By any objective measurements, this past winter was a rough one. While COVID hospitalizations and deaths rose and variants threatened, while insurrectionists desecrated the Capitol, while a number of regions experienced punishing weather events, while the gap between the prudent and the reckless grew and it became apparent that a sizeable portion of the population subscribed to views that seemed rooted in the 15th century or maybe outer space–while all that was happening, I watched the gargantuan pile of snow next to my house for signs of spring.
Space is at a premium in my development, and that includes space to pile the snowfall that is cleared from the driveways and courtyards. The small area between my semi-detached townhouse yearly plays host to an abominably large mound I’ve dubbed Gray Mountain. As that side of the house is shaded, the melt is slow.
Gray Mountain represents everything I hate about winter. It’s rock hard, dirty, immovable, and it seems to last forever. Every year I promise myself I’ll trust its demise to time and the elements, and every year I take out my twenty-year-old ice chopper and hack away at it.
This winter, scarcely a year after my sister’s unexpected death and after a quarantine that left me feeling disconnected from the world, I began to attack it with particular ferocity the minute the temperature went above freezing. I would go for a walk so I could compare my heap of frozen ice to others in the neighborhood. Then I’d head back home and, risking injury to shoulders, neck, and lower back, I would chip away at it until my body called it quits.
This morning I finished off the last chunk of ice and walked around the exposed sides of my home. Heavy snows always cause some destruction and this year is no exception. A branch of the Japanese maple I planted ten years ago has been nearly severed, although I might be able to salvage it. Other plants and bushes are mangled and broken as well. Some will come back, some won’t.
The winter did a number on me as well. I’m still assessing the psychic and physical damage and looking for ways to make some repairs. Three weeks out from my second vaccine, I am taking the first tentative steps out in public. We’ll see how that goes.
Meanwhile, Gray Mountain is no more, and spring is here.