A REDBIRD SNOW

It did snow last night, after all—four or possibly even five inches which covered the ground and stuck to branches and twigs in fluffy wet cottony clumps. Really lovely, as I hope you can tell from an upstream view taken an hour ago, and another shot from earlier out my deskside window looking downriver.

Not a problem snow, however. The stuff was too wet, barely below freezing. Great for fashioning snowballs and snowmen, but you'd quickly soak your clothing making a snow-angel. Myladylove had no trouble getting her Honda up the short-but-steep driveway hill to the road, much to her great disappointment. She'd been hoping for a snow day off from work…or at the very least, a snow delay.

Naturally, the birds have been busy at the feeders since daybreak—especially the cardinals. How my mother would have enjoyed seeing them. She loved birds in general, but redbirds were her hands-down favorites. "Isn't that just the prettiest thing ever," she'd say when one appeared nearby.

It's impossible to accurately count cardinals when they're hungry and on the feed. Several times this morning I managed to quickly tally thirty-five or so in view at once…but that was probably not more than half. There might have just as easily been a hundred of them within a fifty-foot radius of the big box elder near the front door—males and females about evenly mixed, constantly coming and going, perching, feeding, fluttering, on the ground and stump and seed feeder, flying to and from nearby bushes, sailing and hopping, trading places with one another, occasionally squabbling.

And they were just part of the breakfasting traffic which also included chickadees, juncos, titmice, downy and hairy and red-bellied woodpeckers, a couple of robins, goldfinch, house finches, various sparrows, a handful of ill-mannered starlings, some doves, and a Carolina wren who couldn't seem to decide whether he wanted to eat or sing. I don't think I'm leaving anyone out, but it's possible—as I said, it was a rowdy, animated melee.

Still, it was the cardinals which mostly caught my eye—the scarlet males like glowing neon against the puffy white backdrop, along with their lovely ladies, subtly elegant in chestnut and crimson and buff. Too beautiful, really, for my inadequate words.

A redbird snow…and one my dear mother would have surely treasured. 

SNOW!

We got snow! Not the Big One, which had so many folks hereabouts dithering in dread and fear, while the rest of us awaited in gleeful anticipation…but a big enough snow to be fun—and breathtakingly beautiful. Somewhere between 7-8 inches here along the river; folks only a few miles to the north got more.

The bulk of the snow arrived sometime after midnight and before I got up and looked out just after 6:00 a.m. Prior to that, in spite of having snowed all day yesterday, temperatures throughout had hovered around the freezing mark, so most of the snow melted soon after it came down, while any that stuck was a wet slush…not quite 2 inches of the stuff when I went to bed. I was disappointed—I'd been hoping for a real humdinger belly-deep-on-a-bulldog snow. A blizzard would have been fine.

When I realized we did have snow, I knew the birds would be coming to the feeders in droves as soon as it got light—and knew the first order of business (before coffee!) was to make sure their breakfast table was set and served. It was still dark when I stepped onto the deck, but the cardinals were already in the big hackberry by the door, waiting impatiently for their meal. I swept an area near the base of the tree and tossed out several scoops of cracked corn. I made sure there were suet cakes in the wire cadges and topped up the seed feeders.

Even in the dark, I could see the river was full of slush. A wind was gusting, too; I hoped it held off at least long enough for me to make some photos of the fluffy piles of snow atop limbs and small branches.

I barely made it back inside the cottage before a dozen male cardinals and about the same number of females were on the ground and tucking into the fresh corn. Even on a morning when food would be at a premium and the key to survival, the redbirds beat their competition to the feeders by half an hour—and except for that lone junco, most species didn't show up for a full 45 minutes!

Once it got light—a glowing white since the sun remained hidden for much of the day behind cloud cover—the feathered mob moved in…woodpeckers and sparrows, finches, a wren or two, chickadees, titmice, more juncos and a lot more cardinals, starlings, a single blue jay, a pair of doves, nuthatches, and probably one or two others I've forgotten. Later the ducks, mallards, came up from the river and cleaned things off. I threw out a post-noon meal of corn, and another just a few minutes ago. No hungry beaks and bills.

Unfortunately, Myladylove had to report for work this morning. No snow day for her. Not that anyone who's lived in Alaska is intimidated by a few inches of snow…though she would have enjoyed the time off and the chance to get outside.

