O'er Hill and Vale

   The first snow of the season. A mere dusting. Not enough to sneeze about except that the thin crust of ice on the roads at 6 am sent more than a few drivers slip-sliding over bridges and a semi or two bumping into those careening cars. It was won and done. School was out for the day.
    The Daughter lives in a neighborhood in East Nashville where neighbors holler out across porches, join each other for impromptu dinner parties, and know the vagaries of one another's lives. So today it was time to rally the kiddos and head out for the slopes. The slopes being the Shelby Golf Course, of course.
     Here's what happened along the way. No commentary necessary.

These are a Few of my Favorite Things...

   Raindrops on roses, but definitely not whiskers on kittens...

It's odd the things you think of as some of your favorite things. 

I am naturally drawn to people when I start thinking of things I treasure 

but instead I offer you these things which serve to bring a smile to my face...

on a day when it is much needed.

Lily of the Valley

When we moved into our house twenty-seven years ago, it was August. 
The next spring the flower bed beside my back door was filled with these dark green plants that shot up out of nowhere. 
I had no clue what they were. 
Around Mother's Day, I discovered what the plants were when the fragrance nearly bowled me over. 
I was overcome with joy. I have always loved these exquisite bell-shaped flowers that hang on tiny stems. 

White thick snow that coats the branches and bends the boughs to the earth.

The sound of running water

A wonderful soak in a bathtub

An antique find.

The smell of new mown grass on a spring day.

The first daffodils

Fireflies on a summer's night

Raindrops

Happy tears

Laughing so loud and so long that it hurts.

A shared sunset 

The well-worn patina of vintage linens

A cold drink of water on a hot day

Crunchy ice.

A smooth stone

Pink peonies

Beautiful paper in a good book

Su Blackwell (www.sublackwell.co.uk) turns books into
 art using painstaking skill, and a whole lot of imagination. 

The color and feel of silk.

The smell of a new baby

The softness of old hands.

There, I feel better already. Don't you?

Winter's Song

     Somehow winter seems not to have gotten the message. Its arrival here in Middle Tennessee is long overdue. Despite the gloom that winter sometimes casts across my soul, I love and appreciate the singularity of its beauty, for it is the very starkness that sleeps in the heart of winter that sets my imagination free to roam and wander at will.
    Moreover, I am always amazed by the articulated expectancy I find in winter; truly it seems as though the Earth is pregnant with a longing so deep that it nearly transcends words. It is a song of snow and ice and the fire that burns within. Longfellow says it well.

       Woods in Winter by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

When winter winds are piercing chill,

And through the hawthorn blows the gale,

With solemn feet I tread the hill,

That overbrows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away

Through the long reach of desert woods,

The embracing sunbeams chastely play,

And gladden these deep solitudes.

Where, twisted round the barren oak,

The summer vine in beauty clung,

And summer winds the stillness broke,

The crystal icicle is hung.

      

       

       Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs

                     Pour out the river's gradual tide,

                        Shrilly the skater's iron rings,

                      And voices fill the woodland side.

             Alas! how changed from the fair scene,

                When birds sang out their mellow lay,

                     And winds were soft, and woods were green,

                And the song ceased not with the day!

         But still wild music is abroad,

          Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;

              And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,

          Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

            Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear

         Has grown familiar with your song;

    I hear it in the opening year,

       I listen, and it cheers me long.

Both images were taken by a former student of mine, Josh B. Carter.

The Big Snow!

   In years gone by we would average at least one good snowfall each year. It was something we all anticipated, some with dread and some with joy, but there was always some level of excitement that ran like a live wire through our community when the "big snow" was predicted. It has been a seven year drought. We have had our flurries here and there with perhaps some modicum of accumulation and even though the schools might have been closed (who am I kidding...they were all closed), there was really not enough snow to generate all of the excitement. But last week, God opened up the storehouse and the snow came drifting down. It was a beautiful snowfall and even though the temperatures were very cold, we had very little humidity which meant that you could actually go out and play in the stuff. And play we did. The best part of snow is that it allows you to channel your inner child. A couple of my sons had fun teaching their father the ins and outs of backyard snowboarding, but suffice it to say that he is definitely not ready for any slopes yet. I particularly love it when the younger ones get to teach the older or better yet, the younger ones get to teach the elderly! The snow is gone now, but definitely not forgotten.

A little backyard snowboarding

A trial run sitting down

There Pappy goes with Phoebe the Westie following close behind...

Phoebe is not so sure about Pappy's next attempt

Son #2 demonstrating the finer points of technique. Pappy assures him he has it under control.

Phoebe was right to be worried.

It is tough to teach old dogs new tricks.

Winter came down to our home one night
Quietly pirouetting in on silvery-toed slippers of snow,
And we, we were children once again.
~Bill Morgan, Jr.

And this scene brings to mind one of my all-time favorite 

poems by the inimitable Robert Frost

 Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

 

We are enjoying what has become a relatively rare occurrence 

in our area: a magnificent snow.

The air is dry and the flakes are light and fluffy. The snow has been coming down steadily since mid-day, and I can no longer even see the taller tufts of grass in my yard. Along the fence line, it has blown into deeper drifts. My dogs have been in and out all day, running their noses along the ground, snorting the snow, chasing the birds and squirrels and coming inside to shake themselves dry. They run to welcome me with noses wet and eyes glistening. They are happy, and so am I. My refrigerator is stocked, I have soup simmering gracefully on the stove, 

and my loved ones are all home safe and sound. 

I love the quiet of the snow. I am taking time to listen today.