I’m back from vacation, two weeks with
sun and sand on Maui. I think if I lived
somewhere warm I might have a whole brood of kids—no mittens, hats, snowsuits,
even shoes become optional! But since
moving somewhere warm is not on the agenda any time soon, I’m dedicating this
post to reflections on gray weather.
In Homer, Alaska we spend much of the
year muddling through gray. There are
gray summers that may or may not be filled with rain, there are subzero gray
winters where the clouds are too high to make snow, and other variations of
gray which are often promising, but fail to deliver—as in this winter that has straddled rain and snow. The
roads have been deadly; they have been ice
slicks with coy snow on top that makes them appear safer than they actually
are. We talk about the weather here not to pass the time, but because there’s
a real uncertainty over how we will make it to and from our driveways: will
they be too icy to drive up, or will be late to work digging out our cars?
Today’s gray is a particular favorite of
mine. As I’m writing last night’s
fresh snow is melting off the spruce, making the trees look deeply green. The clouds are not so high that they make you
feel bitter, nor are they so low and empty that you feel pressed against. It’s
a good day for writing. A good day for
skiing. The way the green spruce looks
against the snow is promising, even as the same melting snow turns the streets
gray with dirt. Today’s particular kind
of gray brings rain and warmth and makes me hopeful that maybe we’ll have an
early spring, though it’s not likely.
When new people come to town they inevitably
ask about winter: is it always like this? No.
Yes. Every year seems to bring at
least one season of relentless of gray, but what the gray brings always
changes. Last winter we had record snow
fall. This year, mostly ice. I used to ache for flowers in February—that
will never happen. The long summer days
are not in sight yet, but they’re closer.
There’s a wink of light when I get off work at 6pm, and that’s encouraging.
The sun is coming back, if only to
be obscured by clouds. And whether the summer is frustratingly gray or inexhaustibly sunny, the Fireweed will still push past our shoulders, the
pushki above our heads.
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