It’s been a week of ‘runners’ and it’s only Tuesday. ‘Runners’ are the children who won’t or can’t or shan’t stay where they are supposed to stay; places like the classroom. The district insists that we call these students ‘elopers’. Whatever. My husband and I eloped. We also came back. Therein lies the greatest crux of difference.

This daily urban living is a delicate dance between tipping tables and reading the riot act and moving graciously…extending buckets of mercy to those who stepped on one’s toes…

I have finally found an opportunity to teach the idiomatic phrase ‘on the lam’. When a particular student, an ‘eloper’ begins running laps around the open spaces where I am teaching, my students look at me and say simply, “Hey, he’s on the lam’.

Mission accomplished.

In the dark space of worrying about tomorrow; an anxious place too small to cuss a cat, I awaken to the slightly disturbing sound of late February rains…the ice flows in chunks out of the gutters and down to the frosted grass. I wonder if the edge of the roof will jam up and leak.

It did that a couple of years ago and there remain two delicately shaped brown spots on the ceiling in one of the upstairs rooms. It was a half hearted attempt at leakage…just enough to remind us of who and what is in charge.

The old strands, the tired spirit of spring is resting out there, somewhere. This is the teasing February thaw and March dawns this Wednesday. The longest month of the year, thirty-one days of ‘will it rain, snow, sleet, thaw, flood or ice?’ spreads out in front of us.

Some brave robins flit in and about. One morning they scurry around the large tree by the porch, then three mornings in a row they are gone and the tree is silent. After strong coffee and some dilly dally rain watching, it seems that some music will serve a good purpose and soon various versions of Amazing Grace and idyllic Irish lilting tunes pour out over the kitchen. It is after all, almost March.

The light in the window is beginning it’s slow change. There are more frequent hints of gold and yellow and something akin to sage…even for a bit, I catch a glimpse of it on the glass pane…a surge of color before everything goes grey again. Yes, I think ‘O, Danny Boy’ is in order.’

‘I feel so Irish now, I do, I do’ he sings as he comes down the stairs. He tips his head back, ‘but I’m not, I’m not’ and he laughs heartily. I look at him. ‘You’re just jealous as we tell better jokes than you do’. I hand him a heavy ceramic mug of coffee. He laughs again. ‘Yes, you do! But we’re still going to Spain first before we go to Ireland!’ He takes a swig of coffee and sits down to watch the rain. ‘Oh sure’ I reply and look at the glass, now suddenly sage again in a fleeting surge. ‘Oh yes’. And the glass winks back.

The same ship, the same ocean, the same fierce winds…only the height and measure of the sails differ…’who bids the mighty ocean deep, it’s own appointed limits keep…’

In the middle of a lesson today, a cheery five year old pipes up, ‘Hey! Good news!’ I stopped what I was doing and asked, ‘What is good news?’ He responded, ‘I saw you today when I was waiting on the bus! I saw you!’

We all agreed it was good news and we all laughed. Back to identifying farm animals…such is kindergarten.

I am old enough to recognize the astounding miracle which is modern technology. I am young enough to hope that, to know that with God, nothing…nothing is impossible.

As I hurtle along in the wee morning hours; traversing a dark road covered with forestation a thousand years old, listening to music written hundreds of years earlier by minds and hands long deceased; melodies spinning on a magical paper thin disk (already deemed obsolete) created by minds greater than mine…I sneeze the same sneezes, consider the same skies and plot the same plans made by all who passed this way.

I have no power save that which is given me, no life other than what is breathed into me, no hope other than the mighty hand of God. I may change my sky, but not my soul…whether journeyed there by wind, land or sea.

For all of this and more, I am thankful.

Observation: at every dinner party, there is always that one person who knows everything about everything. Everything; this being the same soul who in turn, shares all that he knows liberally at every turn. With all of us; continually throughout the evening’s course. Every. Turn.

How now, brown cow? This a favorite line because it rhymes (or Rhine (s))…in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do. A dollop of pancake with a lick of coffee and a stab at bacon…we close the door on the madness outside. He warms up with chit chat and plans for the garden and I am cozy with the stack of new books and old favorites and the promise of simple tasks…and the forever stalling of Spring. Stuck in the middle of nowhere to go with not much to do…February’s core.

I turn off the car, unstrap my belt, open the door and step cautiously, gingerly out of the vehicle onto a sheet of thick, grey ice. The air is strongly cold but damper than usual. Twenty-seven degrees feels different ways. Twenty-seven degrees born of dry wind, no sun and a bitter edge, burns exposed skin, numbs fingers quickly and turns one’s gut inside out at a rapid pace. The same temperature when bathed in cold lake rain and the shadows from the storm which has swept from west to east over large expanses of the country, plays tricks of a different sort. For the past two nights, the entire region has been iced and glazed with a steady sleety rain; dangerous rain which leaves surfaces bathed in invisible black ice and all the trees laden and creaking with gorgeous sparkly diamond drops. The winter sun burns through their naked frames and sets the jewels on iced fire. This temperature does not burn the skin today, nor does it chill one’s innards. But what it has wrought is lethal; malevolent.

I look up at the sky; tipping my head way back to observe the vast stretch of ashen fog. In all directions, the heavy silvery lake air has lain down in a lumbering weighty collapse all over the city; draping over the sides of buildings and homes like a damp, smothering musty quilt too big to ever dry out.

The breeze is slate, the ground is leaden and dappled underneath with pearly chunks of ice, the schmutz on my black pants is stone white; sprinkled in powdered salt. I am alone in the parking lot.

