Just this past Sunday, a minor miracle occurred: the deep freeze we New Englanders have been living in let loose its grip, just a tad. The temperature finally rose up into the forties, and the snow—all ninety inches plus that have fallen since the end of January—started melting. And with that little wisp of a meltdown, the citizenry of my home town wandered out of doors, where we collectively took off our hats and gloves, tipped our faces up to the warm sun, and started feeling like human beings again. We were like the Munchkins, coming out, coming out, wherever we were.
That was then. This morning, two days later? I woke up to Zero. Degrees. Fahrenheit.
Welcome to the Winter that Won’t Let Go.
I’m at a loss for words to describe this world. Let’s just say, we’ve been hemmed in and reduced to basics. It feels like I haven’t been out much, except to shovel. I’ve just been coming up for air, from the weather, from the snow, from a lousy chest cold. I’ve been feeling like an extra in a live/reality production of Dr. Zhivago. There’s been too much winter, too much chill in the air, and way too much snow for city living.
But back in that brief Sunday dash of something leaning away from the arctic and ever so slightly towards the tropical, I had an idea for a way to post the gamut of what these frosty weeks have been about. Here’s a little alphabetical catch up—let’s see how this goes.
* * * * *
A is for alleluia. For weather that finally allowed me to peel off my good-to-twenty-below parka. And for the renewal of trust, that spring—glorious, magnificent, magical spring—might, in fact, be on its way.
B is for Broadway Market. I’ve pared down my grocery shopping these past few weeks to things that my little store around the corner sells. Decent produce, excellent cheese selection and meat options, everything hopelessly overpriced. But bless the Broadway Market for making it possible to not have to get in the car to answer the “What’s for dinner?” question.
C is for cars: for moving them, for digging them out, for finding somewhere to ditch them, for abandoning them whenever possible. These days I drive only when I’m absolutely sure there’s a place to park when I get where I’m going. Owning a car has become a burden this month. Boston Coach is starting to seem like the way to go.
There’s no place left for the plow to push the snow. We’ve been reduced to protecting our little parking slots. That pile at the bottom of the photo was five feet over my head, until my beloved snow-raked the summit off to our side yard. So we could continue with our digging out and tossing shovelfuls of snow up and over.
D is for digging. Digging out. Digging up and over. Endless digging.
E is for the evening skies. Despite the gray clouds that have been spitting flakes of white nearly constantly, there have been a few breathtaking sunsets, along with the loveliest of indigo skies, just before the dark takes over. A few days ago, there was a glorious day-is-done bonus: the sight of the waning moon, just a wisp of a fingernail hanging low in the sky, kept company by a bright Venus and a shy, faint Mars. It was bedazzling, the sort of thing made me stop people on the sidewalks, to make sure they didn’t miss it.
F is for frost. I can always tell how cold it is by the amount of frosting on my bedroom window when I wake up. There’s been a lot of frost. It would seem prettier if it weren’t indication of frostbite conditions outside.
G is for Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson. It’s a novel I’d started at least three times before it was selected by my book group, to whom I am beholden for foisting this quiet, epic tale on me, once more. I’m afraid I never would have made it to the end, if left to my own devices. Never would have appreciated this thoughtful, soulful, dying father’s sermon to his son.
H is for heat. And for how lovely it feels, to be in a warm spot on a cold day, particularly during an achingly long cold spell like the one we’ve been in. My new kitchen floor includes radiant heat, a home renovation luxury that I got talked into despite the fact that I didn’t entirely understand how it might work more efficiently than a decent pair of slippers. How do I feel about it now? Best home improvement ever, hands down. I’ve spent a lot of time on my yoga mat on the kitchen floor these past few weeks, doing my PT exercises, stretching my tight hamstrings, luxuriating in the warmth. I am a complete radiant heat addict. It is a gift from the renovation gods.
I is also for Instagram, where I’ve been posting lots of wintery photos, like the one above. But that’s a story for another day, my odd and wonderful little toe into the social media realm with IG. If you want a preview, check out my IG feed @khmacomber. More on that subject later.
J is for my beloved John. He’s the man who’s put up with my manic worries about snow removal, our neighbors’ incapacity to dig themselves out, and our obligation to keep the sidewalk clear. He’s been up on the roof I don’t even know how many times. When everyone around us stopped yacking about the snow in the roads and started harping about ice dams and collapsing roofs, I didn’t get sucked in to worrying about that potential calamity. The man has us in good shape, Snowmageddon-aftermath-wise. Oh, my goodness, I am grateful for all he does.
