Can this be Spring ?

There was a mild, theoretical discussion wandering through our family in recent weeks regarding whether the Winter Aconite or the Snowdrops come up first each year. I clearly remember my grandmother Irene saying that the Winter Aconite are the first plant at near-end of winter, but others are members of the Snowdrop Party. (Both the Aconite and Snowdrops in our garden come from plants taken from Irene's garden.)
It's too late to answer the question this year. Despite the nasty weather we have been having -- rain shouldn't be this cold, and snow shouldn't be this warm -- I came out of the house Thursday to go to work, and saw first the Snowdrops and then the Aconite all in bloom. You can see that both were closed up tight, huddled against the dark clouds and near-freezing rain. Still, they were both in bloom. Some part of nature thinks Spring is just about here!

I was struck by the power of momentum that carries life forward (or around, depending whether you are thinking of the linear or circular nature of things). Despite our unpleasant dank weather, the plants are ready to declare the arrival of the next season. Unless something is terribly wrong, we get up each morning in a similar way, despite the dark weather that sometimes invades our lives. We are in the habit of continuing to live, of moving forward, despite adversity.

It's something I was first struck by when my grandfather Larry was dying. He had cancer, at a time before hospice was available. While he could still speak, he said that it was time for him to die, that he would not eat any more, that he was finished. He was a man of great determination. But he didn't die then, not for a few weeks. Even when it seemed he was done, when he was barely breathing, he still lived a couple more days. I have seen the pattern repeated with my mother and others. There is a remarkable drive for life in us, as in all of nature.

I would rather see the snowdrops and winter aconite on a warm day, lifting their flowers to the sun. But I am happy to see them under any circumstances. On my tired days, when I drag my self out of bed, I bet I don't look as good as they do in the cold rain!

Diablo River - Quebec

We spent the past week at Mont Tremblant, west of Montreal in Quebec. Most mornings were devoted to the bustle, noise and thrill of downhill skiing. Many afternoons we walked or cross-country skied in the nearby woods.

I loved skiing beside, and then across the Diablo River. There were huge plates of ice piled along the sides of the river, remnants of an earlier deep freeze that had filled the river with thick ice. A subsequent thaw and rain had swollen the river, thrusting the thick ice aside. Now, new ice was forming on the river, but because the cold was less severe and the force of the water substantial, pieces were breaking off and floating downstream, wearing layers of white from recent snowfalls.

The downhill skiing was lots of fun. But re-entering our busy lives, I find myself holding on to the quiet moments from vacation.

Snowy Woods

We had a nice snowfall on Wednesday in Guilford -- about 7 or 8 inches by the time it was done. I know, if you live in the mid-Atlantic area this doesn't seem like much. My brother David (Wilmington, Delaware) sent my niece Hannah out to shovel the deep snow, and I believe he had to grab a shovel himself to dig her out! (Just kidding...). Amy, Sarah and I took a nice walk (seen above) while the snow was falling, and Amy and I went for morning skis in the woods before work Thursday and Friday. Who could ask for more?

I love taking pictures of snow (you may recall my Winter post). The subtle shades of white, the patterns and contrasts of white and dark really interest me. But what I really like about this week's picture is how the images of Sarah and Amy leap out, each in their own color.

I'm glad the groundhog promises more winter -- I'm ready for more snow!

The Spelling Bee

OK, I didn't take this picture. But my camera did (with Brad's help).

Friday night we were in the Guilford Spelling Bee ("we" being our neighbor Maria, Amy, and me).

It was quite fun. The high school auditorium was packed. All spelling teams were encouraged to wear costumes. We were channeling our inner dog (our group name was "3 Dog Night").

There were about 50 teams; we were in the third heat. We spent the first two heats practicing our teamwork -- we would hear the word being announced and scramble to put our various ideas together and come to consensus within the 30 seconds allowed.

In the first heat, practicing, we got audition, nougat, excoriate, and wherry right. We got rescission wrong, forgetting the relationship to rescind and leaving out the s.

In the second heat, we corrected each other enough to get humorous, satellite, treacherous, chauvinism, Machiavellian, rottweiler, recidivist, propitious, ratatouille, and gallimaufry right (!!). We got echidna and lacustrine wrong, but so did everyone else in that round. We could have done pretty well in the second heat.

Then came our heat. We were introduced, and barked (the emcee was rather snarky about that). We got temporary right, and barked. Maintenance, barked.

Then the emcee announced a word that means a kind of Caribbean dance, that sounded like "goombay." We had complete consensus -- none of us had a clue. We wrote down six spellings and picked one that looked a little French - "goumbe." It was wrong. The correct spelling (3 teams got it right) was... goombay.

So, we lost in our heat, and didn't make the finals. But we had a lot of fun, helped raise money for the Guilford Fund For Education, and we collaborated together very nicely. Isn't that a kind of victory?

By the way, our friend Linda Waldman was a player in one of the last two teams left in the competition. They lost on quiddity. (The dictionary's first definition is basically "The this-ness (quid-ness) of a thing -- its essence." The second definition, more delightfully, is "a trifling nicety of subtle distinction.") As Linda later said, "What kind of crazy word is that ???"