19 November, 2022.

Early last month we found ourselves in Idaho – well, just barely. The bed and breakfast was dismal – as in dead flies all over the floor, and tiles falling from the ceiling, exposed wires, and so on. Getting up to our room meant climbing a narrow outdoor stair that was barely attached to a frighteningly unstable wood deck. The deck was huge and swayed noticeably when walked upon, and I was terrified it was going to collapse. But the first morning was cool, and the folding chairs on the deck only mildly uncomfortable. We sipped cups of hot chocolate and enjoyed a magnificent view of a valley we hadn’t even noticed upon arrival the night before.

And crossed our fingers that the deck would make it until we finished our cups of cocoa.

16 November, 2022.

It’s cold outside. The first snow fell on us less than a week ago. It didn’t stick, but it was a reminder that the season of warmth was in its final throes, that days of cold and gray would soon be the norm.

Fewer people are about in the outdoors, and in spite of the briskness, the quiet that ensues is comforting and welcome. Some places feel almost abandoned. Aside from a wisp of smoke curling forth from a chimney, or the sound of a dog barking, one might easily imagine no one has been about for years.

In fact, some places are abandoned. In a sense they are ghosts, remnant memories of days gone by. Places of quiet, repurposed at times, former homes falling in and now used to store hay for the winter months ahead.

The days are shorter already and shadows are often long – either from the low morning sun or from the low setting sun. If the day is overcast, as is often the case, it may be difficult to gauge the time.

In the cold air, sounds seem distant – and yet, at the same time somehow sharper. Crisper. More intimate. When a cardinal chips from her far off perch, it’s oddly almost as though she is sitting on one’s shoulder. The sound of a pickup truck rumbling down a gravel road, or a tractor, or a generator, all seem extremely distant, perhaps heard only through some magical play of acoustic anomaly, sounds bouncing over hills and through barren trees. These are, yet, places of quiet.

13 November, 2022.

One of the best parts of my job is that I get to visit art rooms on a daily basis. It’s especially fun getting into elementary art rooms, where kids are enthusiastic and ready to be exposed to new tools, new artists, and new ways of making.

My art teachers are wonderful. They find ways to make connections, they find ways to engage kids. For some of us, teaching art is a performance where the art room is our stage and we grapple with whatever comes our way out of sheer force of personality. For others, things are much less dramatic and they quietly get kids involved. They circle round, watching as the art teacher shows them ways to bring exciting lines and shapes and colors and textures forth from blank paper or unformed clay, their own breathless excitement barely contained, impatient to do it themselves.

This is the place, like the music room, where children wait all week to be, a single hour of freedom from the classroom, a place where they get to be kids and creators and inventors and makers.

6 November, 2022.

Yesterday dawned wet and blustery and cold. The forecast the night before led us all to believe the rain would end in the early morning hours, perhaps as late as sunrise, but certainly in time for the annual Tweed Ride at eleven. Instead, the rain increased and the temperatures dropped and, of all things, it began to snow: big, wet, heavy snowflakes. The ride was cancelled, as was the Urban Sketchers sketch out.

Later in the afternoon, the sun emerged but the wind was still cold. Neighborhood walkers bundled up in wool caps and scarves and heavy coats and even insulated coveralls. Except for the giant Sycamore trees behind my house with their giant dry leaves, most of the other trees went from colorful to empty inside a week. My yard is deep with those Sycamore leaves, and I’m leaving them this year, no rake for me this year.

As the shadows grew longer and the afternoon turned quickly to dusk, I meandered down the street and down the hill to a Chinese restaurant. It was still early, and there were few diners. Those who were there seemed absorbed in their own thoughts, waiting patiently for their orders of Moo Shi Pork or pot stickers or lo mein.

A quick meal, and then out the door. It’s dark now, and cooler still. The wind is still blowing, and leaves swirl, dancing on the breeze. The weather has turned.