December 1, 2020: Journal, Winter

A chilly start to the morning, 28F.

Looking into the sun at 9:20 A.M.

Winter, like the other seasons, has no regard for the calendar.

With three weeks to pass before the solstice and the nearly imperceptible increase of daylight, December 1st has always marked, for me, the beginning of winter.

Living in northern New England for most of my life, preparation for cold weather began in October.  Gardens had succumbed to killing frost, the last of the brilliantly colored maple leaves lay in drifts along the dirt roads; a blue sky overhead didn't forestall the need to search out warm jackets, caps, boots and gloves. 

November always seemed a somber month, fields and lawns reduced to brown stubble,  days marked by intervals of freezing rain or slushy snow. The rare afternoons when a pale sun struggled through overcast skies did little to lift the spirits.

Winters in Wyoming, where we spent the years between 1998 and 2010, were ushered in with  September blizzards, coinciding with the fall roundup that brought herds of cattle down from the mountain pastures where they had summered. 

Wyoming's winters are notoriously long and frigidly cold, redeemed only by sunlight reflected on snow.

By 10 A.M. the temperature had not risen from 28 F, the reading at 7: 15.

Wet snow fell through the night hours, obscuring the full moon behind milky clouds.

The white light seeped between my bedroom curtains, opaque and dense; the wind whined beneath the window I raised a mere inch to let in the cold air, wood smoke tinged.

These slender under-story trees still hold bronzed leaves.  I've not made a positive identification.

Ash? Beech? A species I should be knowing?

My contemplation of snow-coated leaves was interrupted when Howard brought out the dogs for a post-breakfast constitutional.

Mudgin, the Great Bernese, has only a month remaining til her first birthday, when she will leave puppyhood behind.

Her exuberance in the snow is a joy to watch. 

Clouds began to thicken  about noon.

With the sun hidden the snowy field is cold.

Robert-cat and his brother, Nellie, have been disgruntled, going out to their familiar haunts, quickly returning to the doorstep, shaking snow from chilled paws.

We let them in, but as soon as their feet are dry and warm they demand to go back outdoors, only to repeat the cycle. Their demeanor suggests that we, their keepers, should be able to melt the snow. and restore the green meadow grass where they love to prowl.

Trudging up the lane at 4 P.M. past our neighbor's pond, out to the mailbox, I am cold, wishing I had worn a winter jacket instead of my usual velour hoodie and down vest.  My feet in colorful rubber boots are chilled, my face tingles.

The temperature has climbed only 4 or 5 degrees during the day, scarcely above the freezing mark.

Neighbor Jackie's beef cattle are clustered around the hay rack, hardly bothering to glance at me as I hurry along.

The west facing bedrooms are warm when the afternoon sun makes a brief appearance.

Intrigued by the snow dappled garden, I plod outside again, camera in hand.

The last-blooming coneflower is a vivid splash of magenta amid the snow-shrouded plants.

Icicles in a pale row against the late afternoon sky.

Sun sliding behind the bare trees along the south-west ravine.

Indoors, the smell of whole wheat bread cooling on the counter, overlaid with the brown sugar/vanilla scent of oatmeal cookies in the oven.

The cats are all inside, sprawled resignedly on beds and cushioned chairs.

"Cold spells'" and snow are short-lived in our Kentucky winters, a mere hint of the long cold months we remember from other places and other years.