My brother should be proud. This will be the second consecutive article in which he is mentioned. I bring him up, because we had the most peculiar conversation the other day. Since a summary will not suffice, I'll repeat it, verbatim:
Me: "Hey man, so how is the weather in San Diego?"
Dave, sounding authoritative and intellectual, as usual, "Well, it's actually been rainy and cool, down in the mid-60s."
We had just experienced our first frost of the season, so I responded, "Huh - that sounds ... awful ... I'm sorry to hear that."
To that, and here's the kicker, Dave pondered, "Actually, when you live in a place like San Diego where it is sunny and nice all the time, you actually begin to crave a change; any kind of change. I'm happy that it's cool and rainy, just because it's different."
That conversation with my brother got me thinking. As winter approaches, we move into yet another season. I like it. I wouldn't want to live someplace that isn't dynamic.
This autumn has been especially kind. On the farm, we had all of the crops harvested, fodder made and put into winter storage, before Thanksgiving, a feat almost unheard of. After Thanksgiving dinner I reclined. It was beautiful out; a spectacular fall day, but with rain in the forecast. There was no rush to go back out. For once it seemed, I could sit back and enjoy the holiday.
There is a unique sense of pride and accomplishment in having the seasonal work completed in such punctuality. Winter will come, in all her glory and fury. When it does, I'll be ready. I have a neat pile of wood in my garage, stacked clear up into the floor joists, with more outside to spare. All of the summer machinery had been cleaned and put away for storage, ready to go next spring. I have enough grain and forage secured, to safely feed my cows until their pastures green up once again. And the bales of bedding - just as vital to the farm as forage, are neatly stacked and under cover. It will freeze, we may get buried in snow, but I'm ready. I even have the snow blade attached to my lawn tractor. What a good feeling this all is.
Over the past couple of weeks, I've been able to do something my brother cannot. I've been able to enjoy the inexorable transition from fall into winter. I lit the wood furnace. Almost instantly, the house warmed with the pleasant and enveloping heat that only wood can produce. Neighbors did the same. The crisp and clean country air, untarnished by the warm-weather farm aromas, carried only the slight twinge of wood smoke. The smell of wood smoke will always remind me of youthful and innocent holidays at my grandmother's house, and only in late fall is it so fresh and pure.
On a particularly brisk November evening, my wife and I stayed indoors with dinner and a movie. I produced a fire in the fireplace, the first of the season. As the kindling smoldered and caught, I glanced up. There were a few cobwebs in the corners of the hearth that I had missed during cleaning. The sudden burst of heat was causing them to dance and flex. The edges were beginning to curl. I watched, transfixed as the fire slowly incinerated the cobwebs.
The room now bathed in a cozy warm glow, we ate our dinner and watched the movie. I wish that I could recommend "Water for Elephants"; Reese Witherspoon may be a shining goddess, but Robert Pattinson needs to work on developing a second facial expression.
Instead, I watched the fire. The flames licked up, bouncing light off the brickwork. Occasionally a log would pop, sending a glittering array of sparks dancing up the flue. The small blaze popped, hissed, and softly roared, in and of itself a greatly understated thing of beauty and power.
After the movie, I stepped outside to see what the weather was doing. The earth glowed an eerie pale luminescent; it was going to be a heavy frost tonight. The air was deadly silent - no insects or frogs to be heard. Not a breath of wind whistled through the naked branches, or rustled the fallen leaves. The slivered moon, the stars screamed infinite and oppressive above my head. There were no clouds, no haze of humidity to impede my view. My breath hung as a heavy vapor as I exhaled - and then disappeared, swallowed up by the icy vacuum.
All at once, the view was invigorating, soothing, beautiful, and humbling. I actually love it, even more since it only comes once a year. My brother, in his own unique way, was right. I look forward to these calm and pure winter nights, just as I relish the pleasantness of a late summer's day.
Shivering, I returned to the inviting warmth of my home. I felt good - everything was stowed and prepped for the cold months ahead. As I crawled into bed, I gleaned comfort knowing that all of the animals outside had a clean, fluffy bedding pack on which to lie down. They would be just as comfortable as I, in the long winter that is just around the corner.
While I won't go as far as my brother to sing the praises of a cold rain, I will say that I am happy that I live in a place where the seasons change. A white Christmas would be nice.
