[continued from previous entry]
Landed in Boston mid-afternoon, sunlight pouring down, air cool, brisk. Did the customs thing, collected baggage. Waited for a bus. Waited and waited and waited. Found myself headed north, finally, as rush hour began to wind down, mercifully snoozing through much of the ride.
Had arranged for a taxi to meet me when the bus spat me out in Montpelier, a service I've used before. One taxi, owned and driven by an interesting, eccentric woman. Weathered face, hair cut short and jagged. With a knack for strange, oblique commentary that is not exactly what I'm looking for at the end of a long 26, 27 hour day. Undoubtedly meaning well, even trying to be friendly in her way, but tough going. She drove slowly this trip -- 40, 45 miles per hour, weaving across the center line quite a bit. I smelled no liquor on her breath, trying to talk to her got no constructive response, so I simply held on and counted the minutes. The late-night, northern Vermont highway was nearly deserted, Herself always looped back into the correct lane the few times a vehicle passed from the other direction. And when we finally pulled into my driveway, I breathed several quiet sighs of relief, handed over money, dragged my bags out into cold night air.
And yes -- cold. Outdoors and indoors. Cold enough that I headed straight to a thermostat, cranked the furnace, went quickly to bed, quickly to sleep, huddled beneath a down comforter. Four or five hours later my eyes snapped open, my bod convinced we were still in Madrid. Resistance, I knew, would be futile -- instead of a vain attempt at further shuteye, I levered myself out of from under covers, got the day underway. A day of disorientation, of things not cooperating. One of several.
That first cold week, a single lonely daffodil poked its head up from an otherwise bare flower bed. Several days later, after the weather turned, a few others cautiously followed suit. Since this journal's last entry, two short days ago, the weather turned again, brisk conditions taking over once more, the cold breeze reasserting itself. Doesn't matter -- five stupendous days of sunshine and user-friendly temperatures jump-started local greenery. That and the memory of sweet summer conditions will carry me through days of truculent Vermont... whatever it is this transition season is up here. Not true springtime, not winter any more. Purgatory. Limbo. Something.
Two days ago the first hummingbird returned, appearing outside my kitchen window, then moving to the kitchen doorway, peering in at me. Wondering where in hell the feeder was. I rummaged around, found feeder, dusted it off. Boiled up a batch of sugar water, dumped some in feeder, hung it outside. Then, all lathered up from the sudden burst of activity, stuck a bunch of plants in the big tub by the kitchen stoop, a bizarrely optimistic act given recent nighttime temperatures. They've survived nights of light frost, with any luck they'll make it to Memorial Day weekend, the official start of the local growing season.
Me in Madrid: happily maintaining the illusion of being a sophisticated, pointy-booted urbanite.
Me in northern Vermont: abject slave to the plant and animal kingdoms.
España, te echo de menos.
rws 8:17 PM [+]
Comments:
"whatever it is this transition season is up here. Not true springtime, not winter any more."
Mud Season. Season of Discontent.
Bien Venido. Home is the traveler, home to the hills.
Welcome home.
Mud Season. Season of Discontent.
Bien Venido. Home is the traveler, home to the hills.
Welcome home.
i see mud season as part of late winter, and it had oozed its way in and been long gone before my return. leaving us with the seasonal limbo that i've experienced far too many times.
pero gracias por el bienvenido -- hay aspectos de estar en las montanas verdes de nuevo que de verdad me dan una sensacion de estar en casa.
pero gracias por el bienvenido -- hay aspectos de estar en las montanas verdes de nuevo que de verdad me dan una sensacion de estar en casa.
Just think, with global warming those cold days and night will be a thing of the past. Daisies and hummingbirds year round.
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