Friday, March 16, 2007

nowhere but




There's something, not ineffable, to be said for seasons that don't attack
frontally.

There's a place, and a nice life to be lived, where seasons stay the course.

Rus and I drove up from the city this eve.

Sillilly, against warnings to do otherwise
(my shipment of stools is arriving first thing tomorrow).

Creeping the Henry Hudson, skidding the Saw Mill, tentatively not swerving the Taconic and then, for an encore, almost banking on Bulls Head. We rode out, and through, the STORM.

Final stage of the plan: approaching my mailbox then driveway, REV, and so DUNK ,engine-long into the unplowed drift of the driveway.

But no amount of middling SUV power would get us further than a tire in.

But the brilliance of lands where snowstorms are still, global-warmingly-damned, part of the rhythm of things (and the livelihood) of local families is that those families, with plows, are all about:
just a minute behind us, a father, a son and their plow.

So, by a lot of good timing and will, and $20, and a little work with shovels, R and I arrived and, strapping on boots, layering, girding and shoveling some more, we made home peace.

In a snowstorm in a house with fingers, once cold, held in warm ones then around a glass of red wine.



This, this, is why the mad ones will never, ever ever, leave the northeast.

C - snowed in

1 comment:

Marie-Helene Carleton said...

LOVE the idea of home peace, and love that you are enjoying it. perhaps some spices for some hot wine?