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The sun is setting behind the silo, right where the distant slope of Fort Mountain comes down to the line of tall spruce trees that march up the horizon, making another peak.  What’s left of Johnson’s Diary Farm is outlined against the color rising, flashes of red and yellow and gold, then white, clouds arching up into the coming darkness.  There used to be a farm house and long milking barn lined up to the side of the silo.  When they burned away one May afternoon four years ago neighbors collected in a yard and watched from across the pasture.  Many of them had grown up working on the farm.  My children grew up playing in the hay barns, making forts from the bales and finding litters of kittens.

There is only one more evening for the sun to move a bit further south along the horizon as it sets.  It won’t get to the south of the silo.  David read that a closed fist held out horizontally is 5 degrees on the horizon.  Using that as a measure, the sun moves about 40 degrees between the solstices here, from far up behind one of the Johnson’s houses, all the way down to the silo.  It crosses the entire horizon of trees at the far edge of the pastures and hay fields, over the cemetery on the hill, past the small farm ponds, behind the spruce trees to the silo.

Looking at the path of the sun as it slips along the horizon, I’m reminded how beautiful it is where I live.  How lucky I am.  There was a farm that burned down, but the landscape remains.  There was a family that grew up together in this house, but now there’s a new configuration of family.  The days are short and cold, but all of this week’s light has been magnified by snow and then snow, and in less than 48 hours, the earth will reach the point in its orbit around the sun that we’ll begin to tilt back towards the light.

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David and I have been staying in the White Mountains for the last several days, cross-country skiing at Jackson XC, “The #1 Cross Country Ski Area in the Eastern United States,” according to their tag line.  Jackson has long been a favorite cross-country ski destination for me.

Decades ago Eric and I came to Jackson to ski at least once a year, often with our friends Alison and John and often for multi-day ski trips, like the one I’m on right now.  In those days we looked for maximum downhill thrills, taking a gondola to the top of the Wildcat ski area whenever the conditions were right and skiing down the backside of the mountain, on a cross-country ski trail.  We were using long, wooden, Bona skis, which had to be treated with pine tar and then waxed, and we wore wool knickers and long socks, wool hats and mittens.  Yesterday at the Jackson XC center I walked up to a display of wax and the young man working behind the counter asked if he could help me.  “No,” I said.  “I just want to look and remember all those years of waxing.”  Now we’re on fiberglass, waxless back country skis, outfitted with wicking fabrics and soft shell jackets and the only wool we’re wearing is in our socks.

As we drove north on Saturday it started snowing, and kept up for more than 24 hours.  With over 6″ of fresh snow since we’ve arrived, the skiing has been quite fantastic.  Yesterday we skied the East Pasture Loop, following the tracks of several skiers before us, one of whom had cut graceful, sloping curves of telemark turns in the fresh snow.  Today we climbed a long, gradual ridge up the shoulder of Popple Mountain.  We skied the Maple Mountain loop at the top of the ridge, climbing to an area with sweeping views of Iron Mountain to our south, the cloud-shrouded mountains on either side of Pinkham Notch to our north.

While I’ve been fully present in the moments of the last several days, enjoying the fresh snow, the kick and glide of well-groomed trails,  and views of mountains whenever the snow clouds cleared off, I’ve also been remembering those ski trips from 30 years ago.  I’m beginning to understand that one aspect of aging, beyond less willingness to ski the steepest slope I can get to on my own, is how past experience enriches what is happening right now.  I can still go out and ski 20 kilometers a couple of days in a row, and I can still climb over 1,000 feet on skis and manage the fast sweep back down, and for that I’m grateful.  But I’m also grateful for how past memorable skis layered under today’s quick trip back down a hillside after a long climb up, and the realization that some joys can come again and again.

I’ve been quiet on this blog lately for too many reasons to get into here.  This poem from The Truth About Death speaks to the silence.

Silence

I am squatting in the fireplace, hands out
to catch the heat off the first flame, the only
heat in the house, the furnace fan out,
the belt and pulleys jiggled off their mounts.
Last night a friend and I were comparing pathetic
and now I win. I am trying silence today,
lie on the floor, again, in the sun on the carpet
in the room where you died, heavy wind,
the shadow of plants below the great windows,
warm, how grateful you were for this room, open
and high. I don’t want to make sense, I am fed up
with misfortune. I walked the frozen brook
into the wind of the marsh, following the tracks
of a dog. I sat in the sun but it was too cold.

As Frankenstorm rides up the coast towards New England, I’m back in form, doing the Hospital Hang.  My life has included mostly unexpected and sometimes extended hospital stays of people I love, and I developed my skills many years ago.  They come in handy.

How to do the hospital hang?  Pack up food, reading, a computer (hospitals generally have strong and reliable wifi), work files and knitting.  You may not use all the things you bring, but it makes me feel more settled to know I have plenty to do, in case I want to do something besides just be with the person I love who’s in the hospital.

Once you arrive at the room of the person you’re hanging with, drag chairs from wherever you can find them so all the visitors can sit comfortably.  Locate the mini-kitchen and get yourself some water.  Find the closest restrooms.  Chat with all the nurses and aides and be super-friendly.  Marry a doctor and bring him along and smile while he lets the hospital staff know he’s a doctor and proceeds to ask knowledgable and important questions.

It was David’s suggestion to test for Lyme disease, and my sister’s follow-up insistence on the test, that’s resulted in a diagnosis of my mother’s confusing symptoms — acute and chronic Lyme.  Hopefully the IV antibiotics will start to turn around this multi-week roller coaster of pain and nausea, dehydration and confusion, appetite and energy loss.  I’m hoping this hospital hang resolves quickly, for everyone’s sake.  I don’t need any more practice.

Okay, the “marry a doctor” part might not be that easy, but that’s a skill I picked up for other reasons, and it comes in really handy.

Have you ever walked 10 miles straight into the teeth of a Northeaster?  Now I have, from Blakey Ridge to Glaisdale.  I’m sure it’s a lovely walk but all we saw was each other’s feet as we trudged through rain and mist and muddy puddles.  And somehow my iPhone got wet, even though nothing else got wet under my waterproofs.  I’m hoping it improves overnight, and we all hope our blisters and sore feet and thighs and ankles and fatigue improve after a night of sleep.  Tomorrow is the final day!  Stay tuned.

David and his brother Doug and I went for a walk this afternoon, at the end of a very busy weekend, a very busy week, busy month, busy year, yadda yadda yadda.  More about that busyness (because our lives have been very full and rich and there’s lots to tell) in later posts.  But tonight, winding down, I’m grateful for the simple, late afternoon walk in clear sunshine, and the small side trail we took to this quiet pond, sunk into the hillocks that bump up and down in this part of New Hampshire.  Rich, blue and green, quiet.