There's a certain excitement within and without, in the air, you might say, with every impending snow storm; the air is different, the skies are different. Does the excitement stem from our child's eyes watching the snowflakes fall from the sky, watching the landscape change by the moment? The excitement of possibly being able to build a snowman (can we find that old pipe somewhere)? Of going sledding? Does it stem from the knowledge that we will not have to go to school? That the air will be cleaner than it has been for months? That we will be snowbound, home bound, to read, to think, to bake cookies with our mom, to be free of the daily responsibilities outside of the home that hassle us as adults?
Not only does the landscapes change, but people change. The world seems smaller, quieter, the people friendlier. I wonder what it must be like in lands where it never snows. Do folks ever have that same sense of excitement, anticipation that comes with waiting for the snows? And do they ever have the peace that comes with the silence of the world when the snows finally fall?
I should have asked my father. He grew up in a land far away where there was never snow, a land to which, once he left, he never returned.
I felt it always, from April to the end of October. it was the garden and the life of the garden that peaked out at you, surrounded and then embraced the soul and the senses. first the barreness of the tree and limb, of branches and twigs. the april rains that supplanted the march winds. the rains washed and washed and the winds blew and blew, their power forcing a capitulation of winter and its hold on the sky and soil. The snow was different because it made us to be still and know... the hand of the Creator overpowering everything with the might of his mite, one snow flake and then another.
ReplyDeletethe excitement of each season brought with it an expectancy, a luxury that allowed for the pleasure of the moment, of the season, spiced with the knowledge it was all passing away, and making room for another. life exploded onto our trees, in color and shape, come the end of March,the month in which winter tugged its lastg. april was the month of shape shifting, the sun shaped the trees and shrubs, leaves and buds. Most days of the spring, summer and fall, I rolled out of bed before everybody was up and walked in the cool of the garden, our orchard, vegetable lands and hives of bees. when i was young i tagged along with daddy's brother, uncle paul, who made this sojourn at the first sign of life on the trees. after a while, i no longer had to wait for him, and did it on my own. uncle paul and daddy taught us the invasion of spring and summer, and the routing of winter was the beginning of our labors of love in the back yard. uncle would prune and graft, dad would turn over the soil in the vegetable garden, giving it oxygen and sunlight, and uncle paul would survey the bee hives for signs of survival after snows had buried the white hives in drifts that left behind only the broadest outline of the boxes, the houses where the bees lived, transforming the straight lines of the square boxes into curves, a wonderland for the imagination of a winter's archaeologist, of civilizations buried by the season.
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