Storm Warning

“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”

― haruki murakami

Born for This

snow_shrouded_butte

Vic is shoveling snow off his driveway with a flat half-spade. There are soft trailing footprints where Mercy and I climbed the slope to deliver white bean and chicken soup and take away a bag of trash to the street. We put the bins out for collection Sunday night as snow started to fall and stick. I knocked a foot of snow off the bins with the snow shovel, twice. The snow on the hill is up to Mercy’s belly and my knees. I’m keeping an eye on Vic through the front windows as I write. Vic is 89. He doesn’t want any help.

Vic’s red plaid Pendleton is tucked into khakis hitched up to his lower ribs. When the sun came out after the latest flurries, he leaned against the garage and unzipped his coat. He slices at the top of the snow with the spade and lets it slip off to the growing pile on the side. Looking south to the Butte, he stops and rests, bowed with both gloved hands on the handle of the shovel. Twice I nearly pulled my boots back on to go out to help and then stopped. He refused my help twice already.

mercy_snowplay

Monday morning there was a foot of snow. Mercy was out back barking before daylight, baying at snow drifts. My phone starting pinging with incoming text messages. The power went out at ten o’clock, yet I had enough presence of mind to brew extra coffee and fill every thermos from the top cupboard with hot water before it went. We lit a fire and set up the camp stove under a sheltered eave. I pulled on my gear and took the dog out back to dig the gate free while she capered and plowed through the powder.

Small trees, herbs and shrubs, my beloved curling hazel, all snapped and broke under the weight of the first fall. Fallen cedar limbs yawn like leviathan bones jutting from the snow. A 30-foot scotch pine toppled in the back and took out a section of fence. Fir trees cracked in the middle distance. An electrical transformer flashed and exploded farther away. Another ten inches of snow fell. Shy yearlings lurk down the hill behind tree trunks watching the dog tunnel in the snow. Deer mice crept in during the night to scoop frozen drippings from a corner of the grill pan.

Mercy danced.

The main roads are plowed now. The power is back. The sun was out briefly before it freezes tonight. Our hillside spur road needs to melt more to drive down; even in the Outback there is not enough clearance to negotiate the grade. Shirley was referred to an oncologist and has her first appointment tomorrow morning. She thought she’d try to walk down the hill to meet her son where the roads are cleared. I shook my head and suggested alternatives. Shirley is 81.

The patient advocate at the cancer clinic is sending transportation for the appointment, a chained high-profile vehicle with a chance of climbing.

Shirley doesn’t think Vic will be able to travel with her, although he desperately wants to go.

Blue Iris

tiny_iris

Tiny blue iris surface among the dead leaves.

Just when it seems like a corner, the horizon flattens out, far flung to the line of sight, so far the pavement shivers, and it’s always been this, this winter hex, summer just a myth we share to keep us believing–I never walked barefoot over pink daisies in the lawn and there’s never been spotted fawns sparring on the hill, and my hands will never be warm again. I wonder if it’s August in South Africa and Australia. If yes, please write.

I flinch with every chime from my phone when it’s another advertisement for thumb drives in primary colors that I don’t want, although I’m not sure what I want exactly, just nothing that can be bought. February is one long damn month for the shortest one: Valentine displays are dismantled and lonely hearts lumped in sale bins marked down for quick sale. The full snow moon passed over but she’s still digging in her nails and not letting go. Rain rages down shooting ice pellets. I’m tired of this story.

Tiny blue iris surface among the dead leaves. I had to go down on my knees to sweep them free.

Praying

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

–Mary Oliver

 

Ephemeris

ephemeris

The cold front passed over dropping a burden of snow to the north, smothering Seattle and snarling Portland. There were flurries and skiffs here. The Butte frosted down to the timberline. In gray fleece and white wool like the storm clouds, a pine-colored coat among the dark trees, I walked the dog down to the frozen field in the park. Clouds bloomed and swirled around the creek valley while we pivoted in the eye, the snow threatened and refrained, dizzy with the rising dash of it all surrounding us.

Mercy found a rubber ball under a bush. A lame man with an old dog joined us turning under the spiraling clouds. There was no one else in the park. Last summer he shot himself in the right leg and left ankle while cleaning his Glock. He carried a walking stick and leaned hard on it as we talked. Someday he would return to Baja and surf again. The bullet sheared a screw in his ankle from a previous injury. He was waiting for another surgery. We shared the names of our dogs, but not our own. His dog’s name was Beau. I threw the ball for Mercy as Beau looked on.

