|
February 2, 2021
February Light
This year I am not sorry to see the end of January. Typically, January is one of my favorite months. It is a month of new beginnings, of getting a fresh start. It is a long month, offering plenty of time for those long-deferred projects – re-reading my mother’s letters, clearing out file-cabinets, developing a talk on “winter interest.”
This year, however, its end brings me one month closer to being able to visit with friends outside or in our garage clubhouse. It brings me one month closer to the vaccine and the possibility of visiting inside, with care, with also-vaccinated friends. It brings me one month closer to the magic of spring and the first white snowdrops, the first blue Chionodoxa. And though weather records say otherwise, February feel warmer to me. It must be because of the light.
In February the light changes. February light is clear, clean, sparkling, magical. It is the kind of light artists seek when they plant their easels in front of a north facing window. The Celtic festival of Imbolc, celebrating the lengthening light and the promise of returning spring, falls on February 1 for a reason- it marks the midpoint between the winter solstice and the vernal equinox. Christos and Jeanne-Claude, the architects of “The Gates,” planned their installation in New York City’s Central Park in February for a reason and that reason was in part the quality of light.
With the arrival of February light, the winter garden’s basic brown, so dominant and drab, disperses into subtlety and difference. In February I can see the difference between the intense dark brown of the dried flower heads on the Sedum ‘Autumn Joy,’ and the light brown straw-color of the Miscanthus grasses, still standing and waving, that surround the Sedums. The brown of the Rhamnus tall-hedge in the back by the arbor shows almost black, the brown of the doublefile Viburnum almost gray, the brown of the Siberian cypress almost purple.
The bigroot geraniums sport a reddish brown and the iron hedgehog forms a rusty brown mound in the patio garden. The brown of the dried seed heads of the Hydrangea paniculata suddenly stand out as true brown while the bark of the paperbark maple (Acer griseum) curls off a chocolate-colored trunk to reveal inner bark the color of cinnamon. When the February light shines through the curls of cinnamon, I stand at the living room window, transfixed, and give thanks for February light.
Sara and I once celebrated Valentine’s Day and longer light by making a trip to Cape Cod, renting an apartment in Provincetown with a view of the water, and enjoying the cafes and restaurants that remain open in winter. Sitting one February afternoon in the Purple Feather, enjoying a hot bowl of split pea soup and chatting with our waiter, we noticed a photograph on the wall of a red fox lying down and resting in a garden. face and front paws forward, nose and paws tipped with black, tail fluffed out to one side. We inquired of the waiter, a Southerner like Sara and enchanted with her Alabama accent, if the photos were for sale. He said they were not, but he joined us for another drawling chat. Later that afternoon we came back for a coffee and a pastry and were waited on by the owner. “Is that photo of the fox for sale,” I asked, figuring I had nothing to lose by trying again. “Why, certainly,” she responded. “Let me call the artist and get you a price.” She did and we bought.
I trace my love of red foxes to my mother’s reading aloud to my brother and me from Red Ben, the Fox of Oak Ridge, written by Joseph Wharton Lippincott and first published in 1919. It is my earliest memory of my mother and reading, the first book I can remember knowing. It became a reference point for my mother and brother and me as we bonded over the adventures of this wily fox and created our own version of “what would Red Ben do.”
Though I still have many books from my childhood reading adventures, I do not have this one. A quick trip to Google, however, tells me that “this work has been selected by scholars as being culturally important, and is part of the knowledge base of civilization as we know it,” and so has been recently reprinted. I can buy a paperback copy of the 2016 reprint for as little as $14.95. Or I can buy a copy of the original on ebay for a mere $129.99. I could get it for my brother for his birthday this year, but I think I will pass.
Sometimes Sara and I are graced by the presence of a fox in our backyard. Most often it is a vixen, whom I delight in calling “Fantastic Ms. Fox.” She comes in the summer seeking food for her kits, I suspect. But once, on a February day, landscape snowy and frozen, we suddenly sensed motion outside. We went to the window. Could it be? Yes,yes,look at that tail, look at that color, look at that trot. It was a fox, jumping up and down in the snow, then trotting around in circles, then jumping up and down again, a miracle of motion and color. Was he hunting or just having fun?
Every so often my brother sends me a wooden fox, painted a gaudy red with black markings, and possessed of white paws that move when the wind hits them. The four paws whip around in the wind, whirring, whirring, making the fox look like it is running. Dan buys this kitschy lawn ornament that I adore from a store in Door County, Wisconsin, where he used to have a home. It only lasts two years in our harsh climate and so must be regularly replaced. I haven’t had one in a while. Perhaps I should ask for a replacement. Perhaps I should get Dan that original copy of Red Ben.
Thanks so much for reading my newsletter. If you are enjoying it, consider sharing it with one other person you think might enjoy reading it as well. I’d be grateful if you would help me reach more readers.If you aren’t already a subscriber, I’d be honored to have you as a reader. |