These were my first glimpse of Indiana---in Autumn of 1990, the year that we moved here. Chris had been here since October, and at Thanksgiving a young woman in our area, whose husband was also here for the five-month training, asked if I’d like to ride with her to Indy to see our guys.
She made it clear that we would be traveling UP in a Miata---the Barbiest of cars, with little room for even my short legs, and absolutely NO room for anything except a small carry-case of necessities. Since Chris and I had discussed having a few of his colleagues over to his tiny apartment for Thanksgiving dinner, I packed my smallest valise with tightly-rolled unders and a couple of t-shirts and slacks, so that I could hope to squeeze two pies into the car in my tiny allotted space.
A pecan pie went into the bottom of the pie-carrier, with a fluffy coconut one on the top shelf, both baked LATE the night before, and we left early on Wednesday morning. I nestled the valise between my feet, and the pie-taker between a globe and a bread-machine in the only available level space in the back seat, and away we went.
As we got on up into Kentucky, the highway ran in the great man-cloven valleys between the hills and mountains, those sheer cliffs of rock looming above the car on either side like a gorge over a river. And the seepage of water from the crevices in the rock had frozen into great cascades and cake-garnishes of lacework and dropwork, along with sections resembling icy-sharp monster-fangs warning away all passers-by.
And every one of the formations made me smile---I was looking my eyes full, sweeping my head back to see as long as I could, then snapping back, ready for the next glimpse of that alien landscape of ice.
So icicles, anywhere, are favorites of mine---from the ones in Mississippi, captured recently in their unseasonal weather by Marty Kittrell:
Or Janie at:
To an ice-harp on the eaves of our garage:
Fleeting beauty is almost always the fairest of all.