Paying attention to winter
Portland is more chill than ever, thanks to snow and ice
Winter patterns
Sometimes I think the key to a fulfilling life lies in paying attention. I say sometimes, because other times I think the key is letting go (of tension, toxic beliefs, toxic anything) or sitting quietly and breathing in Spirit. Or eating kohlrabi. Whatever.
But paying attention, being attuned to what’s going on around you, not just within you, is one way to make your day meaningful.
When I step outside, I’m asking the Universe to bring me signs and portents, reminders that I matter. The Universe obliges by bringing me little gifts, like leaves or pinecones or curious cloud formations. And, often, the gift is the natural world set up in such a way that I can take meaningful photographs.
The blizzard in Portland kept me inside, like most of the city’s residents, for a number of days. Finally, I ventured out, just to see what was there. I had to stick to the cleared walkway, but there was plenty to take in.
It was the pause between one ice storm and the predicted next one. The wind, which had been still for a day, was once again ravaging the trees. They swayed in an endless dance as rain washed down and down.
Here are some of the patterns of ice, snow and slush:
Far from picturesque
The storm, with snow, freezing rain, black ice and temperatures in the teens, was tough on everyone. Trees fell on houses. Power was out for days. The homeless suffered mightily. As I write this, the snow has been on the ground for more than a week, and black ice is everywhere. We’re still waiting for warmer temperatures and rain to wash it all away.
Massive efforts are underway to remove trees downed by terrific, terrifying winds. Many landed on houses and cars. PGE is still repairing downed power lines.
Stories reported at OregonLive.com: A woman died of hypothermia in an independent living facility after opening a window and turning the thermostat down. After three people were electrocuted by a live wire, a passing teen braved the downed wire to snatch a 9-month-old infant from the scene. The child survived.
January drifting
Snow piles against fenceposts. Clouds push into trees. My thoughts move mountains. Behind my eyes. Are drifts pushed or pulled, As they shift to stasis? Once snow, water, mind were moving, But now they are stuck. Stuck till the snow thaws, Stuck till the dam breaks, Till I pick out the shards Of my scattered dreams.
Misfit
I started a book last week, which I won’t finish. It’s poorly written, discursive and generally annoying. I’m not even going to list the title.
I did read the first few pages, and there was an anecdote that stopped me. It was about getting ready for the first day of kindergarten.
“Your most profound wish, the overwhelming goal that pressed down heavy on you like a weighted blanket, could be summarized with a simple question: Will I Fit In?”
What?
Whatever I thought about going to kindergarten—trying to remember 70 years on—fitting in with the rest of the kids wasn’t part of it.
I know this because I’ve never tried to “fit in.” It has never occurred to me to try.
I didn’t—don’t—want to be like anyone else. Why would I?
Maybe if I had grown up 50 years later, in an age of social media and influencers. . . . No. I still wouldn’t care. I just don’t have the gene to give a flying flapjack about what other people think.
Validate me
Well, that’s not quite true. I do want people to think of me as kind and intelligent, reliable and even funny. But I’ve never gone far out of my way to try to make people like me.
It’s probably because I don’t know how.
All I know how to do is be the best Fran by my own yardstick. I have an idea of who I am, and I try to stick with that. Trying to be someone else, do what other people do, has no appeal whatsoever.
Makeup
For one example, I never much saw the purpose of makeup. In my experience, most women don’t do it very well. I surely didn’t.
I went through a makeup phase in my 30s. Freed of a marriage, I decided on a Franny self-improvement regime. I went to a gym to try to shed the five post-pregnancy pounds (it never helped). I went back a few times to the MSW who had been my marriage counselor (a great help). I got my hair cut. I even took voice lessons (they helped, too).
But makeup, bah. For one thing, I hate the taste of lipstick. I never got used to it, so I don’t ever wear it.
There are women here at Rose Schnitzer Manor in their 90s, one of them 101, who still paint their lips every day, after every meal. For them, it’s a ritual, a habit. Just not one I was able, or wanted, to acquire.
I do remember a reference to a woman in New York City feeling naked unless she had “put on her face.”
And a phrase I came upon in a woman’s magazine, probably in a waiting room: “As inexcusable as a shiny nose.”
What could that mean, shiny nose? Like Rudolph?
I had heard the phrase “I’ll just go powder my nose.” Maybe that had something to do with it.
If my nose is shiny, I guess I’m just inexcusable.