Oh, and by the way, check these pages sometime in February. I'm sure by then I'll be lamenting the cold.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
Me: "Hey man, so how is the weather in San Diego?"
Dave, sounding authoritative and intellectual, as usual, "Well, it's actually been rainy and cool, down in the mid-60s."
We had just experienced our first frost of the season, so I responded, "Huh - that sounds ... awful ... I'm sorry to hear that."
To that, and here's the kicker, Dave pondered, "Actually, when you live in a place like San Diego where it is sunny and nice all the time, you actually begin to crave a change; any kind of change. I'm happy that it's cool and rainy, just because it's different."
That conversation with my brother got me thinking. As winter approaches, we move into yet another season. I like it. I wouldn't want to live someplace that isn't dynamic.
This autumn has been especially kind. On the farm, we had all of the crops harvested, fodder made and put into winter storage, before Thanksgiving, a feat almost unheard of. After Thanksgiving dinner I reclined. It was beautiful out; a spectacular fall day, but with rain in the forecast. There was no rush to go back out. For once it seemed, I could sit back and enjoy the holiday.
There is a unique sense of pride and accomplishment in having the seasonal work completed in such punctuality. Winter will come, in all her glory and fury. When it does, I'll be ready. I have a neat pile of wood in my garage, stacked clear up into the floor joists, with more outside to spare. All of the summer machinery had been cleaned and put away for storage, ready to go next spring. I have enough grain and forage secured, to safely feed my cows until their pastures green up once again. And the bales of bedding - just as vital to the farm as forage, are neatly stacked and under cover. It will freeze, we may get buried in snow, but I'm ready. I even have the snow blade attached to my lawn tractor. What a good feeling this all is.
Over the past couple of weeks, I've been able to do something my brother cannot. I've been able to enjoy the inexorable transition from fall into winter. I lit the wood furnace. Almost instantly, the house warmed with the pleasant and enveloping heat that only wood can produce. Neighbors did the same. The crisp and clean country air, untarnished by the warm-weather farm aromas, carried only the slight twinge of wood smoke. The smell of wood smoke will always remind me of youthful and innocent holidays at my grandmother's house, and only in late fall is it so fresh and pure.
On a particularly brisk November evening, my wife and I stayed indoors with dinner and a movie. I produced a fire in the fireplace, the first of the season. As the kindling smoldered and caught, I glanced up. There were a few cobwebs in the corners of the hearth that I had missed during cleaning. The sudden burst of heat was causing them to dance and flex. The edges were beginning to curl. I watched, transfixed as the fire slowly incinerated the cobwebs.
The room now bathed in a cozy warm glow, we ate our dinner and watched the movie. I wish that I could recommend "Water for Elephants"; Reese Witherspoon may be a shining goddess, but Robert Pattinson needs to work on developing a second facial expression.
Instead, I watched the fire. The flames licked up, bouncing light off the brickwork. Occasionally a log would pop, sending a glittering array of sparks dancing up the flue. The small blaze popped, hissed, and softly roared, in and of itself a greatly understated thing of beauty and power.
After the movie, I stepped outside to see what the weather was doing. The earth glowed an eerie pale luminescent; it was going to be a heavy frost tonight. The air was deadly silent - no insects or frogs to be heard. Not a breath of wind whistled through the naked branches, or rustled the fallen leaves. The slivered moon, the stars screamed infinite and oppressive above my head. There were no clouds, no haze of humidity to impede my view. My breath hung as a heavy vapor as I exhaled - and then disappeared, swallowed up by the icy vacuum.
All at once, the view was invigorating, soothing, beautiful, and humbling. I actually love it, even more since it only comes once a year. My brother, in his own unique way, was right. I look forward to these calm and pure winter nights, just as I relish the pleasantness of a late summer's day.
Shivering, I returned to the inviting warmth of my home. I felt good - everything was stowed and prepped for the cold months ahead. As I crawled into bed, I gleaned comfort knowing that all of the animals outside had a clean, fluffy bedding pack on which to lie down. They would be just as comfortable as I, in the long winter that is just around the corner.
While I won't go as far as my brother to sing the praises of a cold rain, I will say that I am happy that I live in a place where the seasons change. A white Christmas would be nice.
Oh, and by the way, check these pages sometime in February. I'm sure by then I'll be lamenting the cold.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