The only line separating the celestial void that I stare up at, from the ground where I stand is a raggedy silhouette of naked, ice crisped tree branches which circle the parking lot, the highway, the large post office, the row of restaurants. I turn slowly, carefully around full circle noting the continuous line of burnt sugar tree branches dipped in diamond dust. Save for these base shades of browns, umbers, grey…the entire world here is devoid of color.

Across the way, stands the charming little diner where the waitress calls me ‘Honey’, where the men are thickly bearded and rubber booted, and the ancient hostess at the cash register wears a perfectly coiffed honey brown wig with a large gold plastic flower stuck in the hair behind her ear. This establishment is one small member; an essential vertebral link in the spine connecting all such havens and inhabitants; those holding up the sky and the nation under this ashen dome.

The portions of food are hot, substantial, inexpensive, served with gusto and a hint of reserved kindness. Here there is fragrance surpassing corruption; gold which shines up pewter; a tamping down of all that is false, glitz and glitter.

The icy expanse stretching from one end of the small strip plaza seems larger than I have ever seen.

As a child, I walked once a week from our home to a local college campus to receive piano lessons. I remember the smell of violin rosin, old ivory, waxed floors and thick winter coats.

On these days, I carried a slender zippered leather music case with me. I crossed over the bridge and climbed the steep hill past a large stone house; coming to the flat expanse of campus where I headed around the frozen perimeter of the campus quadrangle. On my way home I returned to the hill.

As soon as I stepped forward and as the ground began to slant steeply, I fell down. I stood up and promptly fell again. I stood up, went a few more steps and fell again. I cried and then I looked around. The snow along the length of the path, on both sides was crystal ice; sharp, difficult to dig one’s boots into; able to swiftly puncture and bleed soft skin if fallen on. I could not stand up. I could not go forward or backward.

I lay the lovely leather music case on the ice, sat down on it and rode it to the bottom of the hill. The side of that case was scratched, marred and permanently misshapen. I was safe, bruised and very cold.

My eyes turn away from the vast expanse of clouds and gunmetal air over head and back to the small diner sitting quietly at the corner of the ice sheet. I begin the slow, arduous trek across the lot, turning my body sideways, step by step; angling as if I’m on a slick mountain top. I have no leather case to ride on today, so I had better take care. I’m heading to the sanctuary where the waitress calls me ‘Honey’, where the men, those diggers of ditches and stringers of wire eat quietly, waiting for something and where the tired cashier with the gold plastic flower stuck into her ancient wig takes my money and waves me somberly out the door.

She couldn’t stop the rain, that heavy rain. It fell and fell. He turned off the room fan so that she could listen more deeply. February rains; how odd and disconcerting for we sense we are in April but we know we are in February and the gutters are full and filling and draining and he left early for an appointment.

She lit a red candle and crawled back into bed with a book, but her thoughts were elsewhere as it rains and flows and soaks. Something is amiss when it pours in the month of hearts…

She kept reading and reading. It was the most sacred of escapes; an unquenchable stream of truth and beauty and human struggle; printed on paper with the purpose to bring things back into balance. She turned pages and knew once again, there was nothing new in the human experience. Every emotion she felt had been at one time or another time felt by someone else in different rooms under different skies.

She calmed down, gathered her thoughts, lifted up the rich burden of life, hoisting it full bellied onto her shoulders and determined to go on. Going on in the month of hearts…

Winter was rife with trickery; sporting a new kind over and over this year. Once again, believing that life this side of Heaven lasts forever proved a false path; lies and subterfuge.

This brief February moment in the sun would not last the drive’s duration as I bumped along River Road. I passed over a number of potholes filled haphazardly as though the department of transportation saw them, took note and hesitated, then rallying around for a brief moment of good will, made an effort to literally smooth things over with cheap gravel and an unsteady hand. I give these dips in the tarmac about a week.

Some of the fields along the drive looked freshly turned over, glazing like melted caramel in the tricky sun. The bales of stacked hay far in the distance stood caramelized and stiff in the cold. They will soon turn powder sugar white and all butter-creamy before long. The weather is all smoke and mirrors this year. The ground is confused; denied a lengthy, rich sleep this winter and it shows in her complexion; all the wrong color of dried brown and old green and new white.

There is a large hawk sitting in the field on a mound of dirt facing west; feathers moving gently in the wind. He’s watching and listening for the slight of hand.

I drive on and then on the right side of the bumbly road rests a bright green overstuffed couch with one missing cushion. Tricks and lies. The furniture truck must have stopped on a whim and the driver and partner clambered out and sat down in the middle of the field to watch for more tomfoolery. It’s all out there today amidst sun, flora and fauna, falderals and the fast approaching storm. It’s all a big fooly fa la.

I’m driving slowly this winter.

We engage twenty minutes of frantic searching early this morning, hunting for my glasses. The bedding is shaken out; the thickly heavy duvet, the various textured fleeces and wraps are unfolded along with pillows and a basket of clean laundry. All things not nailed down are moved, shaken and tossed to the floor. Pockets are searched, drawers opened…the laundry room, bathrooms…nowhere.

He asks me, ‘What is plan B?’ I look to the ceiling, which I can not see and suggest early retirement. I. Am. Blind.

A few tense minutes roll by. I sit on the edge of the bed and consider the human condition. Suddenly he says, ‘Oh, your glasses are in my pants pocket. How did they get there?’

In life there are many diverse and varied moments. We embrace it all; partly because we should and mostly because we must. This is one of those moments where the old adage ‘Trust God and keep your powder dry’ floats to the top of memory. There may be a gentle shooting later. Stay tuned…