How’s the weather


Twirling

Back in December, dancers from the India Society of Worcester performed before a Boston Celtics game J and I attended. There were several troupes of dancers, each dressed in colorful, flowing skirts or loose-fitting, spangled pants. As the dancers twirled to uptempo music, I shot photo after photo, knowing there would come a point later in the winter when I’d be so tired of a monochromatic palette of Overcast and Snow, I’d cherish any spot of light and color.

All a-swirl

We’ve officially reached that point. As I type these words, both darkness and snowflakes are falling, with a blizzard forecast for tonight into tomorrow. For the fourth time in so many weeks, J and I are hunkering down, hoping we don’t lose power and knowing we’ll have to dig out once again when the storm is over. The snow in our yard is waist-deep, and I wonder when we’ll see our buried lawn again: sometime in April?

Strike a pose

Every winter, I find myself relying upon a tried-and-true handful of coping strategies to stoke the inner fires: anything to get myself through these doldrum days. I wear a bright pink coat because the color cheers me, and I like to imagine myself as a bright beacon in a season when most folks wear black or other shades of dark drab. I don’t scrimp on footwear, knowing I’m far happier when my feet are warm and dry: the pricy Huntress Wellies I’ve been clomping around in most of the winter have been worth every penny.

On the Jumbotron

And I know to use music as a kind of medicine, listening (and dancing) to salsa on Pandora as I do my morning chores and pulling out the big guns–not one but two Bellydance Superstars CDs–on my dreary, gridlocked drives to and from work, the grocery store, or other errands. Such upbeat and exotic music helps me imagine I’m someplace warm and colorful, and I can imagine myself barefoot and shimmying in a bright, jingling outfit rather than waddling flat-footed in boots and a bulky coat.

Buried table

Remember that photo of our patio table and chairs I posted in January, after winter storm Juno dumped a foot and a half of snow in our backyard? As of this afternoon, that table had been completely covered in snow from winter storm Marcus, and more has fallen (and continues to fall) since then.

Path to back door

Both yesterday and today, J spent a few hours in the afternoon raking snow from the roof and snow-blowing the sidewalks and driveway, and I shoveled the areas the snow-blower can’t reach, like the front and rear entryways as well as the gate to our backyard dog pen. Both yesterday and today, I brushed about a half foot of snow off my car even though we have nowhere to go: J and I stayed close to home yesterday and today, and tomorrow I have another snow day from teaching.

We’ll have to do it all over again tomorrow, after the snow has finally stopped falling, and after the plows have made their final pass down our street, leaving a tall wall of white at the base of our driveway. We’ll have to roof-rake, snow-blow, and shovel again tomorrow, but at least for one brief moment this afternoon, J and I felt like we’d made a (temporary) dent in the ever-accumulating snow piles.

Me in snow

That’s me standing on the sidewalk J dutifully cleared this afternoon, three weeks’ worth of storms leaving us with waist-deep drifts in our backyard…and we’ve gotten even more snow since then.

Keep it clear

Our beagle, Melony, didn’t want to get out of bed this morning, burrowing into the blankets after the alarm went off in the hope that I might miss her, leaving her to snuggle rather than taking her out to do her business in a cold and snow-filled dog pen.

Snowed in

Our white German shepherd, Cassie, has trampled some paths in the dog-pen snow that Melony gladly follows on warm days, sometimes refusing to come when I call, leaving me to stomp through the snow after her. But that happens only on warm days when the air is humid and the snow squishy. On frigid days when the snow squeaks underfoot and the air is dry and razor-sharp, Melony is waiting for me at the dog-pen gate, jumping and whimpering in anticipation.

Snow on trees

We’re supposed to get more snow this weekend: a storm that’s going to stall right over us, pumping out snow for four straight days. But before the storm, the chill: this morning was below zero, and now it’s warmed to the single digits: at the moment, too cold for snow.

This is my contribution for today’s Photo Friday theme, Weather. Although I did snap a photo of Melony burrowing in blankets this morning, the photos I show you here come from Framingham State yesterday.

Intermission

February in New England feels like waiting. We dig out from one snowstorm then brace for the next; we count the days until pitchers and catchers report for Spring Training. March is muddy and messy, but at least it holds the hope of spring. February, on the other hand, is just winter grown old.

Ready to begin - turn off your cell phones!

Last week J and I went to a matinee BSO concert. Symphony Hall is an insulated, bunker-like space: it’s sometimes described as a building inside a building, with the outside walls keeping the street-sounds out and the inner walls keeping the sound of music in. When you’re inside Symphony Hall, it’s as if the outside world doesn’t exist. Inside Symphony Hall the environment is warm and attentive, with every ear attuned to an incoming wave of music. Outside, the world is cold and cacophonous, both the winter wind and the blare of car horns battering your senses the instant you leave.

Warming up

Both phones and photography are forbidden during BSO performances, so any photos I take show pre-concert warmups or the hush of intermission. February in New England feels like an intermission between the thunderous timpani of winter and the peaceful piccolos of spring. In February we sit like a lone cellist, our fingers poised over silent strings we’re well-practiced and ever-eager to play, waiting.

