Our wonderland this morning, after days of Will-It in the paths of great swirling blues and greens and pinks all across the Weather-Map. It was a great wet SOFT snow yesterday, not quite cold enough to send you diving for the indoors, but still plenty to herd you in sparkled and dampened and stomping your feet.
The silvery chevrons of the luck-leaf bush,
And Caro’s careful herring-bone tread to the back door in the wee hours:
The far back garden, with the great rusting bell encrusted past anything on the
wedding-shelves. The forlorn small stepping-stool, scene of
many a grab-a-rock-and-clang of warmer days, is a pristine little tuffet beneath
the cold iron. Wilton
The Birdie-Corner, like a faded sepia photograph with only the whisper of yellow chair to anticipate Spring.
View out past the firepit,
which is merely a shallow bowl scooped out of the dirt, surrounded by the ziggy-zag flat grey stones which used to encircle the front-yard maples and petunia bed. (Until removed from temptation’s way after the night a passing young scapegrace who, from peer pressure or pure preposterone, screwed his puny courage to the sticking place and hurled one through the guest bedroom window, to crash against the headboard with a noise which sent us all scurrying to see if a car might be embedded in the house).
And the tame fun of sitting around that glowing warmth on a Fall twilight, ghost stories and marshmallows the entertainment, is in no way expressed by the word “firepit”---that name will forever conjure the cliff-hanger endings of Saturday’s movie serials, with Jungle Jim or Tarzan captive in the Forbidden Temple, dangling over the great abyss of a volcano’s mouth, whilst the Leopard People chanted and prepared to cut the rope.
(And cut, they did, right at To Be Continued, with no hope for the hapless Hero, until, breathless for the next installment, we settled into our seats on the following Saturday to a miraculous hand-grasp or second rope or invisible projection which avoided Doom yet again. Our own discussions of the lame last-second reprieves indeed, DID, run to heated arguments as to whether he did or did NOT get out of the Cock-a-Doody car/hole/crocodile’s mouth).
Digression. If there’s ever a time, it’s a snowy day, hushed with white quiet, scented with the bubble of a pot of savory-something on the stove, and encompassed with a sense of remove-from-things which gives a fillip of escape to the order of the day. These, I think, are the adult equivalent of “SNOW DAY!”---even the paltry ones of my own childhood, when the busses rumbled at the first three flakes past the 'rithmetic window.
Chili Mac and Cherry Cordial Ice Cream for supper, and to all a Good Night.