Turn bleak December once more into May . . .

(Snow like stars over the lake's edge. The surface started freezing over last night.)

We had ample warning for the storm, so I canceled my plans to go dancing at Papi O's with Alice tonight, and my meeting with my undergraduate honors mentee to talk about her thesis, and instead spent the day getting everything set up for me to hide away until Monday (or longer!) if need be. There's something about living in such a quiet spot in the country that makes you feel in tune with (and at the mercy of) nature in ways I just don't in the city. Since the summer storm that knocked out my power and thus my water supply (since I'm on a well) for three days running, I have not taken the weather lightly.



My tree looks rather different in this light. It reminds me of my brother's college class in which he had a journal he maintained for a tree for a period of a semester.

So, this morning, I got showered and made my way down to Ann Arbor right after waking to take care of errands so I would be sure to be back in the country by late afternoon. I picked up my students' essays, then bought an ungodly amount of groceries at Trader Joe's, which was filled almost to capacity, with cars struggling to move in the parking lot, and grocery carts getting caught in gridlock in the aisles. I stopped at Busch's too, when I got back to the country, so I could get rid of more of my recycling, and get even more groceries.

By the time the snow started falling, I was tucked away in my cozy cottage, with a huge pot full of sumptuously delicious grown-up macaroni and cheese I couldn't help but eat out of the pot with a wooden spoon, and my absolutely massive enamel stock pot bubbling away with fresh stock in the works. In fact, I didn't even realize the storm had finally arrived, until I went out with my flashlight and kitchen shears to clip some fresh thyme and sage from the garden plot, and I saw everything covered with white.

My little path to the water has all but disappeared in just an hour's snowfall.

The house smells heavenly, of herbs and vegetables, and is toasty warm. I am drinking O'Douls and feel a little like a child in a playhouse. A Californian in the snow. I don't think I'll ever get over the magic of it, the mystical quiet that settles in all around when the ground is padded with tiny crystals everywhere.

Naturally I couldn't resist taking some photos. Tomorrow I'll see if I can get out to explore the villages, if the conditions aren't too rough for driving a few miles.

For those of you wondering about the title of this post, it is from the ever-so-beautiful song Trees on the Mountains from the opera Susannah by Carlisle Floyd (libretto also by the same):

The trees on the mountain are cold and bare
The summer just vanished and left them there
like a false-hearted lover just like my own
who made me love him, then left me alone
Come back, young lover
Come back, blue flame
My heart wants warming, my baby a name
Come back young lover, if just for a day
Turn bleak December once more into May

If you're interested, here's an interview of Floyd. The opera isn't popular with everybody. I've never seen it live. But I still get the songs in my head, especially this one and Ain't It a Pretty Night, which I heard my fellow singers working on in vocal repertory classes back in Santa Cruz. And yes, Miss Robin, that means you. :)

Windy!

Super windy, very cold day on the lake today. The trees look barer day by day. I was struck with the sense of barrenness of the landscape as I drove down the highway yesterday, navigating the wind blowing my little pickup around the road.

I'm hiding out this morning to take care of personal business and writing, since it's the week of AAAs and we're just showing a film in Anthropology 101. So, back to that paper on my colleague in Social Work for Qual Methods. :)

I'm cranking up the heat and putting on some coffee. And thinking it's about time to explore the possibility of weatherproofing my windows. Brr!

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Why I moved to the country?

People in Ann Arbor, who know me as a full-time doctoral student -- or perhaps as their Anthropology instructor -- are often bewildered when I announce that I live in the country. I can tell by the blank looks or even by the curious responses. Why did you decide to move, they want to know. How can I begin to articulate the meaning of the transformation I have undertaken in my life recently? It is so much greater than I could possibly convey in a casual conversation. The explanations for me, besides, seem to be captured in the senses far more readily than in words. In fact, the departure is about the distance from language. (Words, words, words. . .)

It's captured, for instance, in the smell and concentrated pulse of heat and the ambient glow from the wood fire in the fire place . . .



And my fingers rediscovering dough. . .
. . . and the smell of homemade quiche baking in the oven.
. . . for instance.