It came very unexpectedly. It’s been a pretty mild winter. I was pretty sure it wasn’t going to snow this year. The Midwest has been getting slammed by a murderous cold shoved down by a loopy jet stream, but the Pacific Northwest has been almost balmy, few temperatures lower than 45℉. But just to make sure it wouldn’t snow, I invested 45 dollars in a pair of Diamond Grip Yaktrax.
It
didn’t work. I got up this morning to discover three or four inches of snow on
the ground. Well, I thought, looks like I get to use those Yaktrax after all.
I
got into my running clothes, filled a sandwich baggie with unsalted peanuts,
and grabbed the new Yaktrax, which I proceeded to stretch over my shoe while
sitting at the top of the hallway stairs. I realized I shouldn’t wear them
walking over the shale tile of the entryway so I hopped to the door with one on
and put the other one on outside. I wasn’t sure whether to put the pull-strap
on at the back or at the front. I don’t think it matters. I put them on with
the pull-strap at the front. I thought it might be easier to tug the rubber
frame from the front than from the back. The studs looked pretty serious,
almost like something from a video game where all the weaponry is exaggerated.
You jiggle these things and they jingle. They could also be used as a musical
instrument.
My
crows were nowhere in sight. I whistled. No crows. I was disappointed and
worried. I wondered how they were bearing up in this unusual cold.
The
cold was invigorating. I liked it. It made me feel all jazzed up, like cocaine,
or Miles Davis’s Bitches Brew. Paradoxically,
I found myself much more comfortable at 26℉ with low humidity than 40℉ with
high humidity.
I
liked the sound of the crunch on the ice as my diamond grip studs came crashing
down into it. The street was solid ice. A guy in a car honked at me from
behind. I didn’t hear him. I got out of the way and he waved as he drove by. I
marveled at the fact he was driving in such treacherous conditions.
There
were a couple of crows at the end of Bigelow but none on West McGraw Place or
further down by the Five Corners Hardware Store.
There
were a few by the Queen Anne branch of the Seattle Public Library. They were
definitely glad to see me. I had a lot of peanuts to toss and it felt good to
get them out there and hear them click on the ice of the street. If I threw
them into the snow they tended to disappear. There were hardly any cars around.
I
glanced at the tent set up in the most discreet part of Bhy Kracke Park, under
some shrubbery in the midsection where the switch back trail winds around under
some tree branches. I didn’t see anyone, didn’t hear anyone. The tent was
blanketed in snow although somewhat protected by the shrubbery. If there was
anyone inside, they must be freezing, however many blankets they’ve got. I
still don’t know who – or if anyone – has been living in that tent. It has been
there for several weeks now and although I pass it twice a day I’ve seen
absolutely no one.
I
got home to discover everything was dark. We’d had a power outage. I pulled the
Yaktrax off of my shoes and hung them on the doorknob of the hallway storage
closet. Then I came in and got undressed while R phoned Seattle City Light to
see if there was any information about the power outage. The messaging service
said energy would return at about 6:00 p.m. R managed to fish a battery-powered
dome light out of the cupboard to use in the bathroom while I showered.
Showering is a dangerous enterprise in the dark. The little dome light came in
very handy. Our big red flashlight wouldn’t work. The battery had expired.
We
thought about going to one of several restaurants for dinner that were within
walking distance, but their power was also out and we didn’t know for sure when
it would be returning. And the two restaurants don’t begin serving dinner until
five. We couldn’t wait that long. So R made a couple of ham sandwiches with
avocados and mustard, lit some candles to put on the dining room table, poured
herself some wine while I opened a bottle of sparking water and we celebrated
our wedding anniversary in the dim, ambient light of three burning candles.
Our
ham sandwich dinner was followed by two servings of tiramisu, which I’d
purchased the day before. It was delicious. The richness of all that layering
was a diffusion of gustatory pleasure so unashamedly lush as to border on the
metaphysical.
Afterward,
I put on an LED headlamp and read Ezra Pound’s Cantos while R covered herself in a blanket and read The Sun Also Rises.
The
power came back on about an hour later, much earlier than expected, and the
return to the normalcy of heat and light and running water made me feel almost
ashamed at the tremendous cost of bringing it here, making it available for so
many people. Everyone, for a time. Not it’s not everyone. And it’s not as
flawless as it was a few years ago. But for the time it’s here, I’m not taking
it for granted. I never really have. Except on nearly every occasion when I go
searching for a light switch. It’s the first thing I do. It’s automatic as
breathing. Even during an outage, my hand goes immediately in search of a lamp
or a switch, and when nothing happens, it’s a strange feeling. Like that jolt I
get every time I go for a trip in the country and look up and see all those
stars. It’s shocking. It’s the shock of awareness. Beauty, indifference,
vastness, it’s all there, nakedly gleaming in all that black. Every time that
curtain of habit gets pulled back a real look at the universe can make you
tremble with awe.
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