The wilds of winter are quickly taking grasp of our little “ Vacation-land” here in Maine. Vicious trios of bitter winds, cloudy grey skies, and spitting snow showers have arrived. Vitamin-D deficiency begins now. Admittedly, I’m not focusing on the negativity of scraping frost-covered windshields and shoveling feet of fluffy snow from behind the car. I look forward to the comfort of layering in wool sweaters and checkered flannel shirts. Like a baby to a blanket, there is something great about cozying up in winter layers that you simply can’t find in a summer t-shirt. It’s heaven.
From the contentment of my easy chair, I gaze out the window this morning and watch the blowing snow in the front yard. The grasses of an ever-so-distant July fade behind a layer of white. Tall pines, along the field line, shift ever so slightly in the growingly bitter wind. The irregular swaying of branches and treetops is endless. The forest soon falls into what seems like a choreographed dance.
Snow kicks up below the lower-most layer of limbs and swirls upward. This vision chills the bones from a warm living room. The true cold is really only realized when I step outside in my boots to explore. Winter tends to means laziness to some degree. We all retreat indoors, projects shelved until spring, as we grab our blankets. Our two dogs enjoy lying on the over-sized bay in front of the large picture window in the living room and gazing outward. They, too, stare, entranced on the motion winter brings with it. December brings beauty and snow adds character. I think the reason winter seems so attractive is because fall has just stolen the summer colors we so enjoy – and just as all becomes dead brown – winter brightens things up. Our eyes, which have grown at this point in the year, so used to the featureless settings are fully awakened by the first snowfall. Winter saves us.
Today the temperatures hover for the first time in three days above thirty degrees, but a wind from the Northeast sends chills deep into the woods. Maine’s abundant spruce trees grasp to the richness of the first snow. Each limb slowly layers in white powder; the dark green needles are apparently attempting to hide themselves. Hay and potato fields of fall are now buried. A few occasional straws spring from the depths of winter, brave and unwilling to bend at the weight of the snow. I can appreciate such character. These are the fields I see from behind the frosted glass. For now, I take another sip of steaming coffee – thankful to be inside.