The bedraggled, hunted old ghost of a Pennsylvania winter is making its cameo appearance, trying with all its chilly might to reassert itself as a force in our regular lives. Wintertime, in this era of climate change, is like a man who gets no respect; it hits exceptionally hard despite a lack of confidence--or perhaps precisely because of it.
But it was lovely to be in the silent winter woods yesterday. Nary a bird or a bug to challenge the unbroken quietness. Only the wind dared to stir, that same bitter wind which is in large part the cause of the silence!
And the sun struggled briefly and occasionally through the veil of gray that makes holidays so very necessary at this dark time of year. It felt like furtive, lusty glances from a beautiful stranger, or a few stolen kisses from an old lover.
The lakeside lodge was unoccupied for once. It looked so appealing, so festive in its snowy desolation. I wanted so badly to spend Christmas there with just my little family and some canned turkey and instant stuffing from Dollar General! But no. Alas, we still drive to see all the grandparents on Christmas Day.
For my 50th birthday, in late January, I'm going to do a segment of the Standing Stone Trail with my oldest friend. I don't know what the weather will be. It could be one of these vengeful winter spasms, when the old season of yore tries to reclaim its grip on the world. Or it could be a 21st century winter, which is even worse: days upon days of rain, temps in the 40s, endless gray. I'd really rather have the cold. 50. Now that does begin to feel old. 30 didn't bother me. 40 didn't feel all that much different from 30. But 50?
