In between times

Day of the Dead offered us a special, spooky gift from the Otherworld this year- a perfect 12 inches of pure, white snow to cloak our world and allow us a window of time outside of time. Every surface was covered, and for the first day, the sky itself seemed to follow the sentiment. It was white on white on white, a perfect canvas; a magical mirror into the Day and into our hearts.

When the snow is blowing and the wind threatens death by treefall, us mortals retreat to the safety of our hearths, and often, subsequently, into the enigmas of our hearts. Day of the Dead. The in between time. The start of a new season, and, according to some, a new year. Can I still myself enough, by the warmth and safety of my hearth, to listen to the whispers of my heart?

12 inches of freshly fallen snow bequeaths to us a blank canvas, upon which both Life and Death imprint their marks. The bright coal red glow of freshly fallen maple leaves, the gold which is hickory leaves, the sassafras mittens- they all rest upon the white canvas, then slowly melt into it. Their gentle and impermanent imprints are reflective of the very nature of Life itself, making its mark for a brief moment of time, then returning to the the earth and its collective pool of Life-sustaining ingredients. The deer and coyotes leave their tracks, wandering here and there, in search for food and Life. Death begets Life. Hopey uncovers a bloody, half eaten rabbit from the snow on the ridge on Sapling Mountain. I carefully retrace my own imprints when the light lengthens and the wind feels colder and I can feel the beckon of the hearth. A young bear head rots in the snow, skull partially exposed.

Tomorrow the snow will finish melting, and autumn will pick up where it left off when a special kind of Winter intercepted it two nights ago. Tonight the moon rises over the great white blanket and its cold, long glow through the shadowy tree fingers will leave an impression upon our hearts.

Sassafras

Thor's whimsy

Thor must have been in a special mood this morning for he dished us out a most delectable February thunderstorm, washing away the final remnants of last week's biggy snow storm and subsequent ice. "Enough," I imagine Thor thinking upon rising just before dawn this morning in Valhalla, "Let them see the ground and remember me."
The thunder rumbled graciously, followed by a most magnificent crepescular light show, the striking of Thor's hammer creating a peculiar pink glow of electricity reflecting off of the blanket of snow. Pink flashes in the darkness lighting up a pre-dawn half-winter/half-spring scenario is what I am talking to you about, people. It rocked.
Thor, if my speculations of your morning are grossly off-base, please have mercy on my mortal soul. And thanks for the storm. Like I told the people...it rocked! And I drove the driveway this afternoon- ice free!

Epiphany

ephiphany: 1. Epiphany- A Christian feast celebrating the manifestation of the divine nature of Jesus of the Gentiles as represented by the Magi, traditionally observed on January 6. 2. A revelatory manifestation of a divine being. 3a. A sudden manifestation of the essence or meaning of something. b. A comprehension or perception of reality by means of a sudden intuitive realization.

                                    (American Heritage College Dictionary)

Midnight approaches on this day of the Epiphany. According to my thermometer, the record low for Janury 6th has been reached. As I go to bed it is -1 (F). I spent the weekend creating worst-case scenario plans for my family for severe winter weather and brutal cold. I will not lie; there were some above-average anxiety levels involved. However, as RM so eloquently put it today, perhaps anxiety in the face of dangerous weather is an example of anxiety serving its best purpose. Maybe the marriage of my primal animal instincts and my human ability to plan complex strategies is a beautiful thing, and, more importantly, could be highly useful if the power were to go out when the temperatures are below zero and the wind is raging. Maybe there is a fine line between neurotic thinking and smart thinking.

Today, I spent the "warm" hours of the day getting the pipes and the plant nursery ready for the burly night. When all plants were tucked in the greenhouse and the crawl space was closed up and heated and there was a beefy supply of firewood stacked on the porch and all the necessary hollerhood faucets were trickling, I retired to my delightfully warm, wood-heated house and revelled in the comfort. Believing all the bases were covered, my mind was free to wander back through my small but potent memory bank of the handful of other times I have met zero or sub-zero temperatures. Extreme weather experiences form colonies of vivid memories which perhaps dwell in the part of the brain reserved for personal epiphanies... ...Hearts awakening. Lungs pierced by the clear sharpness of the cold. Legs running. Sparks flying when steel hits steel. Full moon casting ethereal tones of blue and white over Shenandoah mountains and valleys. Somewhere in middle America a fire burns a tipi to the ground. Hearts breaking. Horses drawing a carriage face the New England wind. Red sun ascends like our Lord rising over Swiss Alps, its light casting red glowing diamonds over a sea of ice. Sleepless eyes enlivened. A scintilla of hope finds its way through the phone lines.

Gingko

First snow finds me baking pumpkin pies from my first pumpkin harvest here in the cove, rendering a sample batch of deer tallow, watching does forage snowy brush and Chinese herbs from my kitchen window, and marvelling my most recent significant accomplishment.

First, the pies. The variety used was "Long Island Cheese," a small-medium sized flattish tan-colored eating pumpkin. These actually did better than my butternuts this year, for some reason. The yield wasn't extremely high, but enough for me to eat on through the winter, and satisfactory for something that I just plugged in little starts of in gaps in the herb beds as an afterthought. The pies they produce are delicious. I know this because I have made 9 this week, and had enough left over to make a miniature in a ramekin and taste of it.
The tallow rendered nicely- yielding a half cup from the scraps I scraped off of a deer hide I recently cleaned up. The color was an amber when liquid and a creamy white as a solid. The smell is rather gamey, and I am unsure as to whether I will be able to tolerate it as a base of a balsam poplar bud salve I want to make with it.

pumpkin pies with tiny jar of deer tallow

Now for the recent accomplishment: Monday of this week I planted my gingko tree in the yard. This in and of itself is nothing noteworthy, as the hole was not particularly difficult to dig, and I plant trees regularly enough for the task to feel somewhat commonplace. However, it is the transferrence of the plant into the ground from its home in the pot where the accomplishment lies. It is an arrival of sorts. A benchmark no doubt. You see, I have had the gingko tree in a pot for 15 years.
I purchased the wee seedling from one Mr. Eidus for $5 back in 1998. I just couldn't pass the little guy (or gal) up- with its commanding singular presence in its very own division of organisms- its ancient DNA gracing our modern existence with ancestral dreamings and beauty of by-gone eras. I knew that it was less than ideal to purchase a tree as a transient youngster in my early 20s, but I remember thinking, 'I will probably have my own land in about 3 years, 5 at the most, and I can take good care of a tree in a pot for that long.'

