Arctic Chill

The next few days will bring big changes to our weather after what has been a relatively mild winter so far.  It looks as if Highlands will not escape the upcoming arctic chill.  In fact, the Weather Channel map this morning shows the jet stream passing directly over us.

I can almost feel that big, blue streak of arctic air, straight out of the west, going right through the hapless runner despite all the extra layers of clothing!  And there might be snow, as well, although there is some difference of opinion on that point.  The local WLOS-TV forecast predicts some snow showers, and temperatures in the teens:  a rough week ahead. 

I used to be more "Hard Core," I guess.  But these days when the temperature dips into the 20s and lower and the wind chill leaves fingers numb and tingling for a long time afterward, I long for those warmer places where we hope to be running in a couple of weeks, thanks once again to the gracious offer from Martha's Aunt Lizette of the use of her condo in Atlantic Beach, NC.

The past two years we escaped just in the nick of time - in fact, it seemed both years as if snowstorms followed on our heels as we fled Highlands.  This time it looks like we may not have made it in time.

So Hallowed and So Gracious

Once again, family health emergencies have intruded into our thoughtfully planned schedules.  We had planned to visit Old Salem this week and listen to Christmas music on the Tannenberg organ.  But kindness and responsibility are more important than our ordinary plans in times of emergency, after all.  Which is an appropriate thought to have on this Christmas Eve in Highlands when people everywhere - on the streets, in the post office, in the hardware store - seem to be striving to become better versions of themselves, smiling, singing snatches of carols, exchanging well-wishes and words of comfort.  I wished a complete stranger a Merry Christmas yesterday!  How wonderful it would be if we could always dwell in such a season.

I did manage to run three miles early Monday morning before making trips to Asheville on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday.  While we were in Asheville on Tuesday we managed to find time to go to see the National Gingerbread House Competition at the Grove Park Inn. 

 
 The Inn is such a lovely place to celebrate Christmas, and we have often visited it during this season - what a wonderful place to be snowbound for a few days!  I could wander around its long corridors and climb to its many levels day after day, I think.  It looks like it will be standing for centuries, unlike some of the gingerbread houses that were already caving in.

And on that Thursday, we took advantage of the window of opportunity.  It was an unseasonably mild day, the first day of winter, and I was comfortable wearing shorts and a lighter shirt, a reminder that in only two weeks we will be on our way to warmer climes for two months.  And I discovered that the sun is actually closest to the earth on this winter solstice, almost as amazing as the fact that on the summer solstice the day contains six hours more sunlight than during this dark time of year.  It is no accident that we celebrate the Light of the World at this time of year.

So today Martha is baking the ham that we will have for Christmas Dinner tomorrow, and I have decided to bake an apple pie entirely for my own enjoyment, and for the aroma that comes from the kitchen, the sound of Messiah in the background.

On Christmas Eve I always remember that wonderful speech Marcellus makes at the end of Act I of Hamlet:

"Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes

Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated,

The bird of dawning singeth all night long.

And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad.

The nights are wholesome. Then no planets strike,

No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,

So hallowed and so gracious is that time."

So Merry Christmas to the occasional readers of this little blog.  

Running on Icy Roads

I do not function very well when I cannot run, and I have not run since Wednesday due to the snow accumulation and the uncleared roads.  In past years I tried running in snow; once I used something called Yaktrax on my shoes, but I think they were intended for deeper snow, not snow and ice on top of pavement.

Yesterday cabin fever got the better of me and I manged to get to the top of our steep road, fishtailing in the curves, moving steadily upward; the Walhalla Road, US-28, was free of snow and ice except in the usual places (like "Mitchell's Curve").  I went to the gym and hit the weight room, bounced a pickleball up against the wall in the gym for a few minutes, and then drove around our usual running route, scoping out the icy places.  And this afternoon, with temperatures in the upper 40s and bright sunshine, I drove to Town with my Favorite Running Partner and we ended up logging four careful miles, stopping to walk the icy parts.  We marveled at how the temperature plunged 20 degrees in those stretches of road where the December sun, low on the horizon, never shines.

