The beach in winter

I wish you could have been here this afternoon to walk the beach around the point with me. The air was warmer than I expected, but not warm enough to lower my scarf much below my slightly numb nose. The sand is covered in a seamless blanket of white that even the sea gulls haven’t dared mar. They stood along the fringe of the bay, toes soaking in the icy North Atlantic, wondering why they hadn’t flown south for the winter like their sensible cousins, the geese. Perhaps they were frozen there, I can’t say.

Plowing doesn’t seem to be a priority on our little peninsula. We were told that only fifty or so families winter over here, of the several hundred houses. That truth seems to be borne out by the lack of services. Nonetheless, the hearty souls still remaining seem undaunted by the snow, even cheerful about it. One old codger, shuffling gingerly down the middle of the street, replied to my cheery, “Ready for summer yet?!” With a grin and a look at my boots, “What ch’you wearin’ girl? Cleats? Slow down!” Even the tow truck driver with two days’ beard growth and shockingly large ear studs, who was stuck and spinning his wheels leaned out the window to wave. New Englanders are a hardy lot.

The children have been digging, like frosty moles, in the huge piles of snow left by the plow and piled at the edge of the beach at the end of our road. Ezra gave his seven year old best to removing the two feet plus of snow from the second story deck. And Gabriel has single handedly improved the driveway for Daddy, who got stuck three times before leaving for work this morning. I’ve been running the dryer non-stop with hats and mittens. Speaking of the dryer, we did have one casualty of the snow storm. Elisha’s coat. It seems that stuffing four pair of snow pants, eight mittens, four hats, four Palestinian scarves, four jackets and eight wet socks into one apartment sized dryer might be a bit much. The children learned this the hard way when Elisha’s jacket (stuffed in first, evidently) emerged from the cycle looking as though some sort of road kill had been ironed to the sleeve and left side. Pressed against the heating element for a half an hour while the clothes dried, it had melted, releasing an ocean of goose down into the house. It’s a miracle it didn’t ignite and burn the cottage down. The jacket is a write off. The children, with wide eyes, watched me scrape the melted nylon off of the dryer drum and remove the remains of what looked like the hideous end of a poor gosling from the machine. We had a chat about driers, appropriate loading and fire hazards.

Indian Maiden

I trudged through knee deep snow to visit my indian maiden on her perch at the top of the hill, overlooking the bay. There she sat, completely unperturbed by the 20F temperature and oblivious to the snow piled evenly around her. Oh to have that kind of calm. I aspire to her level of zen. Of course she’s cast bronze and has no children massacring goslings in her laundry room. I wandered on through town, deciding not to stop for hot chocolate at the cafe at the bottom of the hill and instead wasting half an hour in the Artisana shop on the corner, across from the post office. I found two pair of earrings, one for me (bicycles) and one for Hannah (violins) which will mysteriously appear in our stockings, and an antique puzzle for the children, which the shop girl is “reasonably sure” has all of the pieces… verifying that will be half the fun.

Walking home I listened to my boots squeak on the dry snow and breathed in as much fresh, cold air as I could, breathing out as much of the old musty discontent and disorder that is my inner self as I could. This place is restful to me. Peaceful. Healing in many ways. I’m thankful to have this point to walk and the stone benches to sit on, warm April afternoons, or buried in three feet of snow, it makes no difference. The only thing that could have improved the day was if you’d been here to walk with me.