Took a break cleaning up on the 30th to make a seasonal snowman.
The northeast got tricks rather than treats! The unseasonal nor’easter brought some unpleasantness. Since the leaves were still on the trees when the snow hit there was a lot of tree damage and power loss.
So public service message: if you lose power, don’t grill in the house or run a generator in the house or an attached garage. Seems obvious, but there have been some carbon monoxide issues around here with people doing just that. And obvious becomes less obvious when you’re cold!
We’re back up after a bit over a week without power. Made me glad I had extra quilts around! Apparently despite global warming the need for quilters is not yet extinct. (Not sure if this will inspire me to finish any more of my UFOs anytime soon…) Unfortunately no one can figure out how to take care of some of our tree damage so they threaded the wires through the broken branches. Uhm, yeah. So prepping and waiting to lose power again.
My one project by candlelight this week.
I was going nuts from the lack of crafting almost as much as the always being cold part, so celebrated by making a tried and toasty treasury. (And will with a hot bath as soon as there’s enough water to do so. Until then, lots of laundry to catch up on.) Oh, and a delayed due to inclement weather collection for November’s lovely warm birthstones.
Wallace Stevens is the closest thing we have to a local poet around here. He wasn’t born in the area, but he lived in Connecticut for most of his productive adult life. He was an American Modernist poet who won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1955, shortly before his death.
I’m honestly not generally a huge fan of his work overall. I like the wording but I’m not big on abstract poetry. However, I always liked one of the poems that we’d read in class. In honor of the snow we finally got (though we did come by the poor driving conditions I didn’t want) and in hopes that the next batch just as pretty but rather kinder:
The Snow Man
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
— from Harmonium , 1923