I have been keeping to myself for the past month again, but never so cloistered as this past week, when a pre-Christmas snow turned the world of northern Wisconsin into Narnia.
The bare winter trees took on white blooms, and the lake I could see through the leafless branches the day before disappeared again.
The snow changed my normally silent world into a white womb. The dogs and I walk (well, slip) down the road hearing only the crunch of our 10 feet and an occasional scraping of a neighbor shoveling out the end of his driveway.This true winter wonderland lasted a full week - longer than I have ever seen in my adult life (the months and months of winter I remember as a child don't count!) Everyone was talking about it. I asked a friend from New Hampshire about this phenomenon and she said it was due to the lack of wind and the heaviness of the snow. I had noticed the snow's weight the first morning as I shoveled, then went around to the dog’s yard to craft perfect snowballs for them to catch in their mouths. They loved it.
Today the wind is blowing my fantasies away. Sitting down to breakfast I first noticed the trees were swaying and I could see the iced-over lake again. Then I heard the thuds on the roof and the dogs bellowing furiously. I went outside to see that the giant pine next to the house was serving up its crust of snow and –SLAP!- a plateful came down right next to my bare foot.
Now I wait for the sudden silence of the dishwasher and the lightning bolt at the bottom of my laptop to change into a blue battery as the power goes off. Oh, well, it’s light enough to read all day.
Speaking of reading, a good friend lists the current books she's reading on her blog, so I will copy her and list what I'm reading:
I'm in the middle of Wally Lamb’s “I Know This Much is True” about twin brothers – one schizophrenic - and how the other deals with it. This has special meaning to me becauseI have an older brother who has suffered with the disease schizophrenia for 40 years. I borrowed this months ago from a colleague and keep on telling him guiltily that I am still reading it. I think it may be painful for me on some subconscious level so I tend to avoid it. I am determined to finish it, though.
I'm a few pages into “Suite Francaise” which is written by Irene Nemirofsky, an author who died in Auschwitz. It is the first two parts of her five part “suite” (which she never got to finish). Her daughter had been holding onto the manuscript for decades because she thought it was her diary, but looked at it and found that it was a book. I think that story alone was enough to want to read it. It is about living in France right before the Nazis swallowed it up.
I just got “The Emperor’s Children” and that is consuming me right now. Very well written by Claire Messud, it’s about a group of thirty-somethings living in New York City in the time between the mid 90s and 9/11. This may be the perfect day to lay on the couch, dogs at my feet, and eat up the pages.
