Winter, Round ... ?

So, it seems I'm getting what I asked for. As my dad is fond of saying, "You wanted winter, you got it." And boy, did I ever! We've had snow, sleet, ice, rain, wind, and severe thunderstorms, and once even, all at the same time!  It seems almost as if this whole winter has been one snowstorm after another. It's like one thick, white blanket has barely melted off, and we're already getting another. Like a broken record playing a scratched-up version of "Frosty the Snowman," all through December, January, February, and now March! It's been crazy, really. And the temperatures have been the coldest I can ever remember. There were even days when it was colder here than in the Rockies in Colorado. We're talking an average low of 0 degrees this winter. Not normal for around here. Don't get me wrong, I like snow, but I don't like being stuck. And it's making my life as a teacher exceptionally difficult due to all the days of cancelled classes. Even the students are tired of it, I think.  But here I sit, again, and again, on a Sunday (three of the major events happened on this day), watching snow pile up on the landscape and in the trees. Pretty to look at. But on March 16?? The newly budding trees are not going to like this.

But the first and most memorable winter wallop came around my birthday in early December. It was my 40th, and I was determined to not let it pass without at least an attempt at acknowledging its monumental place in my life. (Now, mind you, I had lived in denial for the year--or two--leading up to it, but after months of trying and failing miserably to internalize my friends' and family's consolations that it is "just a number," I put the shoe on the other foot and decided, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em." So my husband and I set about planning the baddest 40th birthday party we could muster (within budgetary and logistical reason, of course). Themes and decor were thoughtfully chosen, fancy food was bought, professional sounding menus were planned, a towering cake was designed (to the tune of $140), supplies were ordered (complete with customized, foam, wisdom-bearing party cups--"You're not 40, you're 18 with 22 years of experience"), invitations were designed and mailed, and then, ....the weather forecast happened.

A week before the event, they issued a major winter weather advisory for our area, with all forecasters proclaiming the event would be "significant." What to do, what to do? We debated about rescheduling the party, but given the unpredictable nature of weather in Arkansas, I ultimately decided to gamble on it being a lark. I felt sure that nothing of any seriousness would come of it, and even if it did, the front, which would arrive on Thursday night and dump its contents of first rain, then sleet, then snow, would clear out by Saturday, the day of the fete. Roads would be salted and plowed, and life would go on as usual. I should have known better. Murphy, that bastard, tried to warn me, but I didn't listen.

Friday evening, 1 inch of sleet and 8 inches of snow later, the horrible reality sank in that my party was not going to happen. Roads all around NWA were a mess, and the regrets started pouring in. But we pressed on anyway. We cleaned, cooked, and prepped, all for a party that was not likely to happen; still, we clung stubbornly to the possibility that someone, anyone might be able to make it. But the later in the day it got that Saturday, the bleaker it looked. A few people said they were still going to try to make it, but when their sitters all began backing out, there we were with a party, but no guests. In desperation, I sent out texts to all our neighbors in hopes that they'd be stuck too and would welcome the chance to get out and socialize. No such luck--all had other plans. Our last hope was our partying friend/neighbors across the street (with 4 small children), whom we'd invited and who had planned a long night out away from the kids. We called them, told them to bring the kids if their sitter cancelled, and to bring their party hats. And they came through. They even brought a few of their friends with them. In the end, we had a pretty good group--15 or so--and the food that we had toiled over all day was greedily consumed by this horde of teens/twenty- and thirty-somethings, most of the alcohol was quaffed, and I even got to meet a local sports celeb. Later in the evening, after ample drink had sufficiently loosened the nerves, I even broke out my snowboard, and on a dare by the younger guys in the group, I hit the small jump we'd built in our backyard, landing a perfect frontside 180. Someone out there has it on video (if that's you, I want a copy!).  It was a ton of fun! And even though it wasn't the party I had planned, it was the one I wanted.

Waiting Out Winter

Most would look twice at me for saying this, but this winter has been somewhat of a disappointment.  Despite bouts of painful cold, the snow didn't really show its face. There was a short ice storm that excited me at first, but when I saw its toll on the landscape and the stressed trees, still parched and weakened from summer drought, bowing under the weight of a heavy ice coat, I changed my mind. Despite the forest being transformed into a vast bluish expanse of sparkling jewels, it just wasn't worth it.  It was beautiful, though.  And the cold temperatures were never sustained for long enough to really qualify as "winter." At least that's what the plants outside, already showing signs of a spring awakening, seem to think.  To most of the world, the return of spring is a time to celebrate, for it means shorts, flip flops, fishing by the river, and sunshine on their shoulders.  For me, it means 7 long months until the return of fall, and the next chance at another winter wonderland.  Fireplaces, peppermint, hot chocolate, late nights on the couch with a movie while icy drops fall outside, and the like: these all make me feel at home. Sure, spring is a supposed "renewal," and I do like the flowers it brings, but I'd still rather sled down a hill than mow the lawn.

Aww, shucks!