But what a joy it was to run again after only four days of not running!  I cannot imagine how a truly snowbound runner would fare.  I suppose they would bundle up and get out the Yaktrax .  And there was plenty of beauty left to see despite the melting snow, which officially reached a depth of 15 inches in Highlands and 18 inches in Cashiers.  This rain chain at the Hudson Library was a 12-foot icicle gleaming in the sun:

And the little Oriental garden by the front entry presented a beautiful sight, a tall cap of snow sitting at a rakish angle on top of the stone lantern.

Now we are back home in our warm house, glad that we ventured out into the beauty of mid-December in Highlands.

Shoveling Out

It snowed all night and this morning we awoke to a total of perhaps eight or ten inches of snow, which prompted me to take exactly the same photos of the same deck furniture, documenting these slightly greater depths.

Our Mini Cooper does not like snow; she is like most of the cats we have owned (and unlike most of the dogs we have owned), too delicate a creature for winter.  She seemed to be huddled up sullenly under the thick blanket of snow, her British mirrors just barely visible.

I posted the photo on Facebook.  "I don't think we'll be riding with the top down anytime soon."   Anthony posted a photo of Everett's convertible top sagging and said he might not have one soon.  "I just went out and scraped it off," I replied.  "It's a heavy snow!  Shoveling our driveway will have to substitute for my long run this morning."  

Then I got to work shoveling snow, one of the most enjoyable activities I know, I suppose because it reminds me of my New England childhood.  My brother and I would first clear our own driveway after a heavy snow (that was the rule my Dad pronounced); the snow-piles along our driveway one year were so high that it was difficult to throw a shovelful on top - one year we had to haul some down beside the garage in the wheelbarrow.  Once our driveway had been cleared to my Dad's satisfaction, we would head out to make a few dollars shoveling our neighbors' driveways.  What great memories!  I remember snow so deep that we had to lift each shovelful off in sections, a third at a time.  At the end of the day, we would return with wet gloves and stiff fingers, the bottoms of our jeans wet and frozen stiff until they thawed beside a heat vent, warm and glowing with pride, a few wet bills stuffed in our pockets. 

So I was remembering my Dad and my brother, both of them gone now, as I carefully shoveled the walk, and then the driveway, straight lines out to the as-yet unplowed road.  The hush was disturbed from time to time as an evergreen bough would release its held fistful of snow and crash down to the driveway.  What a sweet fragrance there was to the air!  And the great satisfaction of simple work, shovelful by shovelful, as I eventually took off my coat and then my vest, warming willingly to this work.  As the old Zen saying has it (amended for the task before me):

"Before enlightenment, chop wood, shovel snow;

After enlightenment, chop wood, shovel snow."

There is no more chopping of wood since we installed gas logs in our fireplace, but I have always enjoyed that task, too, in the same way - the slow, methodical work, stopping from time to time to stretch and look around, to breathe deeply, with patience and mindfulness rather than hurrying to complete the task. 

And now I have finished, almost without noticing that it has happened, and we will await the snowplow to rumble down the road and connect us once more to the wider world.

First Snowfall

We awoke this morning to a light snow on the surfaces of everything in our yard, first revealed by the excited spectacle of white tops on our cars when I turned on the spotlights at 6:30 a.m.  It was a beautiful snow, continuing all morning and coating everything, transforming common objects into amazing new creatures.  The table and chairs on our deck have thick white cushions, which seem like another world, far removed from those summer days where we sat and put up the umbrella to shield us from the late-afternoon sun.

Everything looks just a little bit like those Hasui woodblock prints, especially the arbors and pergolas which already have an Oriental backbone.

And the fence-posts have donned Pope's mitres.  Snow hangs impossibly from the tomato-cages that only a few months ago contained the vines of grape tomatoes.