By my 50s, I had given up on makeup entirely, except for a speciaI occasion like a daughter’s wedding. I am blessed with regular features and clear skin. That’s all I need.
Dress like myself
Aside from work shirts and Levi’s in the 1960s, I’ve never worn the current uniform. I did go through a “dress for success” phase in the 1970s, and it was a good thing then to get used to more formal office wear. I still have a vest in my wardrobe with a label from Women’s Tailored Wear at Nordstrom. I bought it used.
But mostly, I’ve always worn clothing that is comfortable, loose-fitting and easy to care for.
I’ve mentioned before that almost my entire wardrobe comes from thrift stores. It isn’t the cost that draws me; when you’re disabled, it’s so much easier to shop in one room with lots of choices.
Those choices often include nicer fabrics like linen and silk. Many people would rather buy acrylic than wool because it’s easier to care for. Permanent-press polyester doesn’t need ironing, while cotton might. That leaves the luxury items for shoppers like me.
So, I’m happy with the way I look, the way I dress.
Do I fit in? Well, I’m comfortable in most situations. Age has erased the awkwardness and diffidence of youth.
I hope you are looking forward to being old. It has a lot going for it.
A look I like
Last week, I saw a man walking away from me. He had on chinos, a plaid shirt in shades of brown and rust, and a fedora—a soft-brimmed hat. I thought he would be someone I’d like to meet. I never saw his face.
Maybe he was a lumberjack, or a rancher. Or an architect. Or a high school science teacher. I’ll never know. I just enjoyed the view.
How do you keep your hands warm?
Mittens are warmer than gloves, but not handy for holding things. I like my fingerless gloves, because I can write and poke at my phone without taking them off. But they sometimes aren’t warm enough.
You can also buy, or make, items that you hold in your hands to warm them. There’s a pattern in a favorite book, Everyday Handmade, by Cassie Barden, for felt hand warmers stuffed with rice that you can heat in the microwave. The drawback is that you need a microwave, and the heat dissipates quickly.
Popular now are the disposable hand warmers, like HotHands, that you shake or crumble to release the heat. The drawback: they are disposable, creating trash.
Permanent models
Reusable hand warmers come in two varieties, refillable and rechargeable The refillable ones are a relic of my youth.
These old-style hand warmers use lighter fluid (brands include Zippo and Ronsonal). You fill them carefully and use a lighter or a match to start them burning. They sit in your pocket or your hand for hours, glowing and warm.
Rechargeable hand warmers are more expensive but convenient, and you can adjust the heat.
I’m tending toward the refillable, mostly for nostalgic reasons. Do I want a Zippo or a Bic? They carry them at Walgreens.
Smell memory
Someone in exercise class smelled of menthol. It may have been a cough drop, it may have been Bengay, but the scent took me right back to elementary school. It was the smell of thick white library paste. Some kids used to eat it.
The scent of lighter fluid is another memory from far back. Are you old enough to remember it? Besides hand warmers, it was used in refillable cigarette lighters. That was before Bic revolutionized lighters with its disposable model.
My mother had an antique lighter she bought in England when she was an Army nurse in WWII. I don’t know what became of it.
What we remember
It is commonly thought that smell has more of a link to memory than the other senses.
When I think of hand warmers, it’s the scent of the lighter fluid I remember, but also the texture of the red woolen pouch that covered it. I don’t remember whose hand warmer that was, probably my brother’s or my mom’s. I know it wasn’t mine.
Arpège
I bought a little perfume bottle in Germany because I liked the look of it. Later, I opened it and was transported by the lingering scent inside. It was Arpège, by Lanvin, a perfume that dates to 1927 and is still made. It seemed like it was everywhere when I was young. Maybe my mother wore it.
Fragrantica.com notes that the scent was reformulated in 1993.
“The fragrance is composed of such notes as aldehydes, peach, bergamot, orange blossom, honeysuckle, iris, rose, jasmine, ylang-ylang, coriander, mimosa, tuberose, geranium, sandalwood, vetiver, patchouli, vanilla and musk.”
The name Arpège comes from “arpeggio,” and indeed, the scents follow one to the next like musical notes.
Bygone smells
Some scents are vanishing, in that we encounter them less and less frequently.
Woodsmoke, for example. Or burning leaves. Backyard burning and bonfires aren’t allowed anymore, and wood-burning fireplaces and wood stoves are on the way out.