There’s a flood watch, bellowing gusts. Rain tattoos the glass. I have a book of days. It’s titled “New American Ephemeris for the 21st Century.” Such books were once used for celestial observation and navigation. Software probably has made them obsolete. Inside the book are tables listing each day of the century, line-by-line as day-by-day, with precise degrees and angles of the planets, the moon phases and eclipses.

The Greek word ephēmeros means that which lasts only one day–a mayfly, a snow flurry, or a newspaper. At times I take the book down from the shelf and open to some random future year, 2077 perhaps. I construct a mental orrery, a model of the solar system, with planets revolving from the data in the tables. I will not live so long, without doubt, to see 2077. It is a singular solace of mathematics and imagination to glimpse a future Harvest Moon.

Practical Magic II

calamondin_infusion

The little citrus ripen to orange, plump as Bing cherries, a limey-kumquaty fruit native to Asia. Philippinas prefer them small and green and prize calamonsi flavor to finish a dish and give it brightness. I’m told the fruit is difficult to find in the states–one woman squeezes the juice on her long black hair to add even more shine.

The calamondin trees overwinter in the sunroom until they sag with the weight of the winter crop. I sit at the table with a salad bowl full of green, yellow and orange fruit. I wear rubber gloves when I quarter them because prolonged exposure irritates the skin. I fill a jar to infuse vodka and then pour the remaining fruit into a covered bowl to brew into colonial-style shrub syrup.

I toasted the last of the pecans from the pantry to make chocolate chip cookies. I tried to soften butter in the microwave. There was lightning. The wrapper threatened to catch fire, yet I was tempted by the lightning. I’m waiting instead. Neighbor Vic likes the cookies.

Monday night, on new-moon-eve-year of the pig, flashing red and white lights appeared in the street and leaked through the blinds. There was an ambulance and fire truck out on the hill. Vic was rolled down his front steps and taken to the hospital. He’s home now, recovering from a fall and blow to the head. Vic is 89 and very literal, but he likes my cookies.

There are snowdrops nestled down in the gnarled cherry roots. More snow is forecast.

snowdrop

Lunar New Year

rosemaryIt snowed. A wet warp threaded across the trees and garden to reflect through the tall windows and color the gray morning grayer, heavier. I swept the deck leading to the front door and the snow stuck where footsteps compressed it. The snow is melting from the eaves. It will freeze tonight.

It’s happening again, happens over and over again, turning again.

The fleece sweatshirt, the gray one I wear all winter, goes sour. My back itches. I fidget inside these winter clothes. The fleece crackles when I take it out of the clothes dryer. A wool sock is sucked into a sleeve and little sparks fly when it’s unpeeled. Stray strands of hair lean into the static, rise up expectant into the air. I wear the sweatshirt zipped up in the small cold room where I write. I wear it under a long burly down vest with full pockets that bash into coffee cups or door knobs when I turn. Time to shed a skin.

In the morning, before I speak human, I talk to the dog with hands and glances, a hula language of the body we both understand. I ask if she’s eaten her breakfast and whether raccoons came into the yard during the night. She bows and then glances in the direction of her emptied bowl. The rosemary is blooming under the snow, halfway between the winter solstice and the leveling equinox of spring. Tonight the moon is new, invisible, turning again, here at the end of the lunar year of the dog and the rising of the boar.

Time to shed a skin.

Kung Hei Fat Choy

Ice Storm 2016

phone import 25 october 2018 906

Waiting

The storm was stalking before it hit, at least a week, if one looked to notice. It was lurking. It was lying in wait and testing. December ended with tires spitting grit off the pavement and howls of chainsaws shredding the thin winter light.

I was called for jury duty December 6th.  A pool of 300 jurors was ordered to report Tuesday morning. Freezing rain was forecast. My number was 286. I packed a bag as though traveling overnight, in reality, sequestered in a dim basement room lined with hard plastic chairs. I joined my peers in the American justice system, a jury pool brought and bound together by randomly drawn voter registration and driving records. Wet coats and hats dripped and puddled on the linoleum soaked from the rain slashing outside bordering on sleet. The room smelled of steam and hair. We slouched in tight rows and watched a video on the workings of the court and our responsibilities as jurors. I took out my book and ate the chicken sandwich I packed. Then we waited. This was the true beginning of the storm: waiting in the basement on hard plastic chairs to be called.

