Imbolc Incident

It is the last week of January—which to my mind can be the epitome of the doldrums of winter. Well, maybe not the worst of it. The worst is more like late February, when I become very disheartened, because winter seems to be interminably stuck and refuses to yield to spring. 

What we experience in late January or early February is the cross-quarter day called Imbolc. It is a Celtic day of observation that falls halfway between winter solstice and spring equinox. The solstices and equinoxes occur at precise astronomical dates, which designate when the Earth is at a specific location in its orbit around the sun. Their timing is known; even to the exact minute. The cross-quarter days, however, are imprecise, because their timing depends on local weather; thus Imbolc, for example, falls on about February 1, or maybe a few days on either side.

Imbolc's significance is that it signals the very first signs of the quickening of life in the spring. While we may look around and see no discernible change at this time of year, plants and animals at Imbolc time sense the change coming on and begin to stir. Deep underground, seeds begin to swell, getting ready to pop open. Cows begin to lactate again (Imbolc means “with milk”). While we humans can watch the calendar and note that cross quarter time is here, animals and plants sense it. 

I heard a great example this morning that showed me that Imbolc had arrived—even though the weather lately has been extremely cold and snow coats the ground. I was having no thoughts of spring—only my lamentations over the frigid conditions. Stepping outside, I heard the call of a titmouse. I immediately stopped and listened. Was I really hearing a titmouse call in late January? These birds call in spring, during mating season, and occasionally during the summer—but never in fall or winter. They might chatter scoldingly on frigid days, but they do not sing.

That's what halted me so abruptly. I had not heard a titmouse call for five months or more. Was I imagining it? No, the call came again. It was way off in the woods. An hour or so later I heard the call yet again—this time from another direction, again off in the woods. That told me that the first call did not come from an addled bird, who was maybe suffering from hypothermia. This was another titmouse. I later heard a third... then a fourth.

Why this untimely singing, on such a frigid morning? The sole explanation I could come up with was they were responding to Imbolc. Something was stirring deep in the breast of these birds—a primeval urge that the earliest hints of spring were causing. I wondered if underground seeds might also be showing the slightest hint of swelling—getting ready for the new year. I would remain ignorant about that, however, since the ground is coated with a thick, ice-covered coat of snow. Icy winter is in no hurry to depart, but that first sign of spring is here!

A Harsh Winter

This has been a winter that, even before it’s over, can safely be described as unusually tough and relentless… even harsh. I think we’ve been softened up around here, the last several years, by a series of sweet and gentle cold seasons. But winter’s harshness is relative and I must also admit to an aging factor being involved: winters get longer as I get older. Years ago I scoffed at the snowbirds who fled to Florida or Arizona for the cold months. Lately their trips are making more sense. I’m not ready to travel south (yet), but it sure makes me thankful that I don’t live much farther north.

Winter blahs are usually mitigated around here by splendid gifts of a few isolated warm days scattered across January and February. The sun will shine and the thermometer will climb into the 60s or 70s. (Back in ’94 it hit 84 degrees!) You run outside and celebrate such a day—successfully warding off a bad case of cabin fever for another few weeks. Those glorious days are reminders of what’s coming in March and April. They rekindle one’s hope. They’re messengers that spring really will return… just be patient.

But this winter has offered no such respite. Patience withers. The nights have not been colder than normal, but the days have simply refused to warm up much. On blustery days it makes it so easy to stay inside by the woodstove—sipping tea or wine—rather than face winter’s nastiness.

But the culprit that’s tipped this winter’s balance into genuine harshness is snow—an abundance of the wretched white stuff. (It’s interesting that a modest amount of snow is pristine and beautiful, while a glut of it can become ugly.) We were blasted recently by 40 inches of it. We’ve been due for a big dump and here it is! About every six or seven years we get a snowy winter; the last one was in 02/03. A typical season brings us a total of about two feet in the Valley, with mild winters dropping a foot or less; the greatest accumulation here to date was five feet, in 95/96. This year’s calendar has yet to finish February and we’re already headed towards seven feet!

Once upon a time we had ongoing obligations in town, which made us struggle to surmount the deep (and ugly) snows. An old Willys Jeep with a blade pushed the drifts off our quarter-mile long drive—that is, when I could get it to start. Now the Jeep is slowly sinking into the soil; headed towards becoming the focus of an archeological dig in another few centuries. It refused to start a few years ago—during that spate of mild winters, when it wasn’t needed, and I wasn’t highly motivated to fix it. Now, like an old broken-down horse, it is irretrievably out to pasture.

Luckily, our town obligations are now pretty much behind us. Our food supply is bountiful. We’ve got a good backlog of wine and tea and we believe that we can wait out these storms. Sooner or later it will melt… won’t it? Please?

Winter Storms In

It’s more than a week into December and we’re finally getting our first taste of winter. It’s been an unusually warm fall—November set a 25-year record for the highest overnight temperatures. Although the days were typical for a November, it just did not get cold at night.

As a result, winter’s arrival was delayed this year. We found ourselves being bugged by insects that otherwise would have succumbed much earlier to the cold. Things being a little warmer, those bugs could hang on a little longer—crickets still singing and yellow jacket wasps still buzzing us on Thanksgiving, though they moved a lot slower than they did in July.

An “Indian fall” (sort of a hungover Indian summer) like this can also confuse plants. Early-spring blossoming shrubs and trees poke out a few tenuous buds—testing whether winter just might have already rushed by. I wince when I see these vulnerable shoots—knowing that they will soon be zapped by a cold snap.

And now it’s upon us. Winter blew in with chilling force, a few nights ago. Snow fell one evening and the thermometer followed suit a few hours later. We woke up to find that fall’s browns and grays had become masked with brilliant white. Honest winter is here. The remaining bugs and impulsive buds have expired. The long sleep begins, as eggs in the ground and more cautious buds hold their spring promise in abeyance.

Now is the time to get serious with the woodstove. No more small sticks of wood flashing briefly, and then going out. It’s time for serious logs and a perpetual fire. It’s one of my creature comforts to stand next to the woodstove and watch the birds’ antics out at the feeder. They fluff up to ward off the chill. No need to tell them that winter has stormed in.