Snow and Nostalgia

I have always loved classic movies. When I was in high school, over the course of one summer, I watched every movie in the classic section at my local Blockbuster. There was something magical about the glamour of Judy Garland, Marilyn Monroe, Humphrey Bogart, Barbara Streisand, Marlon Brando, and Audrey Hepburn. I relished in the nostalgia. Even though I wasn’t alive when these films were produced, I longed to be a part of the past.

This weekend, I was in Pennsylvania for my cousin’s wedding. Saturday morning, before leaving to accomplish the wedding day itinerary, I took a close look at my best friend’s back yard.  A thin layer of snow blanketed the grass, thick, hearty snowflakes fell to the ground. Bare trees reached their branches up as if to catch a flake mid-air. A thin sheet of ice blanketed the deck, as the temperature plunged quickly the night before.

I recognized all of the foliage- the maple tree that the dogs always play beneath, the weeping cherry tress that act as a barricade between us and a nebby neighbor, lavender that has gone into hibernation, flowerbeds that overflow with blooms in the spring. If I take just a moment, I can see the wildlife that call this place their home: the sparrows, robins, blue jays and cardinals. The hummingbirds that flock to the feeders filled with red, sugary liquid all summer, the monarchs that flutter around the butterfly bushes, even the raccoons that scurry across the yard in the middle of the night.

The wind was cold, but it delivered a refreshing blow to my bones. I hadn’t been home for such a long time that I almost forgot what it was like to need to wear a winter coat. In fact, before I left, I had to dig through my closet to even locate the thing as it had been so long since I needed to wear it.

Earlier in the week, I was at Lisa and Joseph’s, in Virginia, my typical blogging spot. It was still warm. The trees were transitioning from fall to winter and the thought of snow was so foreign. Although I have lived in Virginia for three years, it is often unrecognizable. I long for the cold, and for winding roads that wrap around hills. I ironically feel claustrophobic when I look out to a flat landscape. I want rolling hills covered in trees. If I can see the landscape more than ten miles in front of me, it’s too much.

It’s interesting how nostalgic we become for home, especially around the holidays. The 330-some odd miles that separate me from a place that is so familiar that it feels like an extension of my skin often feel impossible. Even with a wind-chill that dipped way below freezing, my affinity for Western PA’s climate was unwavering.

This weekend, driving through my hometown and even on the turnpike across my beautiful home state, I felt so comfortable.  The displacement and discomfort that I often feel in the south subsided for a few days.  It was not unlike the feeling that comes from watching the opening scene of “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” for the 200^th time, or hearing the first few chords of “The Way We Were.” I’m transported back to a time that makes sense, where I feel so insanely comfortable in my skin.

And so today, I will watch Judy Garland sing and dance in “A Star is Born” and I will long for freezing cold weather that requires a beautiful coat, mittens and a scarf. 

Bare Ruined Choirs

Time does not stand still. The trees on the property are mostly bare. The only leaves that remain are crinkled and brown. The fallen leaves now carpet the yard, for they cannot be raked into piles quickly enough. Sitting on the deck, I drink my coffee slowly, breathing in the sweetness of the creamer and the fresh air that seems to mirror the sweet conversations shared with dear friends.

A crack followed by a thud and a crash signal a falling branch, an auditory reminder of winter’s eminent presence. The trees have stopped their growing for the year and are shedding their vestigial parts.

It is 64 degrees in the middle of November, the lack of greenery and the swooping migrations of birds seem to discount the warmth. The temperature feels like a trick. Looking at the barren landscape, one would assume that air would chill your bones.

I hear a few distant chirps from birds (unlike the sounds of the sparrows and robins that I knew from my childhood) making their way to a warmer climate and the cooing of a cricket down by the pond. The cricket is heralding the last warm day, perhaps celebrating that provisions had been made for winter. These creatures sing the last few notes of the season.

I couldn’t help but think of Sonnet 73 by William Shakespeare as he describes a time, “When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang/ Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,/Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.”

The speaker of the poem mourns the cold that seems to have stripped away the life that summer once held. It’s as though autumn prepares us for the twilight of winter, where we will inevitably encounter death.

The couplet at the end of the poem reads: “This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
 /To love that well which thou must leave ere long.”

As we transition out of autumn and into winter, plants decay, leaves fall and light fades as the days grow shorter. Fires are extinguished and we remember that youth doesn’t last. Inevitably, grey hairs will highlight our thick, dark curls. Crows feet will show years of laughter. Our skin will not rejuvenate itself so quickly and having one too many beers. We must start incorporating night cream into our daily routine as we approach a 10:00 bedtime.

