Monthly Archives: November 2018
I wish I could stay comfortably in my bed this morning. Instead, I’ll be getting up early, brushing the snow off my car, and hoping I can get into work. There is a high probability I will be the only one there today. Two of my fellow coworkers had planned to be off long before we were expected to get 8-12” of snow. The other coworker lives on a mountain and may not be able to safely make it to work. So it will likely just be me. That’s going to make for a long day. Most of the students are gone for Thanksgiving break, so it will be quiet around the museum. Oh well, I have a few things I can work on.
I can’t believe that it’s just the middle of November and it’s 4 degrees outside. Four degrees, which means the wind chill is even lower. I’d love just to stay in bed today wrapped up under a blanket. However, I’m going to be teaching all morning. I’ll be teaching three classes. They will all be the same class, but I’m looking forward to it. I get to talk about one of the few times Thomas Jefferson was proven wrong. Jefferson was known for believing he was the best and brightest. It is likely he had Asperger’s syndrome, but that’s hard to prove nearly two hundred years after his death. Today will be a busy day all around, because after the classes in the morning, we have one of our public programs. It will be a talk about railroads in Vermont, and I hope it will be interesting. I know it will be interesting to train enthusiasts. After the program, I might be able to take a breath, but I’m sure there will be more to do. All this, and now it will only reach 24 degrees today.
The Snow Storm
Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1803 – 1882
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveler stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind’s masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer’s sighs; and, at the gate,
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.