K is for kindred spirits. The people who check in, make me laugh, keep me sane. You know who you are. I am rich in kindred spirits.
L is for Lila, another book by Marilynne Robinson. My book group ambitiously agreed to read both Gilead and Lila for our next meeting. And while we knew Lila would be a bit of a prequel, focusing on one character in Gilead, we decided to read them in the order they were written. Excellent choice. Such a treat, to be immersed in one view of the world, and then, by magic, to see that world from another perspective entirely! I loved reading these two books, back to back. And I’m looking forward to our discussion, which has been rescheduled for March due to–you guessed it–the snow.
M is for MGH, the Massachusetts General Hospital, where in April I will be getting a new hip. See A is for allelulia. This is good news. April seems like a good time to go out with the old and in with the new.
N is for the best of neighbors. I am lucky to have a couple of extraordinary ones. To our immediate east is my newest neighbor, with whom I share a common wall and a front walk. Jane moved here not too long ago, along with various of her twentysomething-aged kids who come and go between college and grad school and job searches. She is quick to shovel and happy to collect any deliveries left on my front steps when I’m out of town. We’ve fallen into a happy compatibility, easy chats on our shared front walkway over the recycling bins, both of us paying favors forward. I am glad to have her nearby. Meanwhile, at our back door is my favorite octogenarian, a man who bakes bread from his own sourdough starter, and who treats me to sweet little loaves, warm from the oven, in exchange for my making sure that his parking spot is dug out. He is a treasure, and I am glad to have him nearby.
O is for the Oscars. I can’t really explain why I care about who wins what, who wore whom, but I do. I am a complete sucker for the red carpet, for weepy acceptance speeches, for moments like Julie Andrews embracing Lady Gaga. I watched it all the way to the end.
Q is for whatever you can do with it, if you’re playing Scrabble. My beloved and I have had lots of weather-dictated weeknight date nights, with sangria and candles and one of us saying, “Let’s just play five moves each, and quit if we’re stuck with lousy letters.” It’s been a little bonus on the days when Harvard has shut itself down, due to the weather. Which it did exactly four times between 1636 and 1978, and which has happened at least three times this month.
R is for relatives—checking in, sending funny emails and texts, forwarding each other news and weather updates. They are the inner circle of my kindred souls.
S is for skiing. Even though I haven’t been yet this winter. Just getting to watch fantastic ski racing makes me excited to get my hip fixed, so I can return to my most beloved outdoor activity. Watching great skiing has made me anxious to get back to swooping down my favorite trails on my favorite mountains. Meanwhile, thank you, NBCSN, for providing something close to live coverage of the World Championships from Beaver Creek. Watching good ski racing makes all this snow seem worthwhile.
T is for US Ski Team member Ted Ligety, and the most amazing clutch performance in the second run of the men’s giant slalom at those World Championships. He is The Man. He is amazing!
U is for my uniform these days. Fake fur hat, turtlenecks, Skida headbands repurposed as extra neckwarmers, a skinny lightweight jacket under my epic extra long down parka, my ski tights under my pants, and best of all, the tall snow boots that I ordered from LLBean just before the middle storm between the blizzards, and which miraculously showed up 24 hours later–and with free shipping! I have donned this outfit to shovel, to tromp all over town, to get to my appointments, even to be a lady who lunches at the MFA. Okay, that day I did bring another pair of shoes, but still, it’s been a consistent look that requires not much thought. Staying warm and dry is the name of the game.
V is for Valentines. Belated Valentines, actually. That’s what my Christmas cards turned into, sometime in the middle of February. I’m a big believer in Better Late Than Never, when it comes to my annual effort at seasons greetings.
W is for women playing hockey. In particular, my beloved Harvard Women’s Hockey team. They are joyful to watch, strong and fast and talented. And when they take their helmets off for the national anthem, they make me happy-weepy.
X is for x-rays. On a morning after one of those snowstorms, when the MBTA was shut down, I got up early and trekked to Mass General for one more set of x-rays, one more review of the options. Here’s to some forward progress on my orthopedic ailments.
Y is for yellow–I color I am looking forward to seeing more of. Forsythia, anyone?
Z is for Zero. Degrees. Fahrenheit. Which is where we began this post, and seems like a good place to end. Here’s hoping there will be no more mornings with sub-zero windchills, not in my home town, not til next winter.
A gal can dream, right?