The gray days of February have long since settled in over our valley. An endless mist, drizzle, and downpour greets my every foray to the barn. High blue winter skies are but a fevered dream seen in quick glimpses before being chased away by the cloud lords of the lower realms.
The drip from the trees, buildings, machinery, and tools is as the sound of the crypt: it brings the promise of eternal dampness into these bones. The animals cry out for relief, a dry patch, a kind word from the grumpy caretaker. Yet their squeals and bleats strike no chord before my sodden heart. I wring it out, reducing its size by three, and feel nothing but an urge to get back inside.
There, I hang up my coat. It whispers, “I’ll clothe you again in dampness when you are ready.” Cup of tea in hand, I retreat to my study and listen as the drip outside my window holds a conversation with the power lines a quarter-mile distant. It’s an exchange of semaphore sizzles, dashes, and drops spoken in a rural dialect I don’t understand, except to know by the laughter that either I am the subject of much mockery and mirth or, worse, that they are ignorant of my existence.
Outside these walls the sheep have grown quiet in damp defeat, while the cocks shuffle on their roosts and squabble over sleeping partners. The sun has long since dropped below the western horizon, exhausted from a pointless daylong contest with the clouds.
The hour is late and I add a splash of Islay to my tea. Picking out a book from the stack, I lean back into my easy chair and resolve to wait out the gray overlords. I offer up a silent toast, then a prayer for their banishment to the scat goddess Ella:
Blue skies
Smiling at me
Nothing but blue skies
Do I see …
Never saw the sun shining so bright
Never saw things going so right
Noticing the days hurrying by
When you’re in love, my how they fly …
Blue skies …
……………………………………………………………………………………………
Reading this weekend: Berg’s biography of Maxwell Perkins.
you got me feeling the drizzle and cold – quite the feat as I sit in sunny Mexico!
Thanks, hope you enjoy the salsa dancing!
Brian,
Your essay reminds me of the yearly quest for moments of Spring, nearly non-existent here on the peninsula surrounded by Lake Michigan. Spring comes but for a few moments until the wind passes over the cold waters and then Spring is gone again.
It is amazing how the weather affects not only humans mood, but animals as well.
Hopefully your weather improves soon.
Thanks. From the pictures of the door peninsula that I’ve seen you live in a pretty special place.
Some fine imagery here, Mr. Miller. Makes me want to pull a blanket ’round me and hunker down in my own easy chair.
Thanks!
I’m actually preferring the Doris Day version, because right now it fits in nicely with the… clear blue skies, for once after the darkest year in living memory.
Of course no vegetable plants of mine are able to make use of it, it’s bitterly cold and everyone’s ill…
Ouch, sorry to hear everyone is sick. I’m still, three weeks on, not 100%. And, to be honest here, I love just about any version of that song. Ella just popped into my head when composing the piece.
We are going to get serious about the Spring planting on March 3rd. We’ve been enjoying record warmth the past week. So, of course, the other shoe is preparing to drop. and with it will drop all of the too early budding fruits.
Yup, hazels are already at it, as are the cornelian cherries.
I have had years when seeding outside in late February/early March wasn’t a problem, but the time when our spring was anywhere near as predictable as yours has long passed.
One might pause to consider whether Max Perkins ever felt his charges – such as Fitzgerald or Wolfe – were mad and creative sopping spring storms… difficult to endure, but ultimately the bringers of a fine season, full of plenty.
Juxtaposition. It’s all about where things sit relative to the observer. The analogy quickly falls apart though, for it would be quite splendid to be able to edit the weather. Then again, perhaps not. Weather editing might prove yet another fine mess we could make of things. Keep the tea pot handy, and the overcoat dried.
Max Perkins was trying to get Charles Scribner to loosen up the conservative restrictions on language at the publishing house. Particularly as it related to F. Scott Fitzgerald’s first novel. As a reminder to himself to have that discussion he wrote on his To Do Calendar the following words: Shit, fuck and piss. Old man Scribner got to the meeting early, saw the calendar note and told Max when he arrived, Sir, if you need to be reminded to do these things are much worse than you imagine.
Ahh, juxtaposition again, one supposes the order of Max’s reminders is somehow not to be read as literally as Old man Scribner points out. Alphabetic sequence might be how Fitzgerald posted them?? Such as a trite digression.
I’ve wondered whether Wolfe’s original manuscripts have survived… given the enormous cuts made to them by Max’s suggestions – there would be plenty of material there to both inspect the uninhibited mind of Wolfe, and the more disciplined approach by Perkins. There’s likely a dissertation or two collecting dust somewhere to answer.
This just passed by the radar here at GP… wondering if a practiced agrarian such as yourself has seen it (or even has a copy)… has been around over 15 years… why am I now noticing for the first time?? A couple pieces by Berry (one being ‘The Whole Horse’), and one by Gene Logsdon. There’s another title on the “to see” list here as well (this latter not out until next month… makes me feel a touch more in tune). Too much to take on…
https://islandpress.org/books/new-agrarianism
Of course, Clem, this has been on my shelf for a number of years.