Author Archives: rebsuebauder

Snow, snow, snow…

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02.13.19

We survived the Idaho passes to and from Spokane, and made it safely home.  Arriving back to the lake, from the west shore, it looked like it was covered in ice all the way across, and a little village of ice fishermen had made camp out in Somers Bay.  But, on our side, it was open water as usual, and another six to eight inches of new snow had fallen at the house.  The plow has been generally keeping up, which is a good thing, with more snow forecasted the rest of this week, and the next.  I put on my tall Sorel boots, grabbed a ski pole, and made a path down to the water.  The snow was deep enough to come over the top of knee-high boots, and the kitties were not the least bit interested to follow me in my path.   There were deer tracks out to the end of the dock, and I thought how they probably do what I do–walk out and survey the lake from north to south, trying to remember warm summer days.

Alas.  Winter it still is, so best get on with it.  I did a little painting up in the dormitory room where I keep my easel.  I listened to music, and watched out the dormer window as a flock of coots bobbed in the water, and I could see waves creating ice at the shoreline.  There is no slow time like this in the high-energy days of summer, when the rooms upstairs are filled with kids, screen doors are banging, and light remains in the pink sky until 11 p.m.  So, best get on with winter’s quiet and lumbering pace, the books to be read, and the long nights of sleep.

When I’m snowbound, I do my best to keep from being sucked into the bottomless pit of the internet, as I wonder what’s happening out in the world while I’m sheltering in place.  But, I heard on the NPR mid-day news that NASA’s Mars Rover Opportunity has been officially declared dead.  I went to the web news sites, and everybody had that headline.  “Our beloved Opportunity remained silent” reported the Jet Propulsion Laboratory.  That amazing little rover was only supposed to work for 90 days, but over 14 years, it beamed down photos and data which changed forever how scientists understand the planets.  Last spring, it succumbed to a fatal dust storm.  As the Washington Post wrote:

The spacecraft had survived such storms before. But at more than 14 years old, it was no longer as hardy as it had once been. A fault in one of Opportunity’s memory banks resulted in loss of all long-term memory. Problems with the rover’s wheels and robotic arm looked like spacecraft arthritis. If Opportunity experienced another prolonged power loss, it might not recover so easily.

At my age, I understand this notion of the wheels falling off the bus, so I’m trying to just be here, on this slow winter’s day, as heavy snow falls outside.   As David Steindl-Rast writes:

“So you think this is just another day in your life?  It’s not just another day.  It is the one day that is given to you…today.”

 

Winter’s deep

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It’s been lightly snowing off and on all this week, and it snowed non-stop yesterday, adding an additional half foot of snow.  Before we went to bed, another Arctic blast moved down over the valley, bringing sub-zero temperatures and wind chills so bad that the local ski area posted this morning that they are closed.  You know you are in winter’s deep when even the NOAA weather forecaster seems to be weary….telling us there is no sign of letting up in the next week and beyond:

The scenario of a “subtle moisture surge over a relatively cold Northern Rockies” appears to replay again and again over the next week, with chances of light snow present nearly every day during this time. The impacts of the snowfall will mostly be to create hazardous winter driving conditions. Temperatures are anticipated to moderate over time, however very slowly. We are essentially stuck in a cold pattern that shows no sign of letting up in the next week and beyond.

I am at the mercy of the snow plow man.  I shovel my way up the stone steps to see if he has plowed our road or not.  Actually, the time I spend shoveling the steps and the walkway is the best part of being stuck in winter’s deep, even if I need the heating pad on my low back the next morning.  It feels so wild out there.  The kitties usually stay in the garage on their heating pad, and I am alone.  Often, I hear an eagle–once I saw one fly overhead with a fish in his talons– and there is a little tiny brown bird, about the size of a black-cap chickadee, who appears with a few of his mates, and flits from tree to tree, knocking down a small cascade of snow from the branches.  I see where the skinny legs of deer have trudged through the woods across the deep snow.  An occasional gust of wind sends down a white-out shower through the trees with a whooshing sound that always startles me.  There is no longer a path in the snow down to the lake, and  Don continues to carve out a space in the snow bank, left by the plow, so he can make his way down to the house with a wheelbarrow full of split wood.  I wonder how many more times he will fill the porch before winter ever loses its grip.

We’re off to Spokane later today for one of Don’s ski races.  Any Montanan who has crossed into Idaho over Lookout Pass in the winter, knows it’s not for the faint of heart.  (Where is the emoji face of panic when I need it?!).  And, alas, winter’s deep will still be here when we return on Monday.  I’m already looking forward to this big sheltering roof, at the bottom of snow-covered stone steps, welcoming me back to my snug house, a warm fire next to all those books, and dreams of seeing dirt some day.

