One for the pocket

Junco wings

Snow day. Or ice day. The sky was raining frozen pellets at 6 this morning and school called to say stay home.

This is H’s last semester of high school. This time next year she’ll be watching snow fall outside her college dorm window and deciding for herself if it’s safe to hike across campus to her first class.

How many more school snow days will there be before spring? Maybe this will be our last? I shoved the bills and to-do list tasks aside. As M reminded me on his way out the door this morning, Save this day to put in my pocket for a rotten January day next year when she’s not here.

So I’m writing this down here for me next winter. Because I’ve missed a whole lot of lasts in my life without knowing it until it was too late, and I’ll be darned if I’ll miss this one.

So I’m putting this in my pocket….

The ice falling and collecting on the branches. The birds flocking to the feeder. The flutter of wings and the occasional muffled collision with the window. Her coming downstairs mid-morning, in a navy blue t-shirt and jeans, suggesting maybe we should try out some new facial masks she’d ordered.

Us sitting on the sofa, faces draped with cold therapeutic masks, watching “The Women,” laughing and repeating our favorite lines, heating up frozen chicken tenders for a mid-movie lunch.

Us sitting on the sofa with the TV on talking about the election and the march, about Aziz Ansari, about how sweet-neurotic the dog is, and how cute-weird the cats are and how we both wanted chocolate.

Us not talking, each in our own online worlds, but within arm’s reach of each other.

Us listening to The Weepies and Jake Bugg and deciding to make crepes for dinner.

Us breathing and being and often not even talking, just living in the same square footage.

Us waiting for M to come home and join us, to make and eat dinner, to do whatever we do as a family, the way we’ve come to be a family these last 17 years.

Me, folding this into a crane, or maybe a cardinal, and slipping it into a safe place in my heart.


Friday Five ~ Or is it Saturday?

The Fourth is tomorrow, so the long weekend starts today and that has me a bit confused seeing as it feels like a Saturday, but the radio schedule sounds like a Friday and, come Sunday, I’ll think it’s Saturday, too, and be disappointment to know that Monday is truly Monday.

If that makes any sense.

Maybe making sense isn’t what this weekend is about. Maybe it’s about staring at the clouds, humming with the bees, listening to goats browse, falling into a book, looking for shooting stars, and watching a marshmallow turn just the perfect shade of gold.

While I look for my coherence, here are a few things of interest from the past week. I hope you all have a wonderful holiday, weekend, Friday, Saturday, Sunday!

~ The birds now have plenty to eat, so we have a new visitor to the bird feeders, to Gryfe’s endless fascination.


~ We planted a sour cherry tree last spring (and named him Apsley, after you know who). Last year, Apsley gave us three cherries. This year, I count at least a dozen, and they’re just stating to turn red. I can’t wait until I have enough to can the way my great grandmother did, but this year I think we’ll just eat them straight from the tree and remember how it felt the first time we were surprised by the shuddery jolt of a sour cherry.


~ Last Friday I took Hyla and her best friend, Leah, to Boston to see The Weepies. They put on a beautiful show and it was such a treat to be there, but the best part of the whole thing was the wide grins on those girls’ faces each time they heard the first notes of their next favorite song. Which, basically, was every song. Here’s one absolutely gorgeous example from that show.

At the Wilbur

~ I made myself just one promise in this, my 50th year, and that was to become more serious about my writing. Specifically, to write more poems and start submitting them for publication. I was prepared for early rejections, so was thrilled to have two poems accepted from my first submission to a small journal called Straight Forward Poetry. I’m still pinching myself. Many grateful thanks to Straight Forward for giving me a much-needed confidence boost!

Issue Nine!

~ I finished reading a terrific book this week. It’s Kate Atkinson’s A God in Ruins. Have you read it, too? It’s been a long time since I read a novel that I admired so much. The beautiful sentences, the fully-dimensioned characters, the natural dialog, the intricate yet clear plotting, the rich details. If you haven’t read it yet, I won’t spoil any of it here for you. I can’t wait to read everything else this author’s written.

So… now… the sun is out after a week of rain. This morning, after cleaning the house, we dragged the kayaks out of storage and maybe I’ll find myself floating on a river sometime soon. The hammock and the fire pit are in place. There are hard things in the world. There are easy things. Sometimes it’s not easy to tell the difference. But there’s a book to read, an album to put on the stereo, a poem to write, a dog’s soft ears to stroke, and, if we’re lucky, fireworks exploding high over our heads and just a bit beneath the stars.

The Pole Journey ~ November 6 – 10, 1911

After reaching the depot at 82º S on the fifth, it appears that Amundsen’s party tarried for two days to rest and resupply before continuing their journey on the 8th. Amundsen’s brief account of the next several days describes the daily trek of thirty-some miles as if it were a leisurely stroll through the Tuscan hills. Not a care in the world.

On the 8th we started southward again, and now made a daily march of about thirty miles. In order to relieve the heavily laden sledges, we formed a depot at every parallel we reached. The journey from lat. 82º to 83º was a pure pleasure trip, on account of the surface and the temperature, which were as favourable as one could wish. Everything went swimmingly until the 9th, when we sighted South Victoria Land and the continuation of the mountain chain, which Shackleton gives on his map, running southeast from Beardmore Glacier. On the same day we reached lat. 83º, and established here Depot No. 4.

