The Sounds of Snow

Like most, I spent the week in anticipation. Precipitation anticipation. As much as I claim myself to be a realist, I can't help but be a victim of the sensationalism of winter forecasting. The alerts, the warnings, the amounts, the timing, the models, I'm following them all. It doesn't help that I'm dating a meteorologist. In the forefront of my mind, I have my doubts. I know better than to whole-heartedly believe the predictions. I shrug those totals and predicted amounts off my shoulders and just welcome what is to come. We live in times where a simple storm is named; it's personified, and like you and I, it has baggage, expectations, it's indecisive, and its overall performance depends on so many elements. You can predict that your child won't puke on the stage from nervousness when singing for his first solo in choir, but then he pukes.

I spent the past three days holed up, in a sense. A sort of nesting before the storm. The storm was coming--I knew that--regardless of its numbers and variables. Be it four inches or fourteen, I'd been making the rounds in my head, cozying up for the storm. Work has been slightly more demanding which has led to more low-key evenings. Typically, I'd do a pre-storm hike or go for a run, but I've been finding solace in books, cups of coffee, and sitting on my patio, listening and watching. Friday, I worked a little late and upon my arrival home, I was all about soup and zoning out. I spent the entire evening watching "You" on Netflix. If you are a fan of the show "Dexter", I recommend it. It possesses the same fourth-wall element where the inner-thoughts of the psychotic, yet relatable, main-character are exposed to the audience as he goes about his passions and vices.

On Saturday, my day started at 5am, waking up and immediately going to work for several hours. Then the gym with Brian to run stupid miles on the treadmill. Then grocery shopping like all the rest of the crazies. Only to come home and see the aftermath of our dogs' toilet-paper party. We became the typical cliche, going last-minute shopping for toilet paper before the storm. At this point, I was cranky, not fed, cold from sweat, and tired. But then then Winter Storm Harper finally arrived around 2pm, a steady pelt of snow you can hear when strolling the sidewalks. Pt, pt, pt against gutters, brick buildings, and windshields. Indicative of an excess of water, a weightfulness. Every single snowflake exists because of small particles in the air. They're not simply a magical gathering of frozen water droplets symmetrically forming into lacy flakes of ice. These unique, hexagonal (they take other shapes as well such as needles and columns) flakes depend on dust or sand or other atmospheric nuclei to form and grow.

As the storm began, I finally made my nest on the couch near the window. The storm didn't come suddenly, but gently. The snow pt itself on the cold asphalt, quickly covering the roads. Living in a highly residential area in central Pennsylvania (Altoona), I heard the roar of trucks pish-ing down the street outside my window, many of them already adorning their plows, ready for anything. I eventually went outside to walk my dog and the hum of winter surrounded me. I swear the clouds make sounds with their movements, especially so in winter storms. It's not the wind I hear, but a low hum similar to that of a plane flying overhead.

I spent the latter part of Saturday evening learning how to plow on an ATV. I have never ridden on one but my friend (more like a brother) who lives in the apartment upstairs asked if I wanted to try it out, so of course I did. By then there was about five inches of snow on the ground. That evening, Brian was exhausted and headed to bed early and I stayed up, watching more "You" and listening to the sound of snow turning into ice. Tk, tk, tk pelting the windows.

On Sunday--today--approximately seven inches of snow with a thin layer of icing on top greeted our footsteps as we went to dig out our cars. By then, the storm and its hums had passed and the crisp, loud silence of a cold winter morning enveloped the neighborhood. The scrapes of plastic or metal on ice as people shoveled. The crunch of young men carrying shovels, trying to earn cash by digging and shoveling. People opening and closing the doors of their homes from blocks away. The persistent crunch of a child being pulled in a sled over frozen-over snow. In the process of clearing off my car, my right hand became so painfully cold, I became nauseated, but persisted. On a frigid day, sound travels differently. On warmer days, sound travels faster, but on colder days, it travels farther. Although sound is invisible, it's a very physical thing--a physical movement in the air (vibration--how deaf Beethoven composed music) and if something gets in its way, it is buffered or stopped. So, when it is cold, the molecules in the air are positioned in such a way that allows for sound to carry farther.

But enough with the elementary science. Yes, the calm after a winter storm conjures the sounds of shoveling, walking, slipping, sliding, and screeching of tires, there is yet another sound so very vibrant in the air: voices.

Once snow is on your property (especially in a residential area), it becomes a responsibility. And no matter how or where you move the snow, you may change its composition, but not the fact that it still exists. It's a form of sociological entertainment to watch people (particularly men) deal with the demands of snow removal. The loud silence of the winter morning is disturbed with the buzz and growls of snow-blowers, the plittering of snow-melt salt crystals, the continuous scrape of plows, and the camaraderie and brawn of man. With no intention to sound sexist, I am simply documenting my own observations of men and their snow. There is the older gentleman dutifully using his snow-blower and not returning your friendly greeting. There is the guy who is simply clearing his snow off his car, but must be wary of where he puts that snow for fear that he may infringe upon another man's hard work or territory. There's the man who comes outside on his porch immediately accusing another man of dumping snow on his territory. There's the older gentleman donning a full snow suit, pushing his snow-blower. There's the younger gentleman in basketball shorts and a hoodie carrying a shovel over his shoulder, knocking on doors. There's the friendly neighbor who will shovel beyond his own territory because it's just the nice thing to do, no need for a thank-you. The territorialism, the reciprocity, the brawn! It's very interesting to be in the zoo that is a cold winter morning.

It reminds me of something I read this morning in Mary Oliver's book of prose, Long Life.

Ferocious weathers are the perfect foundation; in all tempests we must do something. We must get somewhere--and so the story begins. Truly, the heart delights in it. Adversity, even tragedy, is cathartic, and a teacher. Challenge and personal valor are admired by us all.

Tonight is the total lunar eclipse (also the super blood wolf moon). The total eclipse (here in central PA) does not start until 11:41 pm and I'll keep my eye on it despite the bitter cold the wind is howling down into this valley. The moon, though, is gorgeous if you can catch a glimpse of it between the fleeting clouds. Here is a picture from Brian. Good luck and stay warm in your viewing.

This morning as I was sitting on my patio with a cup of coffee, I looked over at my car still covered in snow. I imagined the inside of it, cold, crisp, dark, silent. Not a movement. A stray strand of dog hair lodged in the fabric of the passenger seat. A stray dime that I know fell beneath the driver's seat. The cold Pennsylvania map in the glove compartment, perfectly folded into itself. The water bottle, its water still and unwanting. Pan out and there are other cars, more vehicles of darkness and quiet. Perhaps an empty bottle of Mountain Dew, a stray ash from a cigarette on the dashboard, not a lick of moving air to even tilt it. I imagined my past couple of days where I, too, was the dime, the bottle, the stray ash, the map folded beautifully into itself, but full of wanting.