Temperatures rise, and temperatures fall, snow comes, and snow goes. Icicles dangling from the roof melt and shatter, then form again, chiming like bells as they move through their lovely, glossy life cycles. This morning, the north wind shrieks in the eaves and clatters across the roof tiles. Closer to the frozen earth, it dances up the street with its freight of ossified twigs, desiccated leaves and pine needles.
In recent weeks I have never known what to wear when rambling with Beau, a parka, a light anorak or a raincoat. A few days ago, we wandered for miles in light clobber with nary a scrap of ice in sight, and this morning it is bitterly cold, ice lurking under every frill of snow. Out with parkas, toques, mukluks and heavy gloves again, and off we go.
Snow fell steadily during the night, and I will tackle the fallen white stuff as soon as I can see what I am doing, but first there will be mugs of hot stuff and buttered waffles. The snow blower is ready to go, and my trusty green shovel waits by the front door along with salt and sand. Village drains are frozen, and when melting begins there will be lagoons out in the street wide enough and deep enough to float a canoe.
What does one do indoors on such a day when she is not outside heaving snow? Bread, molasses cookies and cauldrons of homemade soup are being considered, and Joni Mitchell is on the sound system. Parking myself in a comfortable corner with a beaker of something hot, a good book and a shawl or three seems like a plan. Whatever else is going on in my life, there is always a recipe cavorting in my noggin, a mug of tea, a shawl and a stack of reading material nearby.
Catching a glimpse of myself as I passed a mirror this morning, I couldn't help thinking I looked like one of the characters in Jean Giraudoux's play, The Madwoman of Chaillot. I have always loved his creation (and the film version which starred Katherine Hepburn), and I would have enjoyed knowing the Street Singer, The Ragpicker, The Sergeant, The Sewer Man and The Flower Girl, all the other outcasts, eccentrics and dreamers who were the madwoman's companions. I would have liked hanging out with her fellow madwomen too, and I probably would have fit into the group nicely.
All I need to blend in is a voluminous skirt, a moth-eaten cardigan, fingerless gloves and a tatty hat. Perhaps a trip to my local thrift shop is in order?
5 comments:
Thank you for mentioning The Madwoman of Chaillot. On my way to find it and watch soon!
"Snow fell steadily during the night" is such an evocative phrase. It takes me to the last paragraph of Joyce's The Dead in his The Dubliners. Thank you for the post.
I vacillate also in wondering what to put on as outerwear...yesterday felt so comfortable back in my puffy coat. Yet I couldn't bear wearing it when I got in the sun-warmed car, so it sat in the car all day while I went about in shirt sleeves. But the cold is returning in a day, so I shall be glad to have it.
I so enjoyed this, Cate. Thank you. Same weather patterns here and that wind, like being whipped. I too have been listening to Joni Mitchell..."Hejirah" especially. It's time to consider breakfast and you've sparked thoughts of buttered waffles or pancakes.
xx
I like your choice of music.
And relate to the need to don, and un-don, layers of outerwear. That's how it is here in Saskatchewan too -- winter and summer, unless it's 30 below.
You're a descriptive writer. I admire that kind. I can't do it.
-Kate
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