Finally, yesterday, after two or three days of failed predictions by the local weather types, a day of beautiful late autumn sunshine showed. Milder than recent calendar entries have been, up into the 40s. Fresh, cool, bright, the kind of day that feels great to be out in.
And this morning? An early-hour peek out the window revealed snow. (Aaiiieeee!!) During the night, the weather took, the mercury dropped down into the 'teens. Cold, with a hard edge, snow coming down, leaving a half-inch of frosting across the countryside. The temperature's crept up into the mid-20s since then, much of the snow has politely dwindled and disappeared, but it's clear we won't be reaching the freezing (or unfreezing) mark today. Which leaves me ensconced here at my dining room table, somber early winter scenery visible in all directions outside, tentative sunlight occasionally poking through clouds for a brilliant moment or two before fading. I got out of bed early this a.m. to fire up the coal stove, the place is now feeling comfortable, cozy even. So I'm not complaining.
I leave for Madrid a week from tomorrow, where I'll be for months, possibly until May or June. Long enough that the prospect of the relocation's been feeling like a major disruption, an upheaval. It's had me a bit stressed these last few weeks, the days streaming by with unnerving velocity. Until today. I'm not sure what happened, but the coming change suddenly feels like something more matter-of-fact, less enormous. In part, I think, because I've taken care of the preparations that have needed to be taken care of and the coming week doesn't feel like a looming blur of desperate activity. And in part because I've done this over and over these last few years, moving back and forth across the broad Atlantic for months at a time. It's not like it's the great unknown any more.
That feels better.
Two nights ago: pulled on decent clothes -- gray dress shirt, black dress pants, black pointy boots -- and drove north to the town of Hardwick for Kay's wake. Or observance. Whatever it's called when there's no body in evidence and everyone just passes the time talking instead of hanging about a heavily made-up corpse, formerly inhabited by the person we all knew.
It's a small, slightly rough-edged town, Hardwick. A pair of two-lanes pass through the village center, joining at a traffic light to run together for a while as a single road, providing the visible nucleus of town life, a stretch of businesses that give way to a handful of empty storefronts as the road curves around to the east and heads off through the Vermont countryside.
The funeral home lay across a small river from the downtown, tucked away on a side street. The night was cold, dark, mostly quiet, though the parked cars lined up along both sides of the side street indicated activity going on somewhere. In the funeral home, it turned out. Stepping inside, I found myself enveloped by the noise of voices in conversation, many, many voices, belonging to a crowd of people all packed together in one or two rooms. The place was jammed. I scribbled my name in the book near the door, turned to scan the scene. A nearby late-50s male addressed me -- weathered face, dark pants, white shirt, dark leather vest -- turning out to be one of Kay's three kids, one I'd never met in person. Ralph. He extended a hand, we shook, he pointed out where Mo was stationed, talking to a married couple from here on the hill. Without a casket as a focal point, Mo and his kids had set up a large framed collection of photos of Kay in its place, backed by flower arrangements, another larger studio photo of Kay, and hanging above all that, a strange, lit-from-within painting of Jesus. Apart from that, apart from the many people in attendance, the room was plain, unadorned, practically featureless.
Mo stood in front of the photo collection with a couple who live up over the hill from my house. I made my way through the crowd, attached myself to their small group, hung there until the couple drifted off to speak with one of Mo's daughters (having not said a word to during in the entire time I stood there). I watched the gathering for a while, recognizing faces I'd seen at Mo and Kay's on different occasions. I checked out the photos of Kay, who turned out to have been a genuine babe in younger years. I spent some time speaking with Mo's two daughters, both quite a bit older than me, both very attractive, very good-natured. We swapped stories about their parents, learned a bit about each other, talking for a good long while, surprisingly easily. I met Mo's sister and her husband, both appearing to be in their late 70s. Many of the people there looked like real country folk, the Vermont version. Hard-working, pick-up-truck-driving folks, marking the passing of a friend/relative. Several people apologized to me for having turned around in my driveway in recent days, due to a full driveway at Mo's, to which I didn't know how to respond besides giving full dispensation.
And after 45 minutes, the crowd thinning, I said good-bye and stepped back out into the cold November night. Pleased to have spent some time at this event, glad to be going home. Thinking about how everything passes, how people, events, days, months and years come and go.
It passes deceptively quickly, this life. And it is deceptively rich and deep, the fleeting moments alive with things to experience. That's how it feels to me anyway, in my better days, my better moments.
Darkness has fallen as I've written this, a bright, nearly-full moon rising above the hills to the east. I hear a lunar eclipse is set to get underway this evening. Right about now, I think. Time to drag on a coat and go take a look.