ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Monday, December 23, 1996 TAG: 9612240118
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: A7 EDITION: METRO
COLUMN: MONTY S. LEITCH
SOURCE: MONTY S. LEITCH
AND SO, again last week, the snow missed us. The forecasters were not wrong, nor were they too gloomy in their predictions. The fault, if fault there was, lay in the lay of the land: the subtle ways in which the slope and arch of our old mountains direct the always flowing, always fickle air. The fault, if fault there was, lay in us: we, who waited so impatiently, so panicked.
By now, we should know. By now we should expect that our expectations, especially where weather's concerned, will be as often unmet as met. Nevertheless, last week when snow was forecast, I spent a day in frantic preparation.
And I was not alone.
Everywhere I went (and that foolishly included the grocery store), I overheard or was asked "Do you think we'll get it?" and "Is it gonna do what they say?" and "What d'ya think, is it coming or not?"
I must admit, I gave considerable attention to those questions. I tried to answer them for myself. I spent time mulling them and worrying them, to the extent that I never stopped to look at the sky for myself; never stopped to feel the actual weight of the air; never stopped to consider the day in which I then lived, the day before the snow.
Weather comes as it comes, no matter what I or anyone else thinks. Weather is wholly inattentive to our predictions. And, weather is what it is, all predictions be damned.
And yet, we will predict. More than that, we'll devote more time to considering the predictions than we will to feeling the actual weather. Several years ago, I watched our March blizzard on TV, even though I could have watched it from the windows of my house. I worried so over how it would turn out, that I missed completely the moment of its turning.
Last week, at my house, we didn't get the snow that was predicted. But we did get a snow. Although I almost missed it. In the morning, I looked out in disgust and thought, "Well, that's not much. That's nothing at all like they said." I turned away, ready to go about my business, in irritation.
But then, a crow swooped through the pines just beyond the window, and the glossy black of his wings flashed against the black-green limbs that bent almost to the ground, draped with snow. And I was stopped. Caught in the moment. And I saw the snow we did get instead of the snow we didn't get. And it was beautiful. A heavy, enveloping snow, the kind that hugs each separate twig and builds mounded decorations on every flat surface, even the tops of fence posts. A lovelier snow than ever could have been predicted.
The night before, just after the snowing started, I had gone out to sweep the walk. Sweep, sweep, sweep. I bent to my task intently, getting ready, getting ready. I soon ran out of wind, however, and had to stop to lean on the broom and rest. There I watched, for a moment, the snow as it came down. It fell in clouds. Lacy clouds of enveloping snow that festooned every branch, even those so narrow you would have thought them less than the width of a snowflake.
But what did I, in all that beauty, see? That even those parts of the walk I'd already swept were turning white again.
And what did I, in the peace of that silence, think? "This is gonna be a big one, better get to work."
Sweep, sweep, sweep. Sweep, sweep, sweep.
I missed the snow, for worrying over the snow.
And I would have missed it altogether, two days running, if not for that crow outside my kitchen window.
This week we reach the end of a season of waiting. Even those for whom Christmas is no holiday must have been caught up in the wild flurry of expectations and preparations attendant on this season. How could they not have been? It's everywhere: the push forward, the getting-ready, the predictions and the plans.
But, stop a minute. Now. Listen. Look.
What comes this week will not be what's expected. Because what comes never is. That's the deepest message of this holiday season. Not "get ready," but "be ready." Look at the snow. At the very snow you get. And look at it while it's snowing.
Monty S. Leitch is a Roanoke Times columnist.
LENGTH: Medium: 79 linesby CNB