THE LAST SNOWFALL
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(Thanks to Betty Smith who donned her double-layer wool hat, fleece-lined Primaloft coat, fur-lined boots and mittens to go outside and take this photo.)
The first winter snow here in the Wells woods started drifting down at the end of last November. I remember it well because I adore winter and was praying for a white Christmas.
Watching those first flakes brush against the living room windows brought to mind certain words of one of my favorite poets, Mary Oliver, who wrote FIRST SNOW:
The snow began here this morning and all day continued,
its white rhetoric everywhere calling us back to
why, how, whence such beauty and what the meaning;
such an ORACULAR fever!
“Oracular” has numerous definitions but I’m quite confident Oliver meant “what will happen in the future.” She was correct. It snowed a ton this winter.
Especially in late January and into February when back-to-back storms blanketed the roads and lawns, leaving ten-foot-high mounds in corners of the CVS and Hannaford parking lots.
Then March blew in with traditional leonine gusts. I was starting to get hopeful that warmer weather was in store, but still needed to wear my black puffer coat and lined gloves. Every day.
And now, only hours from April, snow is falling again here in the Wells woods, turning lifeless grey lawns into white carpets. The forsythia bush out back that I was planning to rob of a few branches, then soak in warm water to force their tiny blossoms to lemony glory, actually looks confused.
Then there are brave daffodils just starting to sprout. Good luck, guys!
ENOUGH ALREADY, MR. WINTER. I love Oliver’s words and that magical sensation when snow starts to fall in November, but I’m done. Finished. It’s a wrap. Good night, Irene. See ya later, alligator. Ciao.
This from someone who revels in winter. When it gets dark at 4 PM, I don’t complain. I put on my flannel PJs and snuggle next to the fire to read or finish a NEW YORKER puzzle. These shorter days with 22 degrees registering on the thermometer allow knitting time to finish a baby blanket for new grand-niece Beckett. Or to try a new chicken recipe from Martha Stewart or Stanley Tucci or EPICURIOUS.
But I’ve done that for five months and now and I’m ready to move on to greener pastures.
My black LLBean polar fleece pants are stretched and rump-sprung. The pink and green striped wool socks I bought at the Kittery Trading Post last September have holes in the heels. The pine boughs in the flower boxes on my front porch have lost most of their needles. My crockpot has developed a permanent crust from simmering too many chuck roasts.
Please say it’s over. Pretty please?
