Snowmageddapocalyptic Visions


The spectre of climate change (formerly known widely as 'global warming') has loomed heavy once again this winter and has caused some downright humdingers of far-reaching snow catastrophes. Many of those who still do not subscribe to the theory (well supported, it seems to the scientific world) that global climate change is real and is here to stay point to these extra harsh winters we have been experiencing to ring the bell and dance around, claiming, "Ding! Dong! The wicked witch is dead!"

We scientific types just hang our heads and shake them knowingly, sadly. These poor deluded saps, we think. Perhaps they should have paid more attention in science class in High School rather than sending notes under the table or lobbing spit balls at the substitute teacher.

The evidence seems pretty clear, as well does the logic: a warmer planet causes more water to evaporate and rise into the upper atmosphere where it joins clouds already forming. These large cloud systems move around the planet and cause much mayhem. In the higher latitudes that means more snow and even colder temperatures as the movement of the airborne water and snow crystals cools the air (think of a swamp cooler). And it also means larger, stronger hurricanes and cyclones as tropical waters warm earlier, stay warmer longer, and provide fuel for growing storms.

What does this mean for me at Blizzardry? More winter fun, of course. Franchised and paid for by longer and more miserable summers.

Reminder

I was reminded the other day, quite happily and out of the blue, of another reason that I love autumn as it creeps sideways into winter. It was a Sunday afternoon, unseasonably warm even for southern Georgia. The sun had passed its zenith and was settling into the lazy decline of afternoon, the sky painted a bright ceramic blue. If there were clouds anywhere to be seen, the rooftops and tall live oaks of the neighbourhood through which I was riding my bicycle hid them from view. I looked up into that bright sky with the intention of blinding myself in the way that happy people have surely been blinding themselves for thousands of years, autumn after autumn. Then I heard the thing that was my reminder of cool autumns and I continued looking up and then around and around until the V formation came into view. About 12 geese were flying overhead in an imperfect V, one leg a little longer than the other, each steadfast and gently honking as they quickly passed from my sight.

I think that I had not seen a V of geese flying south for the winter in a very long time. Possibly it is because I am now in that same south that is the destination of these snow birds. Yet another reason to go back north. Where I belong.

By the Pricking of My Thumbs ...

You know that Halloween is still a few weeks away when stores begin to fill their shelves with the first wave of Christmas item-alia. (This is a new word that I have coined: 'item-alia'. It denotes any of the decorations, greeting cards, and objets of the knickknackia or brick-a-brack sort that are ubiquitous at various times of the year. Easter, for example, with its endless parade of bunnies, or Halloween with the pumpkins and bats and witches and ghosts. Christmas brings an equal infinity of snowmen, Santas, and Christmas trees. These are all 'item-alia' and collectively serve little or no purpose but to increase impulse sales in the check-out line of your local pharmacy/supermarket.)

In spite of the craze to string fake spider webs from the rafters and place fully articulated human skeletons in windows, I love this time of year. The warm glow of jack-o-lanterns is always a welcome sight, and there is nothing like a throng of children racing from door to door in search of candy booty that can fill your heart with glee.

After this it's a quiet slip into Thanksgiving time. I have heard not a few Americans lament the arrival of Thanksgiving, calling it the "un-holiday" because it has no specific religious ties nor is gift-giving a part of its traditions. Somehow - perhaps not surprisingly - most American holidays have evolved to include the pressure of giving a gift. Consider the list of usual suspects. There is Valentine's Day: men are expected to give flowers and candies to their sweethearts. Easter, where good children wake to baskets overflowing with brightly coloured fake grass and coloured eggs, as well as chocolates and candies and sundry little fun gifts. It is my understanding that one traditionally sports new clothes at this time of year (in the christian world). Mother's Day and Father's Day: more cards, gifts, and dinners. Even Halloween holds the threat of nasty tricks played if you don't give the gift of treats. And, of course, there's the granddaddy of them all: Christmas. And throughout the year lies the precarious field mined with the sundry hazards of birthdays, bridal showers, and the occasional house-warming.

The few exceptions to the gift-giving melee are Independence Day (a.k.a. the 4th of July) and Thanksgiving.

One wonders what state of the American economy would be without the Spirit of Capitalism Future.

