Man, check out that snow. It's like a shake-em-up after all of the big flakes have fallen and the after-effects of the giant hand have stopped. The air is almost perfectly still, and just the little bits and wisps of tiny, delicate flurries remain. The birds are totally into the feeders right now, especially the suet, and while I sit here, a little downy woodpecker is hanging off the suet grate, sending out gentle chips and chirps, not eating, really, but just hanging there, basking in the comfort that energy and sustenance is right beneath his feet.
It's a still and peaceful morning. Bo has trudged off to his new job (as of about five months ago) as the production manager of a local chocolate company, the children are nestled all snug in their beds (even the eldest, I'm sure, who is making the most of that bohemian bent she gets from her father now that she's a freshman in college), and even the dogs are silent, all six of them, dotted here and there throughout the house, some under covers with children, some snuggled together in a pile of cast-off clothing that's not good enough for the thrift store, and one curled up on the soft blanket behind me. Even my live-in father, who rises early to indulge himself in one of his favorite obsessive activities, vacuuming, is still off in dreamland.
It won't last long, this silence. In less than an hour, Sweetheart and I will be scrambling to get to piano lessons, stuffing ourselves into our winter layers and wrapping scarves around our necks. I might even wear my hat, which is something I love to do but am still not convinced that I can actually pull it off. Some people's heads are made for hats. Some people have just the right distance between their eyebrows and their hairlines. I, however, have eyebrows that get lost under ever hat I wear, and it makes me look like a very serious swimmer who has shaved off all of his body hair to gain speed. This hat, however, looks halfway decent on me. At least I think it does when I first put it on. After a while, I think it just looks silly, which irks me because I really want to be the kind of person who can pull off wearing a hat.
Scarves, however, I can do, because anyone with a neck can do a scarf, and so I proudly don the masterpiece I created in honor of Bo's 36th birthday. It's made of this beautiful natural, earthy brown wool from Australia, which has no meaning whatsoever, other than it's natural and it's earthy and it's brown. But everything else about the scarf has meaning, symbolism. It's 36 stitches wide, to represent the number of years Bo had been on the planet at that time. It's 6'2" long, which is how tall he was when he'd been on the planet for 36 years. It has 13 ribs, which represents how many years we'd been married at that time. And it took me for. eh. ver. to make the thing. Ribbing and I are not good friends. I've tried several ribbed projects and always seem to mess them up somehow. But I was determined with this one, so I kept at it. And now it's done, and it's still beautiful six years later. Problem: Bo doesn't really wear it. Solution: I do. And I love how I can toss one end ever-so-carelessly over my shoulder and the other end still hangs past my belly button. It matches my style, my general color choices (earth tones and blacks) and I am unabashedly proud that I made it. I used to resist wearing it because it belonged to Bo, but now I think it belongs to me. He's just not a scarf-wearer, even though he has a neck and everything. Even though I always knew I'd have a Great Gatsby dresser in my stash of immediate male relatives, I just don't. They don't like khaki pants, or crisp white shirts, or those very cool haircuts that men had in the 20's. For me, a pocket watch chain draped from a pair of tan pleated pants is such a turn-on, just about as much as a simple pair of jeans and a white t-shirt. Classic. Quite sexy. And while I've recently talked Bo into wearing white t-shirts (love it, love it, love it), I don't think the crisp dress shirt, pocket watch and khakis are coming along anytime soon, and it seems I'm out of men, with my sons prefering much more casual attire.
And now I hear the click of the microwave door as my father starts his daily rituals of coffee, the telling of terrible news stories, and reminders of what I must do today. And then the vacumming will begin.
The silence is broken. It's time for me to get going with my day.
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