I like a Winter Morning
I like waking up warm, under the covers in a cold room. When the kids were younger, I had to leap out of bed at the alarm, and walk the dogs, and make breakfasts, and pack lunches, and get the kids out the door, like a paratrooper sergeant shouting “Go!. Go!,Go!”. Now a can lie in bed and revel in the warmth, and let WCPE (Great Classical Music 24 hours a day) ease me awake. Today, for the first day of winter, the Waltz of the Snowflakes at 5:30 was as good a background for a joyful awakening as one could hope for.
Rusty is old, and slow, and no longer chases into the next county. He stays close in the dark, even as the herds of deer, meticulously eating the buds off my camellias chuff their startlement and prance off into the dark. The cold air keeps smells down, and they are as startled as I when I come on them in the dark. From the bottom of the hill, it’s a half mile to the old store, and the morning paper.
The guinea fowl are in a tree off the road, calling quietly to each other in their cold weather voices. By summer, they are outraged, and angry, shouting their annoyance at all who pass near. But in dark winter, they are quiet, perhaps they do not know I am about. Perhaps they are calling to sooth each other, back and forth like night hikers on the glacier, awed by the silent dark, but keeping an eye on each other.
Up ahead are the brightest Christmas houses, right across from each other. On one side, the Hispanic family has moved in, and dedicated a passion to Christmas lights that I remember from growing up in San Diego. I remember in 1969, San Diego’s 200th, when we were asked to keep our lights up all year. The town’s colors are Brown and Gold, and the call went out to change all the Christmas colors to yellow after Christmas. Changing light bulbs is not as easy when they are up as when they are on the floor. I seem to remember that my mother kept me in the tall carob trees on either side of the driveway for all of January, two sacks of tiny bulbs in my hands.
On the other side of the street is the solar power house. They always offer me light on my morning walk, as self-powered driveway lights create an aura around the Clyde Jones chainsaw sculptures. But with Christmas, they have thrown all caution, and perhaps solar power to the wind and the sculptures are awash in tiny lights. Perhaps they are leaders in using the early morning energy surplus; but I think it is the Joy of lighting for Christmas.
From there on, it is lights all the way to the store, a lot of purple this year. The road is silent, with no one else about. Even the dogs are all inside on these cold nights. Rusty and I have the walk alone, with the dear, and the fowl, and the lights. Any colder, and it might be too much of a good thing. The full moon was getting ready to hide for the day.
I like a winter morning.
The view from 400 miles, and 100 years away
As I walked the dog to the store this morning, I thought of the different way we know things today. The sky was clear, but I could tell. The air was cool, but I could tell. I didn’t need to hear the announcers from the weather service. I wondered how I knew. And I pondered what it would have been like to know, a hundred years ago, with no way to tell whether it would affect me and my life...
As I walked the dog to the store this morning, I thought of the different way we know things today. The sky was clear, but I could tell. The air was cool, but I could tell. I didn’t need to hear the announcers from the weather service. I wondered how I knew. And I pondered what it would have been like to know, a hundred years ago, with no way to tell whether it would affect me and my life...
One of the great gifts a dog gives its owner is dawn. Rusty is getting slow now, and white about the jowls; he really prefers to keep his travels to those between the cushion in his kennel and the mat by the glass door where he can watch the yard. Still, in the morning, he complains until we go out. Nowadays, he can’t make it all the way to the store and the paper. He slows. He pretends to be interested in something half way, and he waits until my return. Still he has given me the pre-dawn, again...
At dawn, the roads don’t smell like cars. The night shift, the animals that come out at night, is sleepily returning home. In Bynum, for the last decade, guinea fowl wander in the early morning. They cruise across yards, gobbling up ticks and fleas. The dogs seem to leave them alone. I think it’s the noise; a flock of guinea fowl makes the most horrendous noise when harassed. This morning, they were silent.
The air, the quiet still air had an ineffable feel. Perhaps there was a hint of sea in the wind, but there was no wind yet. The humid summer air in North Carolina always blurs things in the distance just a bit; perhaps today it blurred it less. The skies were clear of clouds, in a way I don’t usually expect until fall. This clearing seems to come before the clouds of a hurricane.
Everything felt like a hurricane. I don’t know if I would have noticed, without years of dawn walks, led by and leading a succession of dogs. This morning I knew. And I thought of what it was like, walking here, a hundred years ago.
What would it be like to know, but to have no idea whether the storm was coming to land, or staying at sea?
As I drove into town, driving North, I could see the summer sky to my left, to the East. I could see those long banded clouds that surround a hurricane, catching the morning sun. They were silver and gold, and beautiful, and ominous.
The storm, at that time, was 400 miles away. I knew it wasn’t going to get any closer to me, than that. But a hundred years ago, the signs would have been just as clear, without that knowing.