A beautiful day with snow falling softly.
The kids and the dogs are heading north for the first leg of their journey to Maine. Fortunately, there is no snow in North Carolina to make the driving slippery.
Three more days until Christmas! A flurry of cooking and cleaning. The house is nearly dusted, and the thumb print cookies and lemon-frosted shortbread are waiting in tins.
Onward to peanut butter balls and chocolate chip cookies.
Come, Christmas, come!
On Saturday, we had a lovely little snow—about four inches—light, fluffy, and delightful. And then it did something no Mainer wants to see until spring—it rained. Then it got cold again. I’m sure I don’t have to spell out what happened after that.
Still, there were opportunities for photos, so there was a silver lining to this icy cloud. But let’s just say that Clif and I are very careful walking down our steps and to our car. When you see the dog sliding around the backyard, you know it’s slippery.
Black on white
Crow against snow
Searching for seed
Yesterday, we had the first real snowfall of the season. The snow was light and fluffy and there was a satisfying chill to the air. Somehow, that first snowfall is always exhilarating, a treat for the senses when even the air smells cold. The landscape is white and silent and oh so lovely.
Admittedly, the thrill of snow is gone by March, but that is several months away. In the meantime, I revel in the snows of December, in the red lights we have strung outside, in the dark green of firs, pines, and cedars around our house.
Time to make soup. Time to make bread. Time to wrap presents.
December!
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.
On our daily walks, Liam, in his blindness, is the perfect companion for me, with my creaky knees. We both go at about the same slow pace, and we are never impatient with each other. Liam frequently stops to sniff, and I wait for him. I frequently stop to take pictures, and he waits for me.
On our walk the other day, my eyes were drawn upwards. (Some days, I like to look down.) I saw red berries against a cerulean sky,
little brown cones,
and a tangle of yellow and brown leaves.
As always, there is something to notice and admire on our little stretch of country road.
In Maine, it seems as though the climate has changed significantly. Last month, we had what I called Saugust, which was so mild and hot that it seemed to be an extension of summer. A far cry from the crisp Septembers we had as little as ten years ago.
Saugust has been followed by what I have dubbed Octember, a month that has been so warm that records have been broken. Two days ago, the thermometer on the back of the house read 73 degrees in the shade, which meant it was nearly 80 in the sun. Clif and I are still having drinks on the patio in late afternoon. We watch the birds—nuthatches, chickadees, cardinals, woodpeckers, tufted titmice. We listen to the crickets, singing their song of fall. Clif and I concur—it is great to be on the patio so late in the season. But it is also strange, and it is past time for everyone to be taking climate change seriously.
We keep saying to each other, surely this is the last day we’ll be having drinks on the patio. And soon it will be. By the end of October, we’ll have to bring in the patio furniture. Traditionally, snow could come anytime in November. But this year, who knows?
Despite the warm weather, the leaves continue to fall, coming down in a rain of gold, carpeting the yard and the road.
The glory of autumn is starting to fade, as it does every year. Austere November is right around the corner, and the glorious maple trees have begun to shed their leaves in preparation. While I am a little sorry to see the passing of those bright red, yellow, and orange leaves, I also love the muted beauty of November—the browns and russets. After all the hectic color of October, I find November’s tones soothing.
This picture of a once-green fern illustrates my point. It has faded to white and has brown outlines on the edges. The fern is a good reminder that beauty comes in many shapes and colors, from the first blush of spring to the deep green of summer to the mature beauty of autumn and finally to the sparkling cold of winter.
Would I be pushing the point too much to apply this principle to people? No, I don’t think I would be pushing it too much, and so I will.
Notes From the Hinterland 