Shady Friday
There is nothing suspicious about this tenebrous Friday. Beneath dull grey skies and across flat white fields, novelty has withdrawn entirely. It is not an inviting day—though my native draw to the horse survives whatever the weather. A faint suggestion of blue in the overhead dome encourages a restrained ambition toward spring.
During my subterranean cycle this morning, I learned that our neighbours depart shortly for a month in Mexico, where the temperature today stands at 30°C. I wish them well. For my part, I am gratified by humbler preferment.
After several unsuccessful attempts—and the unusual concession of reading the owner’s manual—I stationed myself squarely before the Driver Information Centre and, with sudden clarity, discovered how to display the tire pressure. A small victory, certainly, but one that had vexed me precisely because I had managed it before in a previous vehicle—likely by accident. Deliberate success is a different matter. It restores proportion.
February, merciful in its brevity, remains winter’s most civil concession. March customarily signals the mental commencement of spring, notwithstanding its talent for snow and wind. The mere contemplation of the season summons cornstalks wavering in warm air and wheat fields shimmering beneath a tolerant sun. And so the annual clock winds forward; days and years alike seem to accelerate toward some indistinct horizon.
From my present vantage, I monitor the dwindling snow on the balcony. It lingers beneath the patio chairs like abbreviated draperies, shrinking daily around the resolute legs of the table and chairs. Soon the sun will finish its work. I anticipate the hour when I shall sit aloft and absorb the warmth.
The longing bears little resemblance to my boyhood ambitions in Washington—gum boots, a nearby creek, salamanders, improvised floodgates. Yet only this morning, as I dressed in freshly laundered jogging pants, undergarment, Oxford shirt and silk, I recalled knee-length shorts once purchased at Dillards. Memory is efficient in its contrasts.
Metaphor, however spirited, does not dissolve arthritic arithmetic. Tylenol assists; so do Glacial Gold Balanced 10:10 softgels. My former physician’s perennial counsel—stretching—remains sound. Still, this species of pain possesses a disagreeable endurance. It resists erasure. I understand why some seek relief in cognac or whiskey or wine; the invitation is particularly persuasive when one stands on the threshold of the eighth decade. Yet the cure may outlast the ailment.
Warm air now descends upon the frozen river and snowbound fields, soon to be accompanied by gusts and rain. The scene shifts from austerity to promise. The painting before me—inscrutable yet undeniable—evolves by degrees.
I recall the forested view from my bedroom window at Glendon Hall, overlooking the lower field. The yachts moored in Calibogue Sound at Lands End on Hilton Head Island. The winding path along Appleton Side Road. Landscapes change; perspective accumulates.
Winter recedes. The light persists.
