Minutiae

I think it's the smallness of winter that is draining. Everything about winter is so incremental and miserly; the thermometer (and thermostat) degrees that we were so generous with in August - 87, 91, what's the difference? - are now guarded so carefully, watched over and discussed. Rain falls and soaks, a deluge, but snow accumulates. And accumulates. And accumulates.

Then, it all goes away so slowly. A summer thunderstorm wets the earth and by the next day, it's hard to know one passed, but snow lingers. It's like the negative of a photograph. Instead of dark shadows, the hollows and ditch lines have white streaks and traces that hang on for weeks. And the dripping is interminably. Snow leaves as slowly as it came, one drop from the eaves after another.

At the same time, this smallness is what is fascinating, so delicate and precious. Tiny sand-like grains fall and fall and fall until they pile up inches thick! The cumulative effects of individual flakes is amazing and beautiful, and individually, they seem to be swept away so quickly.

I remember my first big snow. The winter of 1977, I had just turned three, and I had an impressive collection of miniature jelly jars, likely from a gift basket, that had been handed off to me as toys. In memory, it seems as if I spent hours going outside, scooping snow into a jar, and bringing it back into the house. No matter how tightly I screwed the lid on or how close I stayed to the door, within moments, I had a little jar full of water. I was entranced, over and over, by the science that reversed another science. It's hard not to be in awe of a world that produces miracles in a jelly jar.