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On this little plot
of Northern Illinois, some snow fell today - first snow of the
season. We had those big, heavy Hollywood flakes that melt quickly
on streets and sidewalks while they're clumping up nicely on
the grass and clinging to tree limbs. Then, almost as if someone
threw a switch or pushed a button, the fall gets more intense,
and even the asphalt goes white for a while. Student papers would
have to wait for a moment. I didn't rush out to make snow angels
or men. I just had to pay attention for a little while. And I
bet lots of folks were doing the same right at that moment. The
cat jumped up on the window ledge to watch these little white
critters so busy out there in the air.
Can you tell that
I'm trying to get in some kind of mood? I'm not sure it's working.
I've got the snow rap going here, and I've got Miss Etta testifying
about all these White Christmases from way down in her rich,
warm vocal machinery. It has been a nice Sunday, which means
that I am not caught up with the paperwork - but I will be when
I need to be. I've got snow, good Christmas jazz, a delicious
cup of strong coffee, the fuzziest cat in the universe chasing
ghosts around the room, and you (gentle reader, somewhere out
there in your own comfy warm place, I pray). This is very close
to the best of all possible worlds - at least for this moment.
Tomorrow can fend for itself tonight. I'll be there to help it
out when it needs me most, tomorrow.
To mark this first
day of snow, I'd like to insert a bit of Thomas Pynchon right
here. Just a sentence, the first, from Mason & Dixon:
Snow-Balls have
flown their Arcs, starr'd the Sides of Outbuildings, as of Cousins,
carried Hats away into the brisk Wind off Delaware,-- the Sleds
are brought in and their Runners carefully dried and greased,
shoes deposited in the back Hall, a stocking'd-foot Descent made
upon the great Kitchen, in a purposeful Dither since Morning,
punctuated by the ringing Lids of various Boilers and Stewing-Pots,
fragrant with Pie-Spices, peel'd Fruits, Suet, heated Sugar,--
the Children, having all upon the Fly, among rhythmic slaps of
Batter and Spoon, coax'd and stolen what they might, proceed,
as upon each afternoon all this snowy Advent, to a comfortable
room at the rear of the House, years since given over to their
carefree Assaults.
Late 18th century
domestic winter via late 20th century post-modern wizard.
Our narrator reminds
us of Advent, season of preparation, time of heightened consciousness
and expectation. Today is the Second Sunday of Advent. The liturgical
calendar insists that we never stop grinding out The Virtuous
Self, recognizing that the Devil prowls like a hungry lion seeking
to devour whomever He may. Ponder your sins. Turn around. It's
a call to introspection.
As the days get darker,
we move inside. I've got all this experience from my Catholic
childhood of the '50s, a steady train of voices and texts and
practices calling me to reflect upon my own fallen nature. Did
I take it so seriously because I am naturally introspective?
Or did that process of self-examination create this somber child?
We'll never know. We lean more towards the belief that temperment
is biological, don't we?
I think the first
snowfall (and the rest through New Years) is sent to relieve
us of the gloom we impose upon ourselves this time of year. Another
grace. It calls us out again. So we needs must rush out to West
Park some midnight with our boys and test ourselves on that big
hill. Watch out for them trees.
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