"People don't notice whether it's winter or summer when they're happy."
—Anton Chekhov
A beautiful morning here in our little valley.
And yet quite cold, seventeen degrees still as I write this, from a low of 13 when we crawled out of bed. The snow here on the hill never entirely melts this time of year. Even in frigid Boston there's no snow this week. Maybe it's the moderating effect of the bay or the Gulf Stream. Here it just gets cold and stays that way, a part of western New York's identity and shaper of its culture.
This morning I encountered an essay in the NYT that was so long I couldn't finish it before other commitments, like this one, intruded to force me to finish it another time. The author is a historian who compares the events of 1857 to the present, framing the questions of whether the Civil War was inevitable, and what we might learn from the political and legal milestones that led to Fort Sumter.
He seems to eschew the notion of "inevitability" like any good historian, while noting that there are events, such as the Dred Scott decision, that seem to mark a point of no return. Are we there yet?
Wondering what's so important in my life that I can't take the time to read the article, or to sit down with the wonderful little book of Chekhov's short stories that arrived a few weeks ago, or to indulge in reading a poem or two by Joseph Brodsky from the volume that arrived at the same time. Part of my reluctance to indulge in those things is a feeling that it would be a betrayal of Peg, who tramped out into the snow and ice to drive in darkness to an operating room where she'll stand all day working. I owe her whatever labor I can contribute to pay for last night's steak and cabernet. We're a team, an incredibly successful business partnership on top of the other trappings of marriage. It's an amazing blessing I never take for granted.
But today is, after all, the winter solstice, and this is supposed to be a time to abide in insipid light, to recharge, to plan for the days ahead. I feel the first rumblings of some New Year's resolutions coming on.
Actually, we may get more time to rest and recharge than we really want this week. As things now stand we have an ambitious plan to load cats and luggage into the car, draw the blinds and turn down the heat at Tara, and depart for Florida right after Peg gets off work on Friday. We'll split the trip in half, stopping very late in Rocky Mount, North Carolina, then on to Wyldswood for Christmas Eve among the beloved canopy oaks, fox squirrels, and geese.
Now our plan looks a little vulnerable, with a winter blast looming to the west that promises to drench us in rain then freeze the roads solid as the temperatures plunge back into the teens on Friday evening. If we leave at all, it may be very slow going, and we'll need to make sure we have blankets and water and a litter box (for Dean and Slane, not us) loaded in the back, in case we find ourselves stranded somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania.
If we could postpone this journey I probably would simply opt to spend Christmas here, but we leave from ECP for vacation on the 27th, and need to have the cats to the farm by Sunday so Casey the bartender can take care of them while we're away.
Maybe we'll just fly on Christmas Day. Hell, I don't know. "Flexibility is the key to airpower," they used to teach us when I was a cadet. We'll figure it out. We always do.
I think I'll take a moment to read a little Brodsky, and feed my soul before a day of virtual legal wrangling provides its corrosive counterpoint.
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