Snowy backyard

Last night the Patriots won the Super Bowl, and today the sky is falling as snow: another day in New England. After the snow tapers, we’ll dig out our sidewalks, driveways, and cars, and tomorrow, the Patriots will parade through downtown Boston, victorious. These two things—digging out from a foot of snow and celebrating sports championships—are part of what it means to live in New England.

Snowed in

The rallying cry for the Patriots this year has been “Do your job,” a concise summary of Bill Belichick’s no-nonsense coaching philosophy. The motto “Do your job” seems particularly apt here in the Boston suburbs right now as we start cleaning up after another whopper of a storm. There’s nothing glamorous about snow shoveling, roof raking, or other winter chores: I’m guessing most folks would happily live their lives without ever once having to dig out a snow-buried car. But here in New England, doing your job means digging out your car, sidewalk, and driveway several times a year, every year.

Long icicle

This morning I woke before my alarm, checked my phone, and saw that Curry College had cancelled classes, so J and I slept an extra hour. But even on a snow day, we couldn’t sleep too late, as there are dogs to be taken out and in, dishes to wash, litterboxes to clean, cats to feed, and a diabetic cat to inject with insulin. “Do your job,” I think every morning when my feet hit the floor and I begin a routine of daily chores that’s become automatic, pulling on a faded Patriots hoodie whose cuffs are frayed from housework. Bill Belichick is famous for wearing a slouchy hoodie, the sleeves cut off without any eye to fashion. But why roll up your sleeves when you can simply do without them?

Inside looking out

“Do your job,” I thought this morning as I turned on my laptop to post an online equivalent of the work my students would have done in class today: snow may come and go, but the work of teaching and learning always remains. Regardless of the weather, the dogs still need to go out, the cats still need to be fed, and the blank page still waits to be written. In my Zen school, we talk about inside jobs and outside jobs. Your outside job is what you do for a living, whether you’re a football coach, college writing instructor, or housewife. Your outside job can change—you can switch careers, take a day off, or enjoy a snow day—but the inside work of keeping a clear mind always remains.

There used to be a sidewalk there

Just as “Boston Strong” was the perfect rallying cry for the Red Sox’ 2013 World Series run, “Do your job” is a perfect fit with New England sensibilities. New Englanders are renowned for their reserve, and Belichick’s reticent on-camera persona matches the local temperament. Why talk about your job when you can simply do it, regardless of what it is? If you have breath enough for chatter, you’re probably not working hard enough. In winter, after all, the snow piles as deep as the nights are long, so there’s little time to waste.

Snowy patio furniture

I take some version of this same picture every few years, after every major snowfall. In 2013, Nemo dumped 24 inches of snow on our backyard, and I posted a photo of our buried patio furniture. I shot today’s version this afternoon, while the snow was still falling, and when J took a preliminary pass snow-blowing our driveway, we’d gotten 18 inches, and Juno still isn’t done with us yet.

Front door view

I think I take these same shots over and over because every year, the transformation between “before” and “after” a major snowstorm is so arresting. When you look at a snow-filled yard, it’s difficult to tell how deep it is…but when you see one to two feet of snow on top of a table, you get a sense of how heavy a load everyone’s digging out from.

At a certain level, it’s difficult to envision 18, 24, or even more inches of snow: after the snow tops your boots, another inch or so doesn’t make that much difference. So while J has an official snow stick he uses to measure our backyard snow, I tend toward more comparative measurements: is the snow ankle-, calf-, or even beagle-deep?

Bring me inside now, please

That’s Melony the beagle in our backyard dog pen, which is all the further any of us ventured today. J cleared a path to and from the pen, and I shoveled a space inside for Melony and Cassie, our white German shepherd, to “do their business.” This photo shows Melony giving me her most plaintive “I’m done, please take me inside now” look.

Memorial Drive near MIT

We’ve had a relatively snow-free winter so far this season, but on Saturday we had a weekend nor’easter that dumped about five inches of snow on the Boston suburbs before changing to rain. I had a meeting at MIT on Saturday morning, so I took the T into Boston, then I walked over the Mass Ave bridge to Cambridge. Usually, there are plenty of pedestrians crossing the Charles River, but on Saturday morning it was just me, a few intrepid cyclists, and a handful of Lycra-clad runners muddling through the unshoveled snow. The mid-river view of the MIT skyline veiled in snow and fog was worth the walk.

MIT from Mass Ave bridge

At my meeting, most folks from the outlying suburbs–people who would have had to dig out their cars to drive into Boston–had stayed home, leaving those of us who could get to MIT by T, foot, or both. On the T ride to and from Boston, I noticed the wide range of winter footwear: rubber rainboots, leather hiking boots, quilted nylon boots with fur or flannel linings, and steel-toed work boots. The people riding the T on a snowy Saturday seemed to realize their own two feet are their most dependable all-terrain vehicle and dressed accordingly.

MIT snowman

After a relatively snow-free winter, we’re now hunkered down for a blizzard that could bring one to two feet of snow. It looks like the enterprising undergrads at MIT will be well-equipped to engineer more and bigger snowmen.

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