February ground

by Marge Piercy

Three feet of snow in twenty-four hours
on top of seven inches. Not really
credible here. On the fourth day
we found the car under a six
foot drift and dug it out.

At first we could not open doors.
The post office shut for two days.
Our road had vanished into a field.
We felt the sky had finally
fallen and drowned us.

Six weeks: now patches of ground
emerge from white fortresses.
How beautiful is the dirt
I took for granted. Extraordinary
the wild green of grass islands.

Having the world snatched
from us makes us grateful even
for fence posts, for wheelbarrow
rising, for the stalwart spears
of daffodil uncovered.

Everything revealed is magical,
splendid in its ordinary shining.
The sun gives birth to rosebushes,
the myrtle, a snow shovel fallen,
overcome on the field of battle.

February’s promise

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We drove home from Sun Valley yesterday in serious Winter.  Wet and heavy snow in Idaho transitioned to ice, in Montana’s Bitterroot Valley, as we ran into the arctic front boundary, and we watched the outside temperature plummet over a few short miles.  On our final stretch before home, NOAA issued a blizzard warning, and there was news that flights could not get into the Kalispell airport because of limited visibility.  At last, we made it home before dark, down our snowy road, mercifully not too deep.  Kitties had hung out on their heating pad in the garage, their food undisturbed by raccoons, and after shoveling the stone steps, we unloaded the car and went into the house, power intact, and furnace pumping out hot air.  That’s called a grand homecoming.

It’s zero in town this morning and forecasted to reach a high of two degrees today, and it’s snowing again, with the possibility of several more inches.  I’ve not heard any planes this morning.  It will be sub-zero every night this week, down to -7 come Saturday.  Serious Winter.  I went way back through my blog posts, to see if this is some errant weather event, for how could it be serious winter as the month of February gets underway!  Sure enough, I’ve written here over the years about hearing red-wing blackbirds in early February, and seeing robins, and catching the scent of geosmin, as the earth’s soil begins to awaken beneath the snow.  And, I’ve also written about feet of snow and bitter arctic air.  Yet, there’s always been a photo, sometime in the month of February, where it looks like winter may have turned.  I follow a lovely blog from Dorset, England, and the writer, Ben Pentreath, talked last week about “the promise of January”, just as everyone is thoroughly depressed and weary of winter as January winds down.  He writes:   “However, just this week, you can enjoy for the first time in the year, the sense of what’s next – and of a beginning, not an ending. It is, after all, this week that we also suddenly step outside at 4.30 in the afternoon and think ‘my god, it’s still daylight, how amazing’, and the dark days of December seem already distant.”

This is a glass half-full versus glass half-empty sort of month.  As I write this morning, the snow is getting heavier and I can hear the house creaking in the cold, and little Chatpeau is wailing on the porch to come inside, remembering the bliss she felt on my lap next to the fire last night.  I’m too cold and creaky to shovel the steps this morning and make it to yoga class, promising myself, instead, to do a home practice in the library, where the soft warm carpet covers the floor, which is just above the basement mechanical room, making it feel like we have radiant floor heat.  This feels like a glass half-full decision.

I think the trick in these February winter days is to follow Ben’s advice, and step outside at 4:30 in the afternoon and say aloud to oneself, ‘my god, it’s still daylight, how amazing’– the dark days of December seem already distant.  And, be alert to the “sense of what’s next – and of a beginning, not an ending.”  I’ll be working on this.

Snow

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01.25.19
A Dust of Snow

By Robert Frost

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.
.

Boy did it snow–way more than a “dust”.  There was another snowbound day, with ten inches of snow on the road, and we had to wait our turn for the snowplow man to come.  At last, I made my way out of here for yoga class, and Robin said to me, “You must be really happy about the snow”, reminding me that I said I’d be happier about winter if it would just snow.  In truth, I was beginning to feel like Bill Watterson, of Calvin and Hobbes fame, “I like these cold, gray winter days.  Days like these let you savor a bad mood.”  But, then, around 4:45 in the afternoon, with amazingly light still in the sky, I went for a walk until dark.  Oh, such a “change of mood” to be out in the blue-lavender light of dusk, with geese formations flying overhead against brooding clouds.  There was not a breath of wind and the heavy snow did not move from the tree branches.  I felt like I could stay out there in such stillness forever, until the cold and darkness finally called me home.  This is what winter can be like, sometimes, in our best moments, when the mystery of transcendence brushes against us.  It’s one of those feelings you come back to at 3:00 in the morning, when you awaken in the dark, with your heart racing from some trouble, deep in your subconscious.