It finally seems like winter.  The power even went off for two hours - I dragged the generator outside the basement in readiness, then sat in my study by the window in the waning afternoon light reading back-issues of The New Yorker - returning suddenly to remind us how much we had been enjoying Christmas music and decorations.

It is a good day for reading.  Those New England poets I grew up with come to mind on a day like this as our woods fill up with snow.

"Whose woods these are I think I know.   

His house is in the village though;   

He will not see me stopping here   

To watch his woods fill up with snow." - Frost 

 

 

“Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of Storm.”- Emerson

 

"It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs." - Wallace Stevens

Let It Snow

Now that we've had our Christmas Tree Lighting and Christmas Parade, the next step into winter seems to be right around the corner:   the first snow.  The forecast on the local radio station indicates only a slim chance of "wintry mix" tonight and tomorrow.

But that was enough to have everyone talking about it, as they always do in Highlands - at the Post Office, at Reeves Hardware,  that was the main topic.  "I hear we might be getting three inches!" one snow-lover smiled.  We always like to exaggerate the depth of that very first snow.

WLOS-TV, which I watch every morning on my computer, was a little more sure about snow developing, and in some robust amount.  Meteorologist Jason Boyer even pulled up the TV station's patented "Flake-O-Meter:"

The blue hand was pointing toward "Accumulation for Many" this morning, which is No. Two out of Four on the Flake-O-Meter scale.  But we're ready for No. Four!

Ia there anything more magical than running in the snow?  The hush, the metallic fragrance in the air, the branches bending down gracefully under the gentle accumulation, like a soft blanket thrown lightly over a snug world.  It is a transformation of the everyday into the miraculous, as Hasui and other Japanese artists understood so well.  Absolutely beautiful.

"Oh, the weather outside is frightful
But the fire is so delightful
And since we've no place to go
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow."

Christmas Parade

We had gathered with hundreds of others to watch the lighting of the Town Christmas Tree last weekend.  But today the season began in earnest with the annual Christmas Parade.  We had a busy day planned - leaving immediately after the parade to visit Martha's aunt Anne in Clemson and take in a Sunday matinee performance of Miracle on 34th Street - so I completed my long run of ten miles yesterday.  It has been a beautiful weekend, temperatures in the 50s, good for running and good for watching this small-town celebration, unabashedly Christian and uniquely Highlands.

The Highlands Hurricane Swim Team has had a good season, and their impressive float early in the parade was a highlight:

There were many runners in the parade as well.  Bill and his wife Mary are members of our running club, and Bill justly takes pride in his fine old Ford:

And Bob, the unofficial Club Photographer, was out in his old truck, taking pictures of bystanders all along the way as they took pictures of him.

Most of our local churches were well-represented, and I have no doubt that if we had a synagogue in Highlands they would be welcome to celebrate Hanukkah, the Festival of Lights.  The Methodists always have the classic sheep, and an attractive young Mary and Joseph on a donkey.

They are known, too, for the camels, one of them led by our faithful runner Fred, who probably ran yesterday, too, because his camel-tending duties take precedent on this day.

The ladies of the Mountain Garden Club are always a big hit, too; they work for months on an intricately-choreographed number that usually ends with a chorus line.  Such a wonderful sight to see our friends and neighbors being silly and not minding a bit!

And of course Santa must bring up the rear, high on his sled.  For years this role was filled by Buck Trott, who was also Mayor and thus rode in a car toward the front of the parade (usually driven by Martha's dad Alan in his T-model), which required a quick change and transport from front to back in some mysterious fashion.  Both of them are gone now, and there is a tinge of sadness as we remember those who ride in parades only in our memories.

So this is small Town life at its best, the secular rubbing shoulders with the sacred, the students from the Highlands Biological Station raising high a spotted-red salamander banner, three wise men carrying gifts for a King, Smoky the Bear and the Grinch and the Tooth Fairies from the Dental Clinic cavorting and distributing candy, the corny and the scriptural, the profound and the silly, children on floats pulled by tractors and trucks singing sweet carols. 

On a day like this we appreciate Highlands more than ever!