Neither here nor there -
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas,
Just like the ones I used to know
Where the tree tops glisten
And children listen
To hear sleigh bells in the snow.
I started thinking of that tune a few days ago. I usually do at some point this time of year. Even if there's not a stain of snow on the ground, it's cold and blowing, so, I figure, why not bring on the snow so we've got the complete package. When I think of that tune, it's always the Bing Crosby version of Irving Berlin's 1942 classic that comes to my ears. Bing's voice is gliding over the surface of the melody like a toboggan swooping gently to and fro on a curving downhill slope.
Standing at the window today, another line comes to my mind.
Be careful what you wish for, you may just get it. Anonymous was having a good day when he or she dreamed up that old chestnut.
It's apt. Though I never mentioned wind, I did wish for snow and my wish is being granted.
A muscular northwesterly is manhandling dense swirls of snow between the cliff face and the corner of the house. The flakes are driving in whiteout pulses, alternating with flashed glimpses of the outside world, revealing gray hillsides of water piling ashore in explosions of spray. The white clouds of salt water droplets are engulfed by the whiter whiteness of snow crystals streaming past, horizontally. The view from the window becomes a blank.
The wind is manhandling the house too. Teacups on the shelf tinkle edge to edge as another gust puts its shoulder to the building. There is stress on every nail driven into every piece of wood, groaning at the task of gripping the house together. The structure squeaks and gasps. It bangs.
At the parlour window, the enormous bulk of galloping air heaps up and leans upon the panes, bowing them alarmingly into the room. I learned in architecture school that glass is not a solid, but actually a slow-moving liquid. I hope it doesn't splash all over the room.
My thoughts go to Wreckhouse, the aptly named area in the Codroy Valley where eighteen wheel tractor trailers are regularly overturned in storms, three in the last five days, by my count. Trains were tipped over there too, back when we had trains. Insurance companies are not keen on including glass in homeowner policies at Wreckhouse. The way things are going, before long there will be no glass insurance anywhere on this island.
Across the cove, from time to time, I can make out, through the nearly impenetrable screen of white, the north wall of my neighbours' house. I can see that several lengths of vinyl have been sucked off the surface and gone spinning into the salt water. They have done that before, been recovered and fastened back in place. This will be the third or fourth time. Vinyl was touted as a low maintenance wall covering when it first came on the market. Those were calmer times. Now every year there are more and more storms that gnaw the plastic skin off houses in this village. Probably a combination of lower quality vinyl and higher velocity wind. The combination makes for a lot more maintenance than the homeowners bargained for. After a storm, wherever men gather to lean on pickups, it's a topic of conversation.
If Mark Twain happened to be one of those men leaning on the truck, his elbow propped on the edge of the pan, sucking on his pipe, he'd likely say: Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.
True on both scores. As world leaders at the Copenhagen climate conference have discovered, doing something about the weather is not easy. Easier to put extra nails in the vinyl siding.
Not to worry though, the wind seems to be letting up a little and the snowflakes are getting sparser.
When December 25 rolls around, let me join Bing Crosby in wishing
"May your days be merry and bright
and may all your Christmases be white."
pickersgill@mac.com
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