A cold, rainy day, a knife-sharp wind from the north keeping the temperature in the thirties all day, and then toward sunset as the temperature dropped came sleet mixed with flakes of snow which quickly covered the ground. Now as I look out the back door the porch light shows whirling snow and the porch covered with about an inch and mini drifts around the glider, broom and my galoshes. In the snow are the tracks of our outdoor cat -- he's not really ours, he just showed up one day -- and the tracks of a possum, probably Matilda, as I call her, who lives under the garden shed. Funny, I've named that possum but not the cat. Well, when the cat wants me to know his name, he'll let me know.
In the afternoon, I went out again, thinking to take a walk, but the wind had picked up considerably and was colder. There were puddles edged with ice all along the path and the tree branches hung low, heavy with the wet. Some of the water drops on the needles had frozen. Still, I stuck it out for about an hour, keeping close to the trees and avoiding open field and meadow.
When I got back home, I made a cup of strong coffee, adding some Irish Cream, and started a fire in the fireplace. I sat by the window sipping the coffee, looking out at the weather, listening to the hissing rumble of the fire and the silence of the house. Everyone was away for the weekend or out somewhere, so there was just me. Without realizing it, I dozed off and when I awoke it was dark outside. The fire had burned down so I added more logs, going out on the porch to fetch them from the wood box, not bothering to put on a coat. I could see my breath and the footing was slippery with the wet snow. But the logs were well-seasoned, light and dry. They would burn brightly, without snapping and crackling.
After a while, thinking about things that I really should not have, I grew gloomy, so I thought I'd listen to some music. I could have picked some of my favorite classical; in fact, I almost selected Borodin's String Quartet No.2, a perennial favorite, especially the third movement. Who cannot get lost in such beauty? But I felt too...too...ya know? Sometimes you can't handle something so exquisite. Then I thought about going over to the piano and playing something, maybe a bit of Ray Noble -- no, no, he's good at what he did, and easy to play. So I sat down at the keyboard and began to finger By the Fireside, softly singing, "In the gloaming by the fireside with you, I'll be content...," but I was not in the mood and my hands were cold. When I crossed my arms and held them in my armpits they felt like ice. So finally I began listening to some old love songs. I'm a sucker for that stuff. Always have been. So I made an Irish coffee, settled into my chair by the fire and, looking out at the falling snow, drifted into a melancholy reverie, kind of wistfully happy but also kind of pensively sad. It can be that way sometimes.
