Snainstorm

Even in Maine it's hard to stay cheerful and optimistic in the middle of a snainstorm. The forecast was promising: 6 to 12 before it's over, with only a slight possibility of rain along the coast. We snuggled into the day with books and stories and a modicum of work, and the anticipation of a lovely day of snowshoeing in the aftermath. And it started off well. A couple of hours of steady, swirling snow, temperature below freezing, a couple of inches of build-up over the usual foundation of ice.

Rain came mid-afternoon, wonderfully life-giving and all that but not in winter. Temperature rose, build-up melted, slop-shoveling began to prevent bigger ice layer later, dog attacked shovel, snow balls, and suspicious lumps, got flat anvil-head from rain. All (well, two of three) gave in at last to darkness and alcohol at 4:45, gloomy save for the wondrous surf that raced in and pounded the rocks, the day's saving grace. Usually, in our cove, protected from the bad north and west winds, waves come sedately and slowly in, hand-in-hand with the slope of the seabed. Yesterday they were setting speed records in the southeaster, unimpeded by the islands and Ginn Point, bursting on the granite as if impatient for the climax.

I should have had more faith. We woke this morning to the perfect snowfall, 5 or 6 of the light fluffy variety, a pleasure to sport in, man and beast, a pleasure to move from the walkway, a concupiscent blanket on the branches of the firs. And if the layer of experienced ice remains under all this innocence of snow, well, we'll be careful with our illusions.