a good walk postponed

I knew it was coming.

For the past two days in Bend, we have had intermittent rain. The type of rain that acts as a shield for weather less pleasant. Solid bits were hidden amongst the drops -- like infiltrating terrorists.

Yesterday, when I made my first sharp left turn on my morning walk, I was nearly toppled. The sidewalk in front of Mom's house had iced over. I was tempted to forego the walk. Instead, I proceeded with caution. Fifteen miles at a much-reduced pace.

I remember when I was in grade school. Some innate instinct would make me pull up the shade when I got out of bed. And there it would be -- a pass to a no-school day.

I had that same feeling in bed this morning. And I was right.

There is nowhere in the world, with the exception of such places as Barra de Navidad, where a dusting of snow like we have in Bend this morning would be remarkable. I can already hear the rolling of eyes from my Canadian acquaintances who do not consider anything to be snow until you can no longer sees the antlers on the local moose.

Even I have trouble labeling what is outside this morning as "snow." It looks more like something you would find on a cheap mass-market doughnut.

But it is slick enough that it has moved my morning walking session to later in the day. That is, if it melts off. Too often, the light stuff is just the overture to a three-act opera of sturm und drang. Wagner meets the Winter Queen.

When I was in the sixth grade, our teacher, Mrs. Dix, used a poem as a disciplinary tool. Offending students were required to memorize a stanza of her favorite poem (John Greenleaf Whittier's "Snow-Bound: A winter Idyl") and then recite it to the class. It was a terrible teaching tool. Most of my class-mates soon equated poetry with punishment.

I went in the opposite direction. You will undoubtedly be shocked (in the same sense as Captain Renault) when I tell you I was something of a ham in the sixth grade. (Of course, my haminess preceded the sixth grade and remains unabated.)

To bend authority to my own ends, I would intentionally break some classroom rule to have the opportunity to perform for my classmates. I do not recall if I broke a series of rule or if I volunteered to recite most of the poem, but the result was the same. I soon became the spokesman for Whittier's vision of nostalgic sentimentality.

Because I was going nowhere on foot this morning, I sat down and re-read the poem. I suspect the last time I did that was in 1960 when Kennedy and Nixon were jousting for the presidency.

Time has not been kind to Whittier schmaltzy romanticism. But it is still a good read. And even though our snow hardly meets Whittier's description ("And, when the second morning shone,/ We looked upon a world unknown,/ On nothing we could call our own."), there is something alluring about actually experiencing what a poet is describing. Sorta.

This morning, I will catch up on the latest edition of The Economist while drinking two or three pots of buttermint tea as I wait for the sun to open a walking path.

It is a good day to enjoy the time God has given us. 

The traveller owns the grateful sense Of sweetness near, he knows not whence, And, pausing, takes with forehead bare The benediction of the air.