I always wake up listening to National Public Radio. I hear news—local, national, and international—and most important, I hear about the Maine weather. This morning I learned that there had been a dusting of snow in southern Maine.

Technically, Clif and I live in central Maine, but geographically, we are more southern than central. I wondered, could we have gotten a dusting of snow, too? As soon as I got up, I pulled the shades and discovered yes, we had. I had left some garden ornaments out for this very event, and I saw that snow caps covered their little heads. Also, some of the plants looked very fetching with an icing of snow.

Immediately, before tea, before breakfast, before getting dressed, I put on a coat, some shoes—no socks, however—and took some pictures. The steps were very slippery, and the dog and I had to creep carefully down them. (As soon as I was done taking pictures, I brought up the blue covered pail with the salt and set it in a corner of the porch.)

I so enjoy taking pictures of garden ornaments with a dusting of snow. They look solemn and stoic, and it appeals to my New England sensibility.

I also got a couple of good pictures of plants in the snow, and I’ll be using the red berry and evergreen as a winter card.

As much as I appreciated the warm weather, it does my heart good to see the Maine landscape look more like mid-November.

This afternoon, it was actually warm enough to have tea on the patio after we came home from doing errands.  If this isn’t an example of “wicked weird,” as we Mainers would say, then I don’t know what is. Sixty degrees in mid-November in Maine? In what multiverse has that ever happened?

In the old days, when I was young—heck even ten years ago—November in Maine was what might called pre-winter. The ground was hard and frozen, but usually there was no snow or slush. This pleased my mother’s Franco-American heart, and it pleased mine as well. Sometimes we got snow by Thanksgiving. Sometimes we didn’t.

But we definitely didn’t have green grass, soft ground, and tea on the patio. I must admit, with a touch of sheepishness, that I do enjoy the milder falls we are having.

As we sat on the patio, Clif and I watched the birds swoop and flutter from the trees to the feeders. What a blessing to have these winged visitors come to the backyard in all seasons—winter, spring, summer, and fall—and in all weather.

Surely, today will be the last day for tea on the patio, and we will bring the two patio chairs inside. Tea on the patio in Maine in December is just too absurd to consider.

After the rain
a weak November sun
scarcely illuminating
the short day.