In contrast, during those same days, Scott’s party is enduring blizzard conditions and the motor sledges have broken down for good. He writes of his worries about the ponies, who are made miserable by the fine, driving snow. Although there are some bright spots and he keeps his spirits high in most of what he writes, his tone, even at this early stage, is beginning to reveal some despair.

Monday, November 6.—Camp 4. We started in the usual order, arranging so that full loads should be carried if the black dots to the south prove to be the motor. On arrival at these we found our fears confirmed. A note from Evans stated a recurrence of the old trouble. The big end of No. 1 cylinder had cracked, the machine otherwise in good order. Evidently the engines are not fitted for working in this climate, a fact that should be certainly capable of correction. One thing is proved; the system of propulsion is altogether satisfactory. The motor party has proceeded as a man-hauling party as arranged.

With their full loads the ponies did splendidly, even Jehu and Chinaman with loads over 450 lbs. stepped out well and have finished as fit as when they started. Atkinson and Wright both think that these animals are improving…

Tuesday, November 7.—Camp 4. The blizzard has continued throughout last night and up to this time of writing, late in the afternoon. Starting mildly, with broken clouds, little snow, and gleams of sunshine, it grew in intensity until this forenoon, when there was heavy snowfall and the sky overspread with low nimbus cloud. In the early afternoon the snow and wind took off, and the wind is dropping now, but the sky looks very lowering and unsettled.

Last night the sky was so broken that I made certain the end of the blow had come. Towards morning the sky overhead and far to the north was quite clear. More cloud obscured the sun to the south and low heavy banks hung over Ross Island. All seemed hopeful, except that I noted with misgiving that the mantle on the Bluff was beginning to form. Two hours later the whole sky was overcast and the blizzard had fully developed…

The ponies, which had been so comparatively comfortable in the earlier stages, were hit as usual when the snow began to fall.

We have done everything possible to shelter and protect them, but there seems no way of keeping them comfortable when the snow is thick and driving fast. We men are snug and comfortable enough, but it is very evil to lie here and know that the weather is steadily sapping the strength of the beasts on which so much depends. It requires much philosophy to be cheerful on such occasions…

The tents and sledges are badly drifted up, and the drifts behind the pony walls have been dug out several times. I shall be glad indeed to be on the march again, and oh! for a little sun. The ponies are all quite warm when covered by their rugs. Some of the fine drift snow finds its way under the rugs, and especially under the broad belly straps; this melts and makes the coat wet if allowed to remain. It is not easy to understand at first why the blizzard should have such a withering effect on the poor beasts. I think it is mainly due to the exceeding fineness of the snow particles, which, like finely divided powder, penetrate the hair of the coat and lodge in the inner warmths. Here it melts, and as water carries off the animal heat. Also, no doubt, it harasses the animals by the bombardment of the fine flying particles on tender places such as nostrils, eyes, and to lesser extent ears. In this way it continually bothers them, preventing rest. Of all things the most important for horses is that conditions should be placid whilst they stand tethered.

Wednesday, November 8.—Camp 5. Wind with overcast threatening sky continued to a late hour last night. The question of starting was open for a long time, and many were unfavourable. I decided we must go, and soon after midnight the advance guard got away. To my surprise, when the rugs were stripped from the ‘crocks’ they appeared quite fresh and fit….

We are picking up last year’s cairns with great ease, and all show up very distinctly. This is extremely satisfactory for the homeward march. What with pony walls, camp sites and cairns, our track should be easily followed the whole way. Everyone is as fit as can be. It was wonderfully warm as we camped this morning at 11 o’clock; the wind has dropped completely and the sun shines gloriously. Men and ponies revel in such weather. One devoutly hopes for a good spell of it as we recede from the windy northern region. The dogs came up soon after we had camped, travelling easily.

Thursday, November 9.—Camp 6. Sticking to programme, we are going a little over the 10 miles (geo.) nightly…

Things look hopeful. The weather is beautiful—temp. -12°, with a bright sun. Some stratus cloud about Discovery and over White Island. The sastrugi about here are very various in direction and the surface a good deal ploughed up, showing that the Bluff influences the wind direction even out as far as this camp. The surface is hard; I take it about as good as we shall get.

There is an annoying little southerly wind blowing now, and this serves to show the beauty of our snow walls. The ponies are standing under their lee in the bright sun as comfortable as can possibly be.

Friday, November 10.—Camp 7. A very horrid march. A strong head wind during the first part—5 miles (geo.)—then a snowstorm. Wright leading found steering so difficult after three miles (geo.) that the party decided to camp. Luckily just before camping he rediscovered Evans’ track (motor party) so that, given decent weather, we shall be able to follow this. The ponies did excellently as usual, but the surface is good distinctly. The wind has dropped and the weather is clearing now that we have camped. It is disappointing to miss even 1 1/2 miles.

It sounds bad already, doesn’t it? If you didn’t know how the story ends, who would you be rooting for?

I feel gloomy for Scott, that the whole enterprise is doomed even at this early stage in the march, but maybe that’s only because I know how it ends.

I like to imagine that it could have turned out differently, with just a little bit of luck. With more dogs and fewer ponies, with an earlier start or with slightly kinder weather, even for a few critical days, there could have been a happier ending for Scott. In one of the “possible worlds” posited by my semantics professor, Scott reached the pole first, and lived to tell the tale to his grandchildren. And in another, he never went to Antarctica at all. Instead, he opened a gelato shop in Italy, rode his bicycle to work every day, and wrote romance novels in the evenings.

Everything’s possible in the multiverse.