock up and the weathermen tell them to stay home, and the schools close, and people huddle at home until it passes. I'm originally from Wisconsin and also used to live in Syracuse, New York (also known as "Siberacuse," where 18-inch snowfalls were common), so I laugh and laugh.

This Will Fry Your Brain

Burning the excess brush cut down on Christmas day (pictured), I thought, "a bonfire." Then I wondered, "What's the difference between a bonfire and a regular fire?" Looked it up.

bon-fire. Middle English bonefire, banefire, originally a fire of bones.
1. A fire for consuming bones, hence: a. (Obs.) A fire for burning corpses. b. A fire for burning heretics, or articles under proscription. c. A fire for burning brush or rubbish.
2. A large fire built in the open air (orig. on certain anniversaries, esp. the eves of St. Peter and St. John), as an expression of public joy, for sport, etc.

Quite a history. The fire here is definition 1.c. With the surrounding brush cleared and flattened, this spot suddenly became perfect for a permanent firebowl. Everyone liked this idea, and friends carried concrete blocks and helped me to establish it on Saturday (and stayed here half the night feeding and enjoying the fire). Happy New Year and stay warm.

See My Christmas Present

See the overgrown brush? I'd planned on hacking at it two hours a day for four months until I cleared it. (See entry "My Machete," Dec. 19, in menu at left.) This is the "before" picture.








See my friend and hero Reeve? As my Christmas present he brought his gas-powered brushcutter and cut all the brush and briars from hell's half-acre in one hour or less, and then made a bonfire of the debris, using just one match.

The "after" picture. (The fallen branch along the bottom is the same as in the "before" picture; there's just a lot less of it.) Best Christmas present. Reeve got a big omelet, a big hug, and other good and valuable consideration.

Not at Home

Downtown in the big city at the Fox Theatre to see Ballet Folklorico de Mexico. When I came out abt ten thirty p.m. it was snowing. As I drove west on I-44 the roads not having been salted or sanded or plowed became a problem. Reluctantly and knowing it was best I pulled off the interstate & checked into a Holiday Inn from which I write you. Slept 4 hrs. Prefer my cabin with its few amenities...now under a nice snow blanket, & God knows when I will make it home. The flood of '07 kept me out of my home 4 days. I expect the MODOT plow crews will have roads ready by now.

Letter in the Snow

Before holing up for a winter night I take the bird feeder and suet cage onto the porch, or else I'll be woken up later hearing fuss and turn up the floodlamp on an obese raccoon hanging upside down from the wire grabbin' at the suet cage, or waddling off with it...

And the porch door's warped, so after I shut it from the inside I have to go outside and kick it firmly closed (can you say Green Acres?) and I happened to look down...

(Heard a joke today. What's the difference between an introverted engineer and an extroverted engineer? The introverted engineer looks down at his feet. The extroverted engineer looks down at your feet...)

. . . and saw bunny tracks, and my heart was filled with delight. I love their "Y"-shaped track. Bunnies used to own this place but numbers have been down in recent years. So happy to see evidence of my otherwise invisible, secretive little friends. P.S. Rabbits are not rodents. They are members of the deer family.

Jack Frost Lives!

Jack Frost's icy renderings of trees rival those visible through the window in this photo -- taken in the garage, which has single-pane windows. The sun was melting Jack's artwork and I had to shoot quickly! It's been decades since I've thought about Jack Frost. Back in Wisconsin, windows seemed full of his ice paintings, and we sang at least one song about him. But the Disneyfication of life, and a move to Missouri, elevated Frosty the Snowman to first place as the embodiment of winter. But that doesn't mean Jack's out of business. Frosty is winter's peasant; Jack is its poet.

Merry Messenger

This pileated woodpecker was swooping around the house at 8 a.m., joyfully screaming, "Wake up everyone for a mile radius! It's Christmas!" I ran outside to hang the suet for her. After two solid days of rain, the earth has today a very light dusting of snow. A blessed Yule to you!

Snowstorm at Night

Snow last night and today made it nearly impossible to get out of here; I tried but the snow packed my tires like wet sugar. So I turned back and then couldn't get the car up the driveway without a shovel and cat litter. However, I did do it. Tonight stepped outside where snow was falling straight and fast and I could hear it like a whisper. I could also hear spinning tires as other folks around here tried to go places. With the floodlight on I saw bunny tracks. The photo shows my bird feeder strung from an oak. January is almost over. Yay.

Frosty Morning

I'd dislike January if I didn't get divine gifts for my birthday, like this one: A frosty morning. I got a morning, imagine that. That's more than some have. One birthday I got a yellow-bellied sapsucker. Sometimes it IS all good.

Season's First Snow

Did those bluebirds know something? That it would snow overnight? About an inch of it. Was just out takin' 110 pictures. This, my favorite, #100, is not photoshopped -- that's the way the branches with the snow on them really look.

Did We Dream This?

Took this at 9:00 a.m. 100 yards up the road.