Diamonds and Pearls

Bundled in a quilt, I prop myself up on my bed and look out over the lake. All day the clouds had been building, deepening, thickening, colored with the slate gray distinctive to winter storms.

I am here unofficially, since it is deep November and the first hard freeze weeks before necessitated shutting off water for the season. Nonetheless, the spell of the lake beckons and I, of intrepid spirit and lots of long underwear, have settled in for the afternoon.The fall colors of maples on the opposite shore faded weeks before, their bare branches stark etchings against the skyline. The pine needles carpeting the ground are dry and dark golden brown. Closely-cropped curling wisps of green Princess Pine poke up through that carpet, and they, along with an abundance of laurel bushes, will soon be trimmed and turned to garland for the holidays.

For now, though, I am content to curl up and gaze into the silent day.

The first crystal falls, a sparkling multi-faceted flake of snow, little more than a flurry. It drifts by the window, swaying gracefully to the ground. A whisper of wind rustles the pines and the gray sky deepened. A second crystal, a third, a fourth dance by, swirling deep and low, then sweeping high and wide, skating on the currents of wind.

I unfold myself from my cocoon and quickly pull on coat, boots, cloche and fleece gloves as I hurry to the door.

Outside, I stand for a few minutes, trying to pick out the crystals as they begin their gentle tumble to earth. I feel a touch of coolness on my forehead, on my cheek, on my nose. The crystals melt instantly against my heat. The ones on my coat last but a moment longer.

Suddenly I am surrounded by winter’s jewels, its diamonds and pearls cascading around me. I turn my face into the lithe, airy flakes and taste them on my tongue, fresh, cold, clean. I lift my arms up high and begin to swirl and spin, weaving a wobbly path through the pines, down the hill to the water’s edge. The water is darker now, black and cold, the frothy whitecaps of summer have given way to something somber, ominous. The satin coat of water lilies on the southern side have long since browned and sunk below the surface, dormant, awaiting another season.

On the shore, unsheltered by towering pines, I pause to count hundreds, thousands of snowflakes now tumbling around each other like rambunctious children. They touch the ground and melt away, for the ground is yet warmer than the air above it and the real storm yet days away.

It won’t be long, though, before the ground freezes deeply, and heavier snow falls, coating the golden pine needles and the dried brown grass, the cattails in the marsh and deadfall in the woods. It won’t be long before the dock lies buried under a drift of snow and rooftops rest insulated in ice-crusted snowcaps, before frost creeps up to coat the windows and warm fingers stick to cold metal door latches.

I dance to the music of this first snow. I lust for the cleansing beauty of the first storm.

This first snow, these flurries, are the tease, the temptation, the gentle hint of the winter to come. Light and airy, they hold a special beauty. They herald the end of the bleak brown and gray of November days.

A few days later, the first storm arrives. I’ve run away to the cottage again, and sit huddled under an electric blanket topped by a quilt, drinking hot chocolate from the narrow mouth of my thermos while reading about Rod McKuen’s cat by lantern light and scented candles.

McKuen’s cat poem skitters across and out of my mind as the snow dances suddenly before me.

One moment nothing, the next a swirl of heavy white flakes, millions of them. In a matter of minutes, the brown earth is softly coated with snow, crystalline snow that catches the hint of light from my window. In the first hour an inch falls, and the wind begins to whip through the trees.

I rise, uncurling from my cocoon, and begin to put the house to bed again.

Closing the door behind me, I feel the bite of cold, the icy pinch of storm nipping at my cheeks as I reluctantly brush inches of snow from my car. I know that staying means I might be snowbound without heat, water or food. I pause to raise my face to this heavier snow, and then retreat to the slowly warming confines of my car and my other life. I inch my way from the grove, and navigate narrow dirt roads back to other people’s civilization.

In the summer I dance in good company to the music of the lake. In winter, I cut an occasional solitary figure, still dancing to the music of the lake. In the snow.