Moon the dog and I certainly had a fine day of it. I took photos. She loped and leaped, stuck her nose in the snow, wallowed, barked, wagged, and played like a pup. I love seeing my old dog frolic, though there's always a bittersweet recognition that time for her runs at a faster pace.

Late in the afternoon, the sun came out, putting a sparkle on the tag end of the day. So while the Big Snow I'd hoped for failed to materialize, we did get enough snow to make up for an otherwise dreary winter. And who knows…winter may not be done with us yet!

CORNBREAD AND SNOW

We've started this Saturday morning off with a nice flurry. Should it persist long enough to prove meaningful, we'll reclassify it as a genuine snow. But it has to earn that title. New snow to layer atop the older half-inch dusting that fell yesterday morning, which itself covered the six or so inches put down on Thursday.

As I look out the window toward the river, I'm quite pleased to see this nice wintery landscape. I expect January to be cold and snowy. What's an Ohio winter without a few weeks of white?

As much as I like a snow-covered landscape, I like a lively snowfall even more. Nature in flux; visible changing. Which may explain, at least in part, why I like all sorts of "weather," from pouring rain to scudding clouds. A darkening sky preparing for an oncoming storm fills me with energy. Thunderclaps and rolling booms are signals for delight. I love it when the wind stirs through the woods or sweeps across a tallgrass prairie, or sends the big waters of the Great Lakes into rollers and whitecaps that crash upon the shore. I even like it when a blizzard howls and moans like a banshee, or a searching boreal wind sobs around the eaves like a crying child.

It's the difference between active versus static—nature alive, in motion—and is part of the reason why I live by a river instead of a lake.

Of course a lot of these changing weather situations are more pleasantly observed from inside rather than smack in their midst. Though I can't think of any sort of severe weather phenomena of the Great Lakes or Midwest that I haven't been caught out in more than once, including tornados. Still, that delicious feeling of holed-up coziness simply adds to the enjoyment. We all like to feel sheltered and secure, safe—and if we can expand that to include real comfort within our refuge, then it's even better.

One of my favorite books is The Wind in the Willows. And perhaps my favorite part of that charming tale is where Mole gets lost and frightened in the Wild Wood. Ratty comes to his rescue. Then, in the dark and amid a snow storm, the two little animals wind up at Badger's front door—and are welcomed in, warmed, fed, given snug and comfortable beds for the night. It is all a scene of perfect domestic security, of homey warmth and friendly respite. The juxtaposition of the genial and civil, the dangerous and elemental. And it often seems to serve as an unconscious model for my own attitude and actions when weather and situation allow.

As the snow poured down on Thursday, we built a nice hearthfire before breakfast, and laid in wood sufficient for the day. Nothing beyond the riverbank cottage required our presence. It was milady's day off. I'd already shuffled desk work to accommodate, and the only meeting I had in town was duly canceled due to road conditions; errands we'd planned were put off until the weekend. She got out her box of turquoise and silver, onyx, jade, fire coral and carved bone, and began working on a necklace. I settled down with a small stack of books. Snow piled and blew, swirled and fluffed. The feeders did a brisk business.

Midmorning, I cut up a couple pounds of beef and started it slow-cooking. I thought beef and barley soup sounded like the ideal hearty fare for such a day. A couple of hours later I added carrots, celery, onions, garlic, split peas, and seasonings. The barley went in after that—and the pot was set to simmer until everything was done. Thirty minutes before we ate I stirred up my mother's cornbread mix, and when the oven reached 480˚, added buttermilk and poured the thick batter into the old iron skillet that once belonged to my great grandmother. A skillet well over a hundred years old; so old it's a collectible antique.

I sometimes wonder how many cakes of cornbread this old skillet has baked—gold and crisp on the outside, yellow and steamy fragrant inside when you slice it open to slip in a pat of butter. Were Grandpa and Grandma given it when they got married in the late-1800s, and Grandpa began hewing out logs for their one-room cabin in the head of Bear Branch? I know Grandma gave it to my mother upon her wedding (this and a coffee pot being their only cookware) and I know they carried it with them through their years of Dad's school teaching and travel—all the way to a cabin on the high headwaters of the Entiat River near Wenatchee, Washington, where they picked apples in addition to Dad's teaching.

Yep, that old iron skillet has been around…and a lot of those places along the way were places where winter came with a deep mantle of white. I'll just bet my latest round of cornbread wasn't the first one it has turned out onto a plate on a snowy January day.

SNOW, NO SNOW…

Pouring snow earlier this morning.