Fifteen years, 8 moves, a few thousand cookies and about 500 gallons of Barry's Tea later, here we are, the gingko and me, with a piece of earth and a sweet cold spring to call home. I planted the tree in front of the western corner of the house, where its lovliness can be showcased, it has ample room to grow, and maybe someday in 15 more years, if we are both still here, he or she can shade me and my living room from the hot afternoon summer sun. What a thought. Just as I had absolutely no clue as to how the past 15 years would unfold at the time I first met the gingko, I realize now as I step into the next 15 that I am just as clueless as to what is to come. You just never know what is going to happen. Ever.

Perspective

Summer storm flares up my perception of danger. The elements are absolute in their dominance over the course of things here below. Thor has a strong say in things. The dark sky, the driving rain. The wind gusts with such force that we feel our mighty automobiles of steel and petrol wobble like cardboard on the road.

Old man Clifford, old buddy, tells a story of an real real old man who could read the weather signs in the sky. A direct contact with Thor- like they shared a walky-talky set. It was mid July and the old weather man told everyone to pick all their tomatoes, whether they be green or not, because it was going to come a freeze. Most folks wrote him off as a crazy old man over-heeding superstition. Clifford and a few others following the warning and brought in bushels of green tomatoes. Sure enough, it came a hail with such force that it shredded most everything in the fields. What was not dessimated by the hails was kilt by a thin sheet of ice over the tender green early the next morning.

Last summer I was driving home from my grandmother's house by the river when a mighty storm blew in. (Snap) like that. Suddenly. The wind blew a dead standing locust down across the road, and it missed hitting my truck by inches. It was a horrible place to wait out a storm, and several cars accumulated on either side of the fallen tree. Finally two other ladies in flip-flops and I hoisted the tree out of the way so cars could pass. The lightening was almost up our butts, and the driving rain was like a power washer of ice water coming from every direction. I woke up the next morning sick, the force of the storm having driven something either in or out of my person- it's hard to say.

When the rumble grumbles and the sky darkens and the wind whips the treetops on the mountain, it's funny how my perspective goes elemental. No more grass to mow. No more laundry to dry. It's get out of the way of falling trees and rivers jumping their banks and pray for mercy. Gather the children in the folds of your apron and watch the wash out from the safest place available. Talk pretty to Thor and hope for the best.

Greasy Beans and Dramatic Weather

Some of you die-hard readers (all two of you) may remember me being pumped about my new neighbor giving me some local heirloom greasy bean seeds at the beginning of this season. Well, I grew them out and Mom and I went out and picked yesterday a bit before the spell of dramatic weather which is moving in tonight. Mom prepped (strung) and cooked a big mess of them for dinner and froze a couple gallons for later. I have to say, as someone who feels entirely neutral about the world of green beans, those things pretty much rocked.




Speaking of the dramatic weather, I have decided that dramatic weather is the thing I am skeered of. As in s-k-double e-red. People are saying we might get 10 inches of rain in the next three days. Yay for the rain. Boo for the dramatic presentation. Last night I got home to the camper in the pitch dark, and started the project of trying to weather proof the leaking spot for the Big Rain. One of the window areas, after caulking and sealing, still leaks in water, and it is right over the foot of my sleeping area. I imagined waking up to the sound of wind and rain driving into my little aluminum box. I could feel the wet feet and hear the angry roar of the storm. It felt kind of familiar to be out in the dark with a flash light, jury rigging something as a guard against weather-induced damage. Standing out there on a chair with a flashlight, duct taping a piece of plastic over the leaky window as the rain began to drizzle, my mind was "flooded" with memories of recent years past. 2 am trips up the ladder in my cotton candy pink fluffy bathrobe to scrape loads of heavy wet snow off the once intact awning... Waking to the deadly sounding crack of a poplar tree falling onto the camper above my bed and opening my eyes to find myself face to face with the long-defunct AC unit which had been mounted on top of the roof... The raging roar of flash flood waters flushing large logs into my camper step, a tile saw from its resting spot in the barn into a culvert under the road, and a large glass door into the creek bank... The clatter of gumball sized hail like bullets pummeling the top of the camper and the little tin shed roof out front. Wading through the raging flash flood river in cowgirl boots and my trusty pink robe to take shelter within the caving in walls of Shorty and Starling Gentry's old house on higher ground.
Oh, the special times I have had with the Ladyhawk.
But I admit, weather and time have made me softer, or wiser, or just fearful of god, and after I rigged up that heavy duty clear plastic over my leaky window and took care of a few other preparations, I turned right back around and drove to Hot Springs, to take shelter in a more sturdy and leakproof shelter for the duration of this bout of "dramatic weather." The final straw was realizing that when nature called (I mean really called) I would be out in whatever kind of rain or storm with my little shovel digging and doing my business in the elements. Damn I need to dig that outhouse...

Stay tuned for Tails of Compassion: My 24 hours with "Billy Graham"