(no subject)
Nov. 23rd, 2003 10:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
katallisonSnowing, snowing, snowing. The blizzard warnings have been scaled back a bit--we'll probably end up with less than a foot total--but still, winter is suddenly here.
There's really no routine seasonal event that makes as abrupt, decisive, and radical a change in one's environment and daily habits as the first big lasting snow. All of a sudden, stepping outside for any reason, even a brief trip to take out the garbage, means shoes-off boots-on and then boots-off shoes-on, and then there's the perpetual clutter of damp footwear by every door, and the need to remember to grab the bag with one's shoes in it before heading off to work. All of a sudden, the time it takes to drive anywhere increases by at least 25%, as one relearns the habits of starting to brake half a block before the intersection, and accelerating verrrry slowly, and entering turns at a crawl. Even the way one walks changes; instead of the casual swinging stride of summer, one relearns the mincing cautious leg-cramping gait of "oh god let me not fall down and look like a doof and maybe break a wrist."
And above all, all of a sudden, the quality of light is entirely different; even on these dim November days, what light there is is reflected and diffused, almost intensified, by the whiteness everywhere. The interior of my house, which has been a dark cave-like den for the past month or so, is suddenly aglow. And here in the city, at least, it won't get entirely dark outside again at night until the snow melts in spring. I find myself looking forward to those mild winter nights ("mild" meaning, say, 25 F) of heavy overcast, when the city lights shimmer up off the snow, reflect back down off the clouds, so that even at midnight everything is dimly luminous.
This year, maybe, I'll get back into doing available-light winter night photography, an enterprise which requires warm clothing and a good tripod, but which can yield lovely and haunting results. Maybe. Right now, though, I'll take a look out, check the forecast, ponder whether to shovel now and then have another entire (but lighter) reshoveling to do later, or wait and do it all later in one strenuous go. And then open up crap-in-progress and give it an energetic poke.
There's really no routine seasonal event that makes as abrupt, decisive, and radical a change in one's environment and daily habits as the first big lasting snow. All of a sudden, stepping outside for any reason, even a brief trip to take out the garbage, means shoes-off boots-on and then boots-off shoes-on, and then there's the perpetual clutter of damp footwear by every door, and the need to remember to grab the bag with one's shoes in it before heading off to work. All of a sudden, the time it takes to drive anywhere increases by at least 25%, as one relearns the habits of starting to brake half a block before the intersection, and accelerating verrrry slowly, and entering turns at a crawl. Even the way one walks changes; instead of the casual swinging stride of summer, one relearns the mincing cautious leg-cramping gait of "oh god let me not fall down and look like a doof and maybe break a wrist."
And above all, all of a sudden, the quality of light is entirely different; even on these dim November days, what light there is is reflected and diffused, almost intensified, by the whiteness everywhere. The interior of my house, which has been a dark cave-like den for the past month or so, is suddenly aglow. And here in the city, at least, it won't get entirely dark outside again at night until the snow melts in spring. I find myself looking forward to those mild winter nights ("mild" meaning, say, 25 F) of heavy overcast, when the city lights shimmer up off the snow, reflect back down off the clouds, so that even at midnight everything is dimly luminous.
This year, maybe, I'll get back into doing available-light winter night photography, an enterprise which requires warm clothing and a good tripod, but which can yield lovely and haunting results. Maybe. Right now, though, I'll take a look out, check the forecast, ponder whether to shovel now and then have another entire (but lighter) reshoveling to do later, or wait and do it all later in one strenuous go. And then open up crap-in-progress and give it an energetic poke.
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(no subject)
Date: 2003-11-23 09:18 am (UTC)We're not there yet; we had an inch or two back in October, but it melted, and now it's hovering in the fifties with (thank God) today blue skies. November in these hills is a very particular thing. Our leaf season was short this year, thanks to a windstorm followed by the aforementioned early snow, but now that the trees are down to bare twigs the hills take on a November kind of beauty, all muted browns and greys.
I find myself eager for the first good, proper snow, though. Even though I know winter brings other hassles (ice; slow driving; a mudroom cluttered with boots; ordinary tasks like refilling the bird-feeder becoming major enterprises), I love the light and the silence of a good thick snow...
In March, of course, I love it less. *g* But in the spring, at least, there's the consolation of knowing that winter is working its way towards over; now we're in that weird waiting phase, and I'm oddly eager for the waiting to be over.
(no subject)
Date: 2003-11-23 03:08 pm (UTC)I always love your descriptions of the weather and seasons in your own corner of the world, and look forward to hearing when and how winter sets in there.
(And having finally shovelled, I'm having envious dreams about your hot tub, you lucky wench...)