Also, wet wool. I remember what we called the ice house, the building at the edge of the ice rink on Penn Lake in Bloomington, Minn. The warming stove inside was probably propane, and in the ’50s and ’60s, most outerwear was wool. If you have ever smelled wet wool, you will remember it.
Today, we dress for the cold in fleece and down. These are warm and cozy and more waterproof than wool. And they doesn’t smell like drowned ewe when wet.
Other smell memories
How many kids today have a chance to smell turned-over earth? Only if the parents are gardeners. Or wet river mud, which I remember from family fishing outings to the Minnesota River near Shakopee. That mud was dark and thick and redolent of dead fish and rotting vegetation.
My brothers had a Lionel electric train that was run by a transformer. Only later did I understand that the strange odor it gave off was ozone.
And finally, waffles. A waffle from a toaster is convenient, but it won’t smell very interesting. I have an old waffle-maker from the ’40s with a braided electrical cord that still makes superb waffles.
Sunset Magazine gave me a certificate and $25 for a recipe I developed for waffles with yogurt.
Yogurt Waffles
Makes about 4 regular-size waffles
Having the eggs and yogurt at room temperature will keep the melted butter from congealing when you add it (although the waffles turn out fine either way). You could replace the melted butter with oil, but the waffles will be more ordinary-tasting if you do.
3 eggs 1-1/2 cups plain (not vanilla) yogurt (use 1-3/4 cup if you like a softer, less crisp, waffle) 1/4 butter, melted 1 cup flour 1-1/2 teaspoons baking powder Dash salt 2 teaspoons sugar 1 teaspoon baking soda
Assemble ingredients, then plug in the waffle iron and let it heat while you mix.
In a medium to large bowl, beat the eggs. Add the yogurt and butter and beat to blend. Sift (or stir together) the flour, baking powder, salt, sugar and soda. Add to the egg-yogurt mixture and mix in thoroughly.
If you have an old-fashioned waffle iron, as I do, without a nonstick finish, baste lightly with oil (use one of those new silicone brushes that don’t melt in high heat). Dump a good 1/2 cup or more of batter in the middle of the iron, close, and cook until most of the steam has dissipated.
Serve with butter and maple syrup or strawberry jam.
Leaf casting
Out and about, Casting about, Looking for dead leaves. Too late, the snow Has covered them all. Now on my walking I see animal tracks— Sliding dogs, hopping birds, Trudge marks from humans. All those snow words: Blanket, soft, purity, None of them matter When the wind slices cold. Needles of ice Lining the eaves, Needles of indecision Blocking my brain. I hoped for a white landscape, So pretty and pure. Now I long for the thaw That will set my words free.
Protest works
After first saying they weren’t going to kick Nazis off their platform, the founders of Substack reversed themselves last week. They had initially said that free speech was protected as long as it did not incite violence.
Many protests later, and after the exodus of some high-profile writers, Substack threw in the towel. Now some Substacks promoting Nazi ideas are considered to promote violence.
CNN reports that Substack has removed “several publications.”
In a “mouse that roared” moment, the report adds: “None of the nixed newsletters [has] paid subscribers and, in total, [they] account for about 100 active readers, according to the company.”
Some users who protested the Nazi postings bring in big bucks for Substack, which gets 10 percent of all subscription income.
So now, the Nazis are gone. You’ll have to get your soup somewhere else.
Check out
A final winter poem
A reader asked about a reference to a winter dragon in a previous poem. That image had just sprung from my pen/cursor, and I don’t know whence. I tried to fill out the dragon’s form in this poem.
Wondering while wandering
I used to wonder As I wandered Then a song Overtook me. Now the melody Along my bones Never will leave me. It’s not mine to share. All of my impulse, A red thread in winter, My hand in a mitten, A pool of warm air. The green dragon unwinds, In white form for winter. Banked snow and banked fire, His lair hidden and cold. Look there behind you, That’s where he follows. Why can’t his fire Breathe us to spring? What use are dragons In hibernation? They lie still, like stones, Blocking our path.
Quick reminders
Hit the “like” button above, if you like what you just read.
Leave a comment, ditto.
Write every day if you can. This is for your good.
Have a joyous week.
Don’t slip on the ice.
—30—
makes me want to rush out and buy a real waffle iron, they've never been a "thing" in Ireland so most people are only exposed to the frozen toasting typ
I like your winter photos. I had been telling myself that I like four seasons, I think the truth is I like three of them.
Hate makeup, love chapstick. Fan of gloves.