As slow as January has gone by, now, it feels like it’s picking up speed, and I realize that I am losing time in this pause month.  I’ve abandoned my clearing-out projects, choosing instead to watch YouTube videos of Marie Kondo joyfully fold a shirt or contour sheet.  I did finish yet another book, and I’ve sketched out a potential watercolor painting of the lighthouse I photographed at Cape Cod National Seashore last Fall.  It was late in October, and we were walking along the shore in the same kind of blue twilight of my snow walk the other day.   The clouds were as dramatic and gray and fierce as I’ve ever seen, and the wind was howling, and the sea mist chilled my face.  Every time I look at that photo of the lighthouse, high on a bluff, with raging clouds swirling around it in waning light, I remember exactly how I felt in that moment.  It seems worth the effort to see if watercolor can capture what it was all about, or, maybe, it’s just enough to write about it, sealing it into my memory, available to me in the middle of a dark night.

“Nature is part our humanity, and without some awareness and experience of that divine mystery man ceases to be man. When the Pleiades and the wind in the grass are no longer a part of the human spirit, a part of very flesh and bone, man becomes, as it were, a kind of cosmic outlaw, having neither the completeness and integrity of the animal nor the birthright of a true humanity.”–The Outermost House:  A Year of Life on the Great Beach of Cape Cod, by Henry Beston

January moves along

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Fletcher gave this coffee cup mug warmer to his Mom for Christmas–the perfect gift for January mornings in Montana.  It was so cold in Joy’s kitchen this past week-end.  Of course, we grandparents are up hours before the household of teenagers comes down the stairs, and long before the heat turns on, and I was content to lounge in bed in Fletcher’s room, as the space heater beamed out warmth.  We hate kicking him out of his space when we come to visit,  but Joy says it’s a great opportunity for her to fumigate his quarters.  There’s lots to study in the room of a 17 year-old grandchild, who will soon be off to college.  Old football photos of him hang on the walls, and weird graphic posters of bands he likes or concerts he’s attended.   Ticket stubs from the prom, and the race bib from a cycling race are pinned to a bulletin board.  There are a slew of tall trophies, with a motorcycle perched on top, which line the shelves above his desk, from the days when he raced motocross, as such a little boy.   A welding helmet rests on the top of an armoire.   In a corner, I saw the used speaker I had given him, plugged into what must be an amplifier, and an electric guitar propped up against the wall.  At the foot of the bed, there is a three-tiered shoe rack, neatly lined with enormous Nike sneakers of all colors, including bright red, which looked like something the giant might have worn in Jack and the Beanstalk.  And a collection of inspirational quotes, written in black magic marker on 8×10 pieces of paper, are stuck on his door with pushpins, which led me to believe, The Kids Are All Right.

It finally looks like winter outside.   On our drive home across the state yesterday, we said it looked like November, and where was the snow, but it began snowing for the final few hours of the trip, and when I tried to drive up our road this morning, I couldn’t make it.  That’s a first.  Studded snow tires and four-wheel drive have always worked in the past, and it was only the heart-stopping slide coming down that has been taking years off my life at a rapid pace.   Don was able to rescue the paralyzed car by shoveling gravel beneath the wheels, but that was IT for me–I’ve made it an official stay-at-home snow day.  I shoveled the stone steps, and Gary, the cat, went with me for a little snow walk in the woods, and I took some winter photos.  I’m about to bring in more wood and start the fire early today, so I can snuggle in with my stack of books under a wool throw.  The soup tonight is potato leek with Dijon mustard as a secret ingredient.  There’s a brand new bottle of Jameson Black Barrel in the cabinet.  Not so bad, really, as we plod along through the month of January, looking forward to winter’s bitter end, someday.

The Bitter End

by Daniel Anderson

           Summoned from a fresh page
Of winter, and finished with a stovepipe hat,
The snowman started life in middle age,
           Bald and running to fat.

           In a corner of the yard
Beneath an ice-encrusted pine tree tassel,
Honor-bound and dauntless, he stood guard
           Over the frozen castle

           Built also by a child
On the unshovelled morning after the storm.
He lingers there, content to wait, in a mild
           And vaguely human form,

           Dissolving into the mud.
He’s shed his scarf and dropped his walking cane,
Endured the soft and intermittent thud
           Of January rain,

           And still maintains his grinning
While comprehending nothing of his demise,
Not the dangling corncob nor the thinning
           Sockets of his eyes.

