SNOWED IN, MOVE OVER DR. ZHIVAGO

Up until today, I've waxed sentimental over Bing Crosby's singing "White Christmas". It all sounds so romantic and cozy, and full of Hallmark card scenes. However romance has met reality, and so much for "dreaming", since I am now on Day Seven, snowed in on a small Island in the middle of the Straits of Juan de Fuca.

Outside it is a winter wonderland. The railings on the deck are piled 8 or 9 inches high with the purest whitest softest snow known to mankind. From every window in my house I look out to see a forest of trees, some as close as 10 or 12 feet. These are big trees, tall firs, heavily frosted with snow now. Beyond the trees lies the Sound. The water is as gray today as the sky, which by all appearances seems to be falling into the sea. That could be snow coming in again over the Sound, I don't know. But the forest stands stark against that solid gray backdrop, with no part of the Island visible across the way.

I think of novels I've read about being snowed in, the cold, the isolation, the quiet, the loneliness. I think of Alaska and brutal Yukon stories by authors like Jack London. And of course there's the once popular Robert Service Poem, "Cremation of Sam McGee". I'll never forget my Dad reciting the poem's last memorable lines, when as the friend opens the furnace door to check on the progress of the cremation of poor old dead and solidly frozen Sam, he finds him sitting straight up in the middle of the fire, and Sam says:

"Please close that door,
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear
You'll let in the cold and the storm.
Since I left Plum Tree, down in Tennessee,
This is the first time I've been warm."

Yesterday when I went outside it was 17 degrees. I can relate to Sam. It takes your breath away.

But I digress. How about Dr. Zhivago? Trudging through drifts of frozen snow in Siberia, where he forges his way across the Russian steppes in search of his family, eyelashes and beard frozen? Or the unforgettable scene where he and his lover, Laura (remember Laura's Theme?) take refuge in the family dacha, as much ice inside as outside. Long Icicles hang from the furniture and the chandeliers, looking for all the world like crystals. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.....

The first 2-3 days of involuntary confinement were the hardest. Impatience. When can I get out, how soon can I drive, when can I leave to join my family in Oregon for Christmas? I'm desperate for my daily Mocha. But I busied myself. I got in and did all my procrastinated chores. Cleaned out the refrigerator and freezer, same with all closets and kitchen cabinets, did laundry, felt productive.

Day Four. With nothing but the vacuuming left to do, Impatience was replaced with Hope. "Well, we have to be over the hump now, it won't be long now, and things will be back to normal". Giving in to the need for order and some routine, I made up an Agenda. Got up, showered, dressed in clean and pressed clothes as though I were going out, fussing with hair, make-up, all of that, and then sat down to luxuriate in unhurrid writing time. Lunch was at noon, Dinner at 5:30. I planned to finish my One Act Play, spend some time on my Memoir, then pack-up for my trip south.

Day Seven. No relief, au contraire. Now we have 10 or 12 inches of snow. Today: Acceptance. It is snowing again. I am warm, cozy, with plenty to eat. Now I've become lazy. I watched a frivolous movie, "Breaking Up" with cute Jennifer Anniston, size 2, and some good looking macho dude living a New York love story. Semi-predictable. Bittersweet, funny. Perfect.

I haven't seen anyone now for three days. Many commiserating phone calls. I have no visible neighbors, but I know they are there, across the road, hunkered down, like I am. I'd walk over, but don't want to fall. I could just as well be like the guy in "Adrift" Seventy six days lost at sea.
At least he had birds for company. Maybe he didn't know they were albatrosses.

Christmas is 3 days away. My fake Christmas tree stands like a sentinel, ablaze in lights in the corner. Waiting. If nothing changes, I will be here, alone, in this lovely house,just me and that phony tree, immersed in a sea of White on December 25, Day Ten.

Dammit!! There's Bing Crosby again.....I don't believe it.