As I write, the sky is an unbroken gray and snow is falling rather briskly here along the river. Of course, the up-to-the-minute latest forecast from the National Weather Service says we'll have mostly sunny skies all day; the possibility of snow is not mentioned.

Uh-huh. There are times when I think God simply does this to the weather folks to keep them from being too impertinent and forgetting who is really in charge of such matters.

We also had snow a couple of days ago—not that it amounted to all that much. For all its blowing and swirling, in the end, I'd guess my home stretch of riverbank received a bit over an inch. One of those snows which winds up somewhat short of covering the ground in a thick, fluffy, unbroken mantle of white, but is instead thin enough that bits of leaves and sticks show through. Worse are the grass tips. They might not be so visible if I'd given the yard one more mowing last fall instead of succumbing to the distraction of autumn's colorful leaves. Distracted to the point where I allowed certain yard chores to fall by the wayside. Now, those same neglected green tips stick up above the white like quills on a porcupine. Or perhaps tiny emerald Excaliburs, each being raised and held above the snow's surface by the arm of the Lady of the Lake. Either way, they're doing their best to nag at my conscience, stirring guilt by providing one more reminder of myblasé work ethic.

In case you're wondering, we had rain for Christmas. This happens fairly often here in the southwest corner of the state. We sing about a white Christmas, long for a white Christmas, and picture the day against a backdrop of white in our imagination…but reality is apt to arrive rainy, muddy, and in the low-40s˚F, or at least brown and dry and bitterly cold or windy rather than storybook white.

I don't think it has anything to do with global warming, though it may very well reflect a warmer trend of a long-term weather cycle which the region—if not the entire hemisphere—seems to go though every hundred years or so. When I was a kid—up to about about age ten—December hereabouts was a month filled with snow. In fact, you could generally count on some pretty fair snows beginning in November—first flurries, then coverings that lasted a day or two. A white Thanksgiving was nothing unusual.

December continued the trend—more morning flurries and light, blowing snows; snows which might measure a half-inch or six inches, but disappeared after a day or two. Then, about the third week in, things typically began to change. The snow started to stick; each successive snow simply adding its load to the one before. By Christmastime we generally had a foot or so of accumulation on the ground. I could sled the block from my grandparents's house down the slight hill to our front gate. When I was five years old a reporter from the local paper came out and did a short photo piece on an igloo my dad had built for me in the back yard. That year, a really severe storm had left drifts level with the front porch and covering the fence—at least five feet deep.

Moreover, December's latter, after-Christmas snows were buried under those of January…and those by the snows which arrived in February. Once that "staying snow" came (which is how I've heard oldtimers refer to that December snow which formed the base for subsequent snows) over the next two months, you weren't apt to see anything but a white ground cover until March. Two-and-a-half or three months of white.

If you talk to many of the real seniors who remember how it was locally just after the turn of the Twentieth Century—oldsters now in their 90s—they'll tell you about going to school and church via horse-drawn sled. Roads were impassible unless you used runners instead of wheels. In the 1900s, the few automobiles around—a lot of them Model T Fords—were thereby shunted to the barn where they were drained of fluids, usually placed on blocks with their wheels removed to prevent damaging stiff rubber tires, covered with a tarp to protect their shiny black paint from pigeon droppings. And there they'd sit, these delicate newfangled vehicles powered by their "infernal combustion engines," ignominiously resigned to some dark corner, under a dusty shroud, awaiting springtime resurrection in March or maybe April, depending on the severity of "mud season."

Nowadays, winter isn't one continuous season of white. Snows fall, lay around awhile, melt. I don't know what the old boys would have done…would they have used wagons or sleds? Runners or wheels? I expect mud would have been a more serious problem, since the ground didn't freeze and stay that way until spring, but periodically thawed into a messy quagmire. However, that flivver in the barn would have been as incapacitated as ever, unlike the 4-wheel drive hill-climbing, mud-hogging, snow-bucking machines of today.

And just to keep the record straight…it's been a couple of hours since I began writing this post. Naturally, I got distracted, watched birds at the feeders, looked at the river, ate an oatmeal cookie—okay, three—talked on the phone, futzed around around with my new i-Pod, uploaded a bunch of shots from the camera to the computer. The snow stopped. The clouds moved off. Now, it is bright and sunny outside. The weather-guessers are suddenly right, like a stopped clock that displays the correct time every twelve hours.

Snow, no snow…