Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Mountains of Snow with 6 More Weeks of Winter
Everything is the same color. The sky grey, tree's once colored with bright greens that even cascaded into the warm glows of reds and yellows now barren. Their knotted limbs resembling the arthritic knobby fingers of a villain in an animated Disney film.
Mounds of white align the roadways, dusted with the grayish brown sludge of rock salt and sand that allows us New Englanders to make easier passes as we drive.
By mounds I mean mountains. The usual foot or two of plowed snow, pushed into banks as tall as the average man. My house, once visible from the busy road I reside on, now on the verge of igloodom.
Forecast after forecast, more snow. Not the occasional dusting as had been custom for much of the winters here. No. Forecasts bringing inches to feet. Seemingly without end.
School's closing upon hearing the weather, before even one drop of precipitation falls from the sky. The normal last day of school being pushed farther and farther out into the summer months to make up the time. Talk of some communities giving up a school vacation, or holding classes on Saturdays in lieu.
Icy conditions leading to accidents, frozen pipes and ice dams causing homes all over to flood, to lose heat (and this I know from my day job).
All this stemming from the first blizzard the day after Christmas. Storm after storm has hit Massachusetts. Everyday, social media posts and water cooler banter complaints of the snow. "Where will be put it?", "When will it end?"
Poor Punxsutawney Phil will likely be snowed into his hole tomorrow, unable to poke his little head out to give us hope that the remainder of winter will be shorter rather than longer. Or that even the sun would be able to be found beyond the storm clouds enough to cast even the faintest of shadows.
It's sadly looking like 6 more weeks of winter.
It's been a dark, cold winter thus far. And now February is upon us.
February; a month I have dreaded more often than not. My father's birthday falls in just over a week. A reminder of yet another year gone by without him. A reminder of how young he was when he was taken from me. He would be 60 this year.
It's hard to believe all he has missed in 5 years. Seeing Dylan grow up into a goofy and quirky little man. Seeing my brother come into his own as a carpenter and make some amazingly beautiful things, much like my father. Seeing me on the verge of happiness after so many years of hell. Even seeing my mom’s health decline when she once was his caretaker.
I wish he was here to comfort me when I don't know where else to turn. I wish he was here to give me advice, hell even to yell at me when he thought I was screwing up. No matter how angry he would be with me for whatever I had done, whatever bad decisions I was making, he was always there. He didn't have to agree, or necessarily believe it, but he could hold me and tell me it would all somehow be ok. As dark and dismal as I saw things sometimes, I could somehow believe him.
I mean sure I have my mother, whom I love with all my heart, but she never quite had the knack for making me feel things would be ok somehow. Perhaps her Debbie Downer demeanor was part of why. My dad made me fear change less. My mother on the other hand, feared change herself.
I wish right now I could talk to him. Have him fill me with courage, with the sanity I feel I am grasping at straws for some of the time. I wish he could tell my mom things would be ok, despite her blindness now. That he could tell me he was proud of all I had accomplished on my own whenever I feel like a failure. Because right now I feel as though I am being buried. Buried by mountains of snow and too many thoughts for my own good.