The thing is- conclusions are inevitable. Even the most resilient forces must fade away.

I think that Shakespeare is telling us to love more strongly in the days that we are alive because in the end, everything fades. This thought sometimes feels so looming. But, when one tree branch falls, it gives way to new growth.

Winter is such a crucial time because it allows us to retreat and to be pensive. The cold that chills our bones allows our minds to think more deeply about what it means to welcome maturity and to not mourn the fading of youth. The choirs that sat along the tree branches just a few months ago will soon be singing in a warmer place and in another few months, they will return.

The cyclical nature of things allows us to gain a greater perspective with each year. It’s like when you listen to Beethoven and hear variations on a theme. Each time you hear the same notes again, your appreciation grows deeper and your understanding is more complex.

When you greet winter once again, you know the routine. This has happened before and you know that the snow will fall, but the trees will remain. They will grow another ring, their branches might fall, but moving away from youth isn’t always so scary. Things become more familiar. 

Often, with age comes the appreciation of simple, sweet pleasures like the light that falls through a bedroom window on a foggy moonlit night, the sweetness of one square of dark chocolate, or even the sharp inhale of cold air on a late November morning. 

Slow Saturdays

Just like a good Northerner, I drove up Lisa and Joseph’s driveway this morning listening to Bruce Springsteen. His sweet, sultry voice bellowed out “Hey what else can we do now except roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair…come take my hand, We’re riding tonight to case the Promised Land…” as I passed under a canopy of multicolored leaves.  After a few tough weeks at school, this moment shared with The Boss and autumnal bliss seemed to satiate my need for peace. The slow cadence echoed the movement of the leaves blowing in the wind. For the first time in a while, I took a slow, deep breath.

It’s 50 degrees in Pittsburgh, last week there was a threat of snow showers. It has been in the 70s in Virginia. This morning, instead of a parka, I wear a light sweater.

Lisa greeted me with “A Southern Child’s Favorite Breakfast,” which consisted of: an apple turn over and Rice Krispie cereal over vanilla ice cream.

“It’s dairy” she said as she scooped it into the Fiestaware bowl. “Besides, it makes breakfast last longer.”

We sit on the deck and overlook the pond while we eat. You can see the water more clearly now because the trees are just starting to thin out.  

That’s the thing that I have discovered about the south, everything takes a bit longer. From the snail-like traffic near DC, to the slow rocking chairs that line the porches on my street, to the weather, things here take more time. It’s November and the trees still have a surprising number of leaves on them. By this point in the North, many of them have fallen onto the ground and have been scooped up by rakes, then jumped into by giggling children. Here, the leaves are just beginning to really cover the ground.

This week smelled like fall. That dead leaf-dry air-almost burning- smell wafted through the open windows of my apartment. The heat is almost disorienting to a Northerner, as anything above 70 degrees is hot. This time of year, I usually have to be bundled up to enjoy the sound of leaves crunching beneath my feet.

The more time I spend in Virginia and the more time I spend with Lisa, I am realizing how much life changes after you cross over the Mason-Dixon line. She grew up in Morrow, Georgia and raised her children in Tennessee. If anyone is an expert on Southern food and culture, it’s her. If there’s any question, you can open her freezer and see a prolific amount of pecans picked from her mama’s pecan tree. They will be delicious in the Salted Carmel Chocolate Pecan Pie recipe that she showed me in the most recent edition of Southern Living magazine.

According to Lisa, “Bless her little heart” is the kiss of death, especially spoken from a member of the junior league because “No good southern woman ever puts dark meat on a chicken salad.”

Also, every good southerner had a collection of “calling cards” that were handed out to visitors who stopped by to chat if you happened to be out or if you were “indisposed.”

Joseph, like me, is from the North, where you were available no matter what. There was no need for a calling card. Someone would knock on the door and come in for a cup of sugar or a beer at any time of day.  Then, they would sit on the porch and chat for a minute before you set out to accomplish your grocery list of errands.

Northerners are always on the go. We jam too many things into the day and focus more on convenience than we do on relishing in a moment. We rarely polish our silver and slow-cooked grits are never a breakfast staple.

Although I am a damn-Yankee at heart, there’s something lovely about enjoying the slow pace.  I rock on a wicker chair as I see the poplar trees wearing their best fall-attire. It’s what my mother used to call the “peak weekend” because all of the leaves have changed color, but they haven’t let go of the branches yet. They are taking their time. Even now, as the wind blows, the leaves slowly rattle. Their euphonious rustle might just be the Southern equivalent to Bruce.