December 8

Ahead of the storm, a light snow fell overnight laying just a dusting of white on the ground and in the evergreen boughs.

Across the road, the sere brown of September’s pepper plants contrast well against he field of white. Within hang shriveled fruits that were passed over when the harvest took place, remaining on the plant until the deep snows cover them until spring.

The color throughout is quite pretty, varied shades of red, yellow and orange, hundreds of them within the rows making a patchwork of white and brown with splashes of color that look like ornaments on miniature bare trees. Each pepper is but a diminished version of its autumn form, resembling a lantern mantle, dangling and infused with its own color, defiantly resisting the encroachment of white which will all too soon dominate the landscape.

December 7

During the last December ice storm, the majority of town went without power for a week, and the roads were nearly impassable for several days because of downed trees and limbs by the hundreds. The morning after, the building gray light revealed Grove Street as an almost unrecognizable stretch, everything covered in ice shards that glistened, save for the debris that continued to fall from the trees.

We were without power for eight days, living in our fireplace room to be near the wood stove, using candle light in the evenings to move about or to simply pass the time, and we daily gathered water from the Artesian spring in the woods near the college. All the while the town worked throughout to clear the roads of debris, using the field parking lot as a staging area for placing the piles of limbs and full trees, stacked well high of fifteen feet and the length of a football field.

December 6

The weatherman forecasts icing in a couple of days as a warm front with rain from the south gives way to a fast moving arctic clipper, come down from the Great Lakes.

We’re nearly at the anniversary of the big ice storm that happened a few years ago here in town; the evidence of its damage is still visible. This is particularly the case this time of year, when the absence of foliage makes the tree branches stand out well into the woods.

Throughout town, there are still “hangers” and “widow makers” from that past storm, branches that succumbed to the weight of the ice and snapped, yet remained fixed and dangling from the point of breakage. Of course, many fell to the ground long ago, and the majority snapped and fell during the storm itself, breaking power lines, damaging roofs and blocking the road. We recall how throughout the night of the big storm, large limbs were breaking several a minute, sounding like gunfire around the house and through the woods. The morning light revealed a landscape of icy beauty and sheer destruction.

The thought of another storm of ice coming, even if a minor thing, sets our nerves on edge.

December 5

Venus is as bright as she will be now, resting high up in the eastern horizon after sundown. These past few evenings have been clear and dry, making her stand out all the more.

It is an irony that she is so bright, made so that we see the smallest fraction of her surface; her position to Earth is close in our orbits, and because of this we see her now as a crescent, reflecting much in the same manner as the moon when it lies thusly juxtaposed. Her closeness to us intensifies her light, and seen through a modest telescope, she does indeed take the crescent shape.

Her time as the evening star will fade, as she swings through her orbit between us and the sun. She is sinking slowly on the horizon each night and won’t reappear until five months hence as our morning star, preceding the sunrise.

December 4

The rhododendron throughout town are more conspicuous, in part because their deep green and broad leaves stand distinct against the background of stems and branches, the neighboring trees and bushes whose leaves have fallen away. It is almost as if the rhododendron is indifferent to the change of seasons, carrying on much as it has done since we first took notice of it last spring, when the purple, pink and white blossoms were nearly overwhelming.

The buds that will become next spring’s flowers sit idly now, fattened just slightly and a pale tan, waiting until warming conditions spur them to mature.

All is not quiet however, and here is where the rhododendron is curious. In the warming day, when temperatures run above approximately 35 degrees, the leaves are full and positioned nearly perpendicular to the stem. At freezing they begin to noticeably droop, and when the thermometer falls below 25 degrees the leaves curl closed. Colder yet and the curl tightens, concentrating the green color into drooping cylinders that appear lifeless.

Early mornings this time of year find them tightly formed, yet as the day progresses and the feeble sun helps modestly to push the air above freezing, the plant responds – opening leaves slowly and causing them to extend.

Why they do this isn’t really as important as is the wonder that they do, these living thermometers.

December 3

The fox may be on the move again, for I’ve seen them twice now in the same location crossing the road in what must be a corridor. Three mornings ago and again today, in the hours before dawn, a pair emerged from the driveway located next to the wetland area on Route 122 just west of where Grove Street intersects. First came one fox, trotting slowly across the road from the driveway, stopping within the border of trees on the other side that marks the entrance to Crowningshield.

It paused there within for a couple of seconds, then gave a sharp barking call, shrill and intent. A moment later its companion emerged from the same driveway, following the same track across the road and into the woods, presumably both headed for a den somewhere in the small forest that stands between the outlying homes in the development and the first reservoir of the Kettlebrook ponds below.

December 2

Clear and still this morning, so much so that it was easy to hear the bells of the First Congregational Church from the back porch. Six times they chimed, pausing a couple of seconds in between each - strangely the only sound at all outside now.

Six in the morning is very dark in December, made more so by the new moon which officially arrives tomorrow. It seems like just yesterday that mornings were filled with the vibrancy of birdsong or insect; these have been replaced by a December stillness that is so quiet that it’s almost lonely.