Seasons, Specifically the Dead One

As may now be painfully apparent, the warm months are over. While the odd lack of snow for this time of year paired with the as of yet non-Arctic temperatures might seem to imply an eternal autumn, it isn't to be. Already, the trees reach from the earth like frostbitten hands, clawing at the overcast sky. Students move from class to class to the library, doing everything they can to forage what points are left to ensure their grades survive. Similarly, the occasional squirrel or bird can be seen gathering what little extra food there is left, their finals week fast approaching in the form of snow cover. It's this time of year, this period of anticipation, that is one of my favorite. I love the snow and the cold, it's fun to go out into, but when I decide that I would rather stay inside, nobody tells me I need to get out more. The beauty of the snow covered landscape is always a privilege to behold, but we aren't there yet. We're collectively waiting, appreciating what time with the grass we have left before it disappears underneath the snow. This brief window of time when 40 degrees on the thermometer is simultaneously enthralling and disappointing ("at least it isn't 20 degrees like it was last year!" Vs. "it was 60 out only a month ago "). It's a unique experience, or as unique as a climate can be. Further north, snow and freezing temperatures are a guarantee at this time of the year, anything else is a fluke. Far enough south, snow is as much a myth as a productive congress of the tooth fairy. It's only on our latitude (as far as I have experienced) that this waiting game, a staring match with winter, occurs.
I love it, even if we always blink first.

Along The Scars

For years, my family has been making the 10 hour drive to Charlotte, North Carolina to visit my aunt. We'd go for various reasons, like thanksgiving, birthdays, a lazy weekend in the summer, anything really. The route we take hasn't changed over the years, though every time we drive it I feel as though I see something new. In years past, all I saw on this drive were the insides of my eyelids and the screen of whatever handheld video game console I brought with me that trip. As I grew to be old enough to actually help mom make the drive, I learned about differing parts of the country. Early on, when mom was scared to let me drive at all, she didn't let me drive the portion of the trip that cut through the Appalachians. So I became familiar with the vast stretches of farmland in northern Ohio, and how the strip malls and rest stops began to disappear; the ground rising into rolling hills and sheer walls as if the weight of all that consumption and cement had been holding it down. A little older, a few more years of driving experience, and I finally got to drive through the Appalachians, sometimes literally when we passed through some of the tunnels in West Virginia. Driving through the mountains can be a very dangerous thing and for more reasons than just the difficulties of driving at such slopes. The raw beauty of the mountain range (especially this year, having read A Walk in The Woods  and being able to better appreciate what a geographic marvel I was in) strikes me every time I get the privilege of driving through that stretch of the Virginias, and it's easy to forget about the other cars on the road at times because of it. What stays with me just as much as this sens of wonder, is one of melancholy. Seeing the abandoned houses on the cliffsides, the billboards asking if you or your loved ones have been diagnosed with a rare form of lung cancer from working in the coal mines, the warning signs for rock slides, it strikes me how truly alien and inhospitable these beautiful places really are. Sure, the things I mentioned are brought about from different sources, but it all lends to a general feeling of unease. In these areas in the mountains, we have cut into the world and are still trying to live at the site of the wound.