[The following week were we caught unaware? Weren’t we distracted with the coming holidays, by menorah candles, Christmas trees, Kwanzaa corn, boughs and swag, desolate and uninspired over gift lists and grocery lists, how much to tip the newspaper carrier? There was time to snap the torpor, remember the daily ritual of the advent calendar, find gifts and wrap them—festively!—time aplenty to stir walnut fudge. The weather sites posted banner advisories with backgrounds shifting from orange to red trying to flag our failing attention:  pay attention, notice how dark the days, notice the stealthling cold.]

On Wednesday the 14th, it started to rain. The rain froze. The ice took hold of the trees by branch and stem. Limbs and twigs grew great ice fangs and claws. Fir trees sank. Birches bent and broke. Oaks split from their roots. Trees toppled under the weight of the ice to rip down power lines and crash through roofs and automobiles. Branches succumbed to the great weight and were rent, only to be caught and cemented in ice to their fellows. That night we watched over Amazon Creek basin as transformers exploded and power lines snapped surges of orange and white flame. The sound of exploding trees was an artillery report. The city lost power. We went to bed.

I woke in the dark and silence. I woke because of the darkness and silence. The power was out. The clock was dark. I listened to the cold. For a few moments, the power came back, then another explosion, very close. Everything went black. The dog leaned against the bed and nuzzled. I whispered in her ear. We went back to sleep.

We had no power for days. We had no heat. We kept the wood fire burning to hold a center of warmth, a bunker from which to huddle against the cold. We set up the propane camp stove outside to boil water and brew coffee. I inventoried the candles scattered around the house and set them out on the borders of our bunker next to the wood stove. The south hills were dark and silent.

There is the elasticity of waiting. There is the tedium of the cold and the strain of darkness. What are we, without light, without heat?

Ice

Day did not break on Thursday. Ice shrouded the trees and grass, decks and steps, cars and sidewalks. Dawn brought a day of vaguely lighter shades of gray, bounded in a snow globe of freezing fog. There was not enough light through the southern windows to read at midday. It was Jack-the-Ripper-weather to seize you by the throat and probe below the clavicle sheltering your heart. The fog magnified and conducted the cold emanating from the ice. Power lines and fallen trees blocked roads, limbs continued to succumb and split from their trunks. The public was advised to stay home, stay off the streets. We stoked the wood stove. We conserved the battery charge in our phones.

700 years ago, in exile from Florence, Dante wandered a dark wood. He was confronted by three savage beasts. “The Divine Comedy” is the original metaphysical guidebook, comprised of 100 cantos, leading from the dark wood into the depths of hell. The tourist must pass through Satan’s navel into purgatory to finally ascend to heaven.

It is the first book, “The Inferno,” that still tempts our distracted modern minds. The enduring human impulse to gape at suffering and torture, an inherent voyeurism mesmerized by the agony of others, ensures The Inferno will never be quaint. What interest does the present world have for the painful trudge laboring up the purging mountain, expiating sin over millennium? Or the blandishments of never-ending glory before God, the smallest possible perfect circle?

There are nine rings of hell, spiraling and descending according to the gravity of the sin, each featuring a torture uniquely tailored to the transgression against God. Poetic justice is the theme of this Comedy. In the very pit of the Inferno, sinners are imprisoned in solid ice up to the neck. This is the realm of traitors: those who betrayed when trusted most. Dante believed that eternally burning by ice was the harshest punishment possible, greater than any torments of fire. With these sinners imprisoned in the paralyzing cold, Dante watches Virgil kick at the frozen heads as they pass. I’ve forgotten much, but not the boot heel striking the frozen chin.

Our text was laid out on facing pages: Italian on the left and English on the right. Professorio instructed the intimate seminar. Though small in stature, he was a man of large and lavish gesture. As we stumbled through the Italian, he conducted with great flourish to keep the proper cadence. A professor of Romance Languages, he was in fact a Greek from Rhodes, though an Italian scholar. Twice each week we trudged along with Virgil and the rookie Dante, our fellow apprentice in this exploration of the cosmos. At the bottom of the bottom of the pit, Satan was bound in ice forever.

The McKenzie River claims the watershed down from Mount Washington, through Clear Lake, into the Willamette Valley. In December, the river is full and furious, trimmed with rime. The torrent grinds out agates from the mountain rock and sweeps them downstream. Ice edges the banks daring the water crashing over slick black rock. In my memory, it was December. I remember thinking how dark the water would be, how snow would define the banks.

Why a proud man would be so desperate to choose the black water of this river, I have pondered for many years. Professorio, a man who conducted the torment of the ninth ring of hell, leapt in to that inferno, weighted with metal chains, to be sucked down into an icy maelstrom forever.

I stoke the fire as night falls, wait and watch the flames. There is nothing else to do.