was so popular in the late 19th and early 20th century. The poem tells of that era in
America, before homes had electricity and telephones, when the sudden arrival of
deep, snow and ice storms would intensify the feelings of isolation which many people
had to endure for long periods of time. In those days, when being so snow-bound, the
only form of entertainment available to relieve the cabin fever, was to huddle around
the fireplace and tell stories.
I was reminded of that poem because, for the past few weeks, the heart of America
has been snow-bound. For two weeks in a row, late Winter storms visited us, dumping
nearly a foot or more of snow on us with each passing blow. The last storm in particular
dropped heavy, wet snow, which stuck to every little branch and twig, pulling the trees
and vegetation to the ground. That resulted in thousands of people being without power,
and some fairly devastating damage to trees and shrubs.
My own, quiet hide-a-way, which I like to call The Artist's Retreat, was not immune
from the crushing, wintry assault, or from the resulting destructive force. These photos
I took of the front garden, show the shrubs all flattened under the weight of the snow,
and the flowering trees bent down to the ground. ( Somewhere, under that fractured
red-bud tree and that mound of snow, is a driveway and a car.)
The complete inundation reminded me of the the winter scenes of the Russian,
country home in David Lean's film production of Doctor Zhivago, when the house was
overwhelmed with deep drifts of snow and ice.
Now that the snow is melting into smaller patches and I can tally the damages, I can
see that there are a number of large evergreen shrubs and trees which are beyond
repair, but I know that young replacements would never grow to a handsome size
during my remaining days.
So, I am reminded once again, that despite all of our modern conveniences, Mother
Nature still rules, and we can all still become........Snow-bound.
No comments:
Post a Comment