He's going to be standing there for a while, judging from the sheer amount, shucking and rinsing and shucking some more, preparing the ears of corn we picked from our garden this afternoon. This spring was a mild one, and we planted the garden a bit early to fend off the hot summer's ravages with high hopes that our hours of labor would pay off in the form of something good to eat. At the start of summer, we weren't terribly optimistic about our chances, especially after last summer's soaring temperatures and long, painful stretches without rain. But so far, we have been gifted with big, fluffy lettuces, bushels of turnip greens, a literal "sack of potatoes," vines filled with sugary watermelons, succulent cucumbers, and, last but not least, 31 ears of corn (plus several that we have already eaten and thus could not include in the count). It is with this corn that I now find my husband stationed at the kitchen sink, focused and driven, preparing the harvest for the freezer. Shuck, rinse, shuck, repeat. But now, the summer has found its appetite and is looking to claim whatever victims lie under its brutal rays. We are at least a month without significant rain, and temperatures have shattered their boundaries for the second summer in a row. Trees show signs of hanging it up for the season, yards are burned, and animals venture into flower beds seeking sustenance. And yet the garden has been good to us. I can only hope the rain gods will too.

The Space Between

In between the spaces of boredom and madness, there's a place called summer break.  It is this place that I recently find myself wandering in.  What do I do with my days now that work has been cast aside for the next three months?  What do I do with my nights now that days don't come so early anymore?  What do I do with all this time I have to buck my tradition of wasting it? My mind fills this place with plans, lists, and endless idealized versions of what a "good" day should look like, but my body rarely seems to act upon them.  But I have vowed that this summer will be different.  This summer, I will actually go to the lake instead of just talking about it.  I will work in the yard--pull weeds, tidy up the landscape, and plant new things to admire--instead of planning it in my head and sighing, "...when I have time." I will ride roller coasters at Silver Dollar City until my head spins and rightside-up morphs into upside-down.  I will laugh, and eat and drink, roam vintage shops and frequent patio cafes, reveling in the company of friends and the antics of strangers.  I will tend my garden and eat the vegetables I am lucky enough to harvest, and I will learn how to can those that I am unable to finish.  I will stain my hands inky purple picking wild blackberries, and I will stuff myself with homemade cobbler that I serve myself first, without guilt.  I'll fish all day on the pond bank for catfish, drink cold beer, and pray for rain.  And I'll be happy.

Coming Home to My Own Private Utopia

Sometimes in life, we have to take risks.  We intuitively know that they will most likely pay off, but the leap is always scary. Especially when we can't see what we're leaping into.  But we take the gamble and do it anyway.  This is basically what I did a little over a year ago when I decided to move back "home" to Arkansas, from a state I won't mention, practically on a whim.  I had done very little planning and even less of the "traditional" research that typically comes along with such a move. I hadn't really even checked out the city and knew very little about what type of living it afforded, but I was pretty sure it would somehow work out.  So when we eventually landed in Rogers, then Fayetteville, imagine my surprise when I discovered that I couldn't have chosen a better place to live if I'd tried.  This place is, well, me.  There is endless food, fun and natural pursuits to be found--something for everyone from the foodie to the art fanatic, and from the sports junkie to the river rat.  In short, if you can't find something you like about living here, then you probably don't like very much.

But that's only scratching the surface, and it isn't what I want to talk about.  What I really want to talk about is how I discovered that this was where I belonged.  After years of living in a place where I never quite found a comfort zone, I was ready for a change. I had reached the breaking point, and the "anywhere but here" attitude seemed to define my daily existence. I missed my family, I missed the seasons, I missed the trees, and I missed feeling like I belonged. In short, I needed something different, and something drastic. And I needed it yesterday.  Sure, I intuitively knew that my new destination would be miles better than what I had. But what I ended up getting has far exceeded my wildest expectations.  It's been everything I could have asked for and more.  In fact, this place has come to be like my own private utopia.  It just makes me happy.  And if nothing else in my life ever works again, I'll at least know I'm where I belong. One brilliant fall afternoon while driving home from work, during a (very) brief interlude when my mind and body were not completely consumed by the hysteria of college football, it occurred to me that not much else on Earth could compete with those harbingers of autumn that I had missed so much--the smell of burning fireplaces, the feel of the crisp air on my skin, and the energy of a town that vibrates with life this time of year.  But I soon discovered that I was wrong.  I was standing on my front porch late one night a few months ago, enjoying the frigid winter air, when I looked up into the dark sky and saw a handful snowflakes beginning to fall.  An hour or so later, as I stood barefoot and freezing on the freshly powdered sidewalk, with a sprinkling of white in my hair and an outstretched palm to catch the flakes that were falling faster and faster, I felt alive. And I was grateful. I had forgotten that there is nothing quite like the unique silence of snow falling at midnight, or the ethereal feel of a raw winter landscape muffled by a blanket of icy whiteness.  And I knew in that moment that this was where I belonged.  I had missed all of these things immensely while I was away, but I didn't truly appreciate the full magnitude of it until I moved back.  Standing there on that cold night, I finally understood.  It's why I came home.  It's why I live here.  And it's why I'm staying.