It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

I know that almost everyone says that Christmastime is his favourite time of year. What with the gift-giving and merrymaking, the festive songs of the season, cheery greetings and sincere wishes for a happy time, who among us - even us non-christians - doesn’t truly enjoy it all? Of course, it has its problems. The stress of finding gifts for loved ones and strangers alike, not to mention gifts for co-workers and in-laws, robs the act of its inherent joy. The endless parties can become a chore, the relentless upbeat mood you must don can wear your nerves thin especially in the face of everyday responsibilities or even personal tragedies (which we choose to hide from others all in the hopes of not marring what could be a perfect Christmas). So much heavy sentiment for a season that got its start with a quietness and nobleness lacking in today’s celebration of it. I am not a christian. I follow no religion nor adhere to any otherworldly philosophy. But I was raised in a house that celebrated Christmas with the decorating of a tree (always artificial) and the giving of gifts. I always loved walking through downtown and hearing Christmas songs piped over PA systems both in the shops and outside on the street. Many stores' systems were linked together, so you could wander from store to outside to store and never miss a line of any song. We always had seasonal songs playing in our house, too. I wore out an old Firestone record that my father had with Leontyne Price’s lofty voice singing “Ave Maria” and Dean Martin crooning “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”. There’s that glint of tradition again: you see, Firestone used to put out collections of Christmas songs from the best singers of the day. Vikki Carr, Bing Crosby, and Andy Williams. Later it was Anne Murray, Julie Andrews, and Lou Rawls.

While I do enjoy Christmastime, my favourite time of the year is (’m sure it’s no surprise) autumn. The days grow shorter but somehow brighter. The skies are clearer since the purple haze of summer has been banished. Robins sing their late good-byes (to borrow a phrase from Cheryl Wheeler), and the aerial V’s of geese and ducks point their way southward. With all the bustle of the harvest and the labour to pack in stores for the winter, one might think this a hurried and noisy time of year. But the opposite is true. Quiet blankets the land, and carpets of gold and brown muffle all manner of crunch and crack. A hush falls over people as they marvel in the show of colour all around them. Yes, this is my favourite time of year. There are no parties to attend, no frantic dashes to find a gift. A nice prelude to gather one’s strength for the coming holiday season.

It's Official!

The Fall has arrived. As of this morning, the Fall has arrived. Even though the days continue to be warm, the temperature fell below 60º F last night. And according to this week's projections, it will fall to 52º F for the next two nights. I am happy.

The forecast also calls for sunshine, always a welcome accompaniment to cooling autumn days. Cheryl Wheeler sings:

When Fall comes to New England
The sun slants in so fine
And the air's so clear
You can almost hear the grapes grow on the vine

The nights are sharp with starlight
And the days are cool and clean
And in the blue sky overhead
The northern geese fly south instead
And leaves are Irish Setter red
When Fall comes to New England

When Fall comes to New England
And the wind blows off the sea
Swallows fly in a perfect sky
And the world was meant to be

When the acorns line the walkways
Then winter can't be far
From yellow leaves a blue jay calls
Grandmothers walk out in their shawls
And chipmunks run the old stone walls
When Fall comes to New England

The frost is on the pumpkin
The squash is off the vine
And winter warnings race across the sky
The squirrels are on to something
And they're working overtime
The foxes blink and stare and so do I

'Cause when Fall comes to New England
Oh I can't turn away
From fading light on flying wings
And late good-byes a robin sings
And then another thousand things
When Fall comes to New England

Oh. My. Vishnu.

I was introduced this past weekend to a new vocalist: Matt Alber. I cannot say enough good things about him, about his voice, about his songs (in his debut album, "Hide Nothing").

The fifth song on the album is called "End of the World". Without exaggeration of any sort, I can honestly say that since I first heard the song on Sunday morning (and this is Tuesday morning), I have listened to it over and over about 100 times. Possibly more. I cannot keep myself from listening to it. I am sure that there are many reasons why. Possibly because barely two months have passed since I left a relationship of almost two years with someone I loved. Possibly because my heart aches at this loss, not to mention the loss of other boyfriends and good friends in my past. Possibly because I am feeling alone and a little adrift at this point in my life, and this song focuses that sorrow, distills it and pours it out in such lyrical phrases as "Don't you want to fall/ Don't you want to fly/ Don't you want to be dangled over the edge of this aching romance?" and "If it's gonna end then I want to know that we squeezed out every moment".

Truly heartbreaking. But in a good way, a reaffirming way. What is being reaffirmed, you ask? Love. The Pursuit of Happiness. Life.

Add me to the list of people who have fallen hopelessly in love with these songs. And - for a moment - with Matt Alber himself.

Check out his website and you can listen to the songs. www.mattalber.com/matt.htm

Summer 2010

I am fixing my eyes on Alaska. For my summer escape. I spent five formative years of my childhood there, from 1971 to 1976, in Fairbanks. I recall well the drive from the lower 48 up the Al-Can Highway, then just a dusty, bumpy path through the wilderness. My imagination tells me that in the 21st century it must surely be paved, modern filling stations spaced every 200 miles on the edge of civilization, through parts of the map of the world that few ever get to know. Towns with names like Destruction Bay, Swift River, Yellow Knife. Names that invoke a past full of men untamed and untameable. I want to be one of those men.

Several plans have bubbled up in my conscious, the wildest and most daring being a drive from southern Georgia (where I currently reside) westward, through the plains states, into Colorado (for a first taste of wilderness) and then north through Wyoming, Montana, and into Alberta. Then I would hitch my wagon to the north star and let it lure me ever northward along the Al-Can Highway. How is it that trips through the wild inevitably lead us back to our childhood?