First Snow
Snow here yesterday. My students were so excited. I thought it was interesting that they should be so excited. As I sat in class and watched it snow, my students diligently read each others' drafts. When they walked to the printer to collect their responses, they stared out the window and whispered to their classmates, pointing at the falling flakes and smiling. Someone eventually turned to the whole class and said, "Hey, it's snowing." Most people at least smiled. Some were even happier and silently pumped their fist or said, "yes" quietly to themselves.
Were this Illinois, there would be groans from the students at the sight of new-falling snow, as thoughts of trudging to class through slush and ice or thoughts of facing bitter cold winds whipping around the corners of buildings entered their minds. I do not miss the winds of the plains, winds that raise blinding tears in your eyes and bring you seemingly to the brink of insanity at the thought of having to endure them just 30 seconds longer. The only one who was ever happy it snowed in Illinois, I think, was Jen, who loves falling snow.
Here, though, it seems everyone is like Jen. It seems everyone loves the beginning of winter. And it's easy to see why in this place. The clouds move in and hide the mountains from view, a thick fog. And as the snow fell yesterday, it brought with it a muffled quiet, as if the world ended just beyond your line of sight. The world seemed smaller, like I was transported into a snow-globe. And the quiet was punctuated with the smell of wet cedar and pine, like my grandfather's wood shop, and the smell of wood fires, the smoke drifting unseen into the clouds.
I went to a poetry reading last night, some local Northwest poets. And most of the poems spoke of nature: the Wenatchee and Columbia rivers, the sunrise east of town, horses, the blue heron as it fishes in the shallows, the sparrow making a nest, the yellow warbler so far from home, the watchful eye of the osprey. When you live here, it's easy to see why these poets choose to speak of rivers and birds and mountains. Such things are so inspiring in this small town. And on days like yesterday, nature envelopes you like a down comforter, and the outside world, the town seems to disappear.
Were this Illinois, there would be groans from the students at the sight of new-falling snow, as thoughts of trudging to class through slush and ice or thoughts of facing bitter cold winds whipping around the corners of buildings entered their minds. I do not miss the winds of the plains, winds that raise blinding tears in your eyes and bring you seemingly to the brink of insanity at the thought of having to endure them just 30 seconds longer. The only one who was ever happy it snowed in Illinois, I think, was Jen, who loves falling snow.
Here, though, it seems everyone is like Jen. It seems everyone loves the beginning of winter. And it's easy to see why in this place. The clouds move in and hide the mountains from view, a thick fog. And as the snow fell yesterday, it brought with it a muffled quiet, as if the world ended just beyond your line of sight. The world seemed smaller, like I was transported into a snow-globe. And the quiet was punctuated with the smell of wet cedar and pine, like my grandfather's wood shop, and the smell of wood fires, the smoke drifting unseen into the clouds.
I went to a poetry reading last night, some local Northwest poets. And most of the poems spoke of nature: the Wenatchee and Columbia rivers, the sunrise east of town, horses, the blue heron as it fishes in the shallows, the sparrow making a nest, the yellow warbler so far from home, the watchful eye of the osprey. When you live here, it's easy to see why these poets choose to speak of rivers and birds and mountains. Such things are so inspiring in this small town. And on days like yesterday, nature envelopes you like a down comforter, and the outside world, the town seems to disappear.
posted by Brad Smith at 9:58 AM
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