           He makes the slow return
From gutter stream through glittering brook to sea
With relatively small or no concern
           For his own misery;

Super Blood Wolf Moon

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01.17.19

“Lunar Eclipse January 2019 is opposite Mercury and square Uranus. This signals unexpected events and news that are likely to cause anxiety and uncertainty about the future. So keeping an open mind and staying calm and patient is key to dealing with this erratic and unpredictable energy. Otherwise, impulsive reactions, rapid mood swing and miscommunication could cause panic and chaos.” (Somewhere on the internet)

As if we aren’t jumpy about the world already, here comes the lunar eclipse of the Wolf Moon this Sunday.  Sarah said there was another earthquake in the East Bay early this morning, with wind and torrential rains pounding the region.  My suggestion to her that maybe this was linked to the weird phenomenon of the lunar eclipse was met with a cryptic note back, “How to make me feel better!”  And, in these times of ‘anxiety and uncertainty’, Mary Oliver, the beloved poet, a guiding star, died today.  The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac finally took her, and she returns back to the star dust from whence she came.  A friend sent me a wonderful link about the upcoming eclipse, foreverconscious.com, and it discusses how this eclipse is the last in a cycle which began in February 2017, and it will bring “endings and a culmination to the lessons we have been working with since early 2017.”  If I could just remember what I’ve been working on…

In the meantime, there has, at last, been a change in the weather.  The sunset off the porch last night looked like it could be the blood moon, but it was a beautiful glimpse of the sun which has been hiding behind clouds for so long.  I had a lovely winter’s walk in light snow this morning, and it’s quite possible we will have several inches covering the ground before the storm passes through.  It does help me feel more relaxed about winter to have it snowing–somehow, I resist my fate a bit less.

One of the nice things about keeping a blog, is that I have a record of what I wrote about in these past months and years, reflecting something which must have felt important to me at the time.  As I scrolled back to February 2017 and the beginning of this eclipse cycle, I’d posted a Wendell Berry poem, and it seems to be one of the lessons I continue to work on, eclipse cycle after eclipse cycle.

What do the tall trees say
To the late havocs in the sky?
They sigh.
The air moves, and they sway.
When the breeze on the hill
Is still, then they stand still.
They wait.
They have no fear. Their fate
Is faith. Birdsong
Is all they’ve wanted, all along.

Wendell Berry, A Timbered Choir

The sky is low, the clouds are mean

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01.11.19

The sky is low, the clouds are mean,
A travelling flake of snow
Across a barn or through a rut
Debates if it will go.

A narrow wind complains all day
How some one treated him;
Nature, like us, is sometimes caught
Without her diadem.–Emily Dickinson

 
I looked up diadem–its definition is crown.   I think this poem means that even Nature has bad moods in the month of January.  The roads have been ice in the morning, and pure slop by afternoon, and I’ve used an entire gallon of window washer liquid by the end of the day.  I rarely complain seriously about winter until February, but, lately, I feel like I am the wind, which ‘complains all day’.  Just as I was growing weary of these mean cloud days, we are now under an inversion with freezing fog, forecasted as far out as NOAA’s predictions go.  There will be no clouds in the sky, only cold fog.
 
There’s much to be grumpy about in the news.  I have family members who are federal employees, and we all have family members who made the long journey to America, carrying only hope on their backs.  I should probably take a news break, but I feel like I’m driving my car passed a terrible accident, and I can’t look away from the ambulance with the stretcher.  I avoid the gut-wrenching news reports of kidnapping, murder and mayhem, but, in January, sometimes the fragility and vulnerability of life creeps in and out of the fog.   Valerie sent me a copy of the message she found on her neighbors’ car just a few days ago.  “The owner of this car has been in a serious accident and we cannot locate the keys to move it so please don’t ticket it.”  Shortly after we had left California, the couple next door were hit by a car, walking in the same intersection Norah crosses every day on her way to school.  The parents are both still in the ICU, intubated.  Their 17-year old daughter put the message on her Mom’s car on street-cleaning day.  Winter always has days in which it feels like the wolf is at the door.
 
In my cozy house in a forest, by the water, I bring in wood for the fire, light the candles, and close the lace curtains against the dark night, grateful for the day I’ve been given, and that all my loved ones are safe.  Whatever the weather.
 

Weather

There is weather on the day you are born
and weather on the day you die. There is
the year of drought, and the year of floods,
when everything rises and swells,
the year when winter will not stop falling,
and the year when summer lightning
burns the prairie, makes it disappear.
There are the weathervanes, dizzy
on top of farmhouses, hurricanes
curled like cats on a map of sky:
there are cows under the trees outlined
in flies. There is the weather that blows
a stranger into town and the weather
that changes suddenly: an argument,
a sickness, a baby born
too soon. Crops fail and a field becomes
a study in hunger; storm clouds
billow over the sea;
tornadoes appear like the drunk
trunks of elephants. People talking about
weather are people who don’t know what to say
and yet the weather is what happens to all of us:
the blizzard that makes our neighborhoods
strange, the flood that carries away
our plans. We are getting ready for the weather,
or cleaning up after the weather, or enduring
the weather. We are drenched in rain
or sweat: we are looking for an umbrella,
a second mitten; we are gathering
wood to build a fire.