A Storm on the Bay
The wild of it
The wind of it.
The wend of it.
The weft of it
The warp of it
The whisht of it,
The whelp of it
The whinge of it.
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It's a nor'easter - a savage day, wind howling, blowing the bedroom curtains across the room in jigs and reels. Trees screeching sideways. Reluctantly, I close all the windows and glance at the wood stove. And glance again and set a fire and light it. Birds dart around the empty bird feeder. I had to move it when I spotted the squirrels hanging upside down from an overhead branch and swinging towards it and tipping the contents on the ground. Barnum and Bailey acrobats had nothing on these critters.
I think, in gleeful anticipation, as I do on such days, safe indoors, wind and water tussling to the death in front of me, what will I do? A friend had recommended a great read, her favourite book for the last five years, and it arrives from England yesterday and I hold it for a while, heft the weight of it, find the love note within, savour that, read the reviews printed this way and that all over it. A Sunday Times bestseller that never found its way here, it seems.
I defer the actual reading of it. I smell it. Touch the slightly worn pages between my fingers. The energy of previous readers cling to it, I imagine. I anticipate the pleasure of reading that first page. On some books we agree, my friend and I. On others we engage in animated discussion. It's been that way since we shared Annie Smithson's Irish novels of love and love lost in Sixth Class back in the day. We each came out of the cradle reading, our mothers would say.
It's coming up to a night for a fire and a read and maybe a movie later. I've a few lined up, some from friends, some rescued from bargain bins in various secret shops around St. John's. Maybe a bit of knitting. I've always loved days and nights like this. It seems to me like the pressure is off.
You ask me what pressure?
Ah, sure now, I 'd be hard pressed to tell you.
