January Thaw

Winter in New England is different. When winter comes to the Midwest it stays, with the snow building in layer upon layer until the highway department trucks it away or spring finally arrives. In New England, however, we've got this fine tradition called "the January Thaw," where as if by magic the grimy snowpack briefly melts away before the cycle begins again in February.

The temperature at sunset today hovered around freezing but had risen twenty degrees by the time the dogs and I started on our evening walk, putting it exactly at the dew point. Still air flowed down the hill ahead of us chilled by the residual snow cover, forming banks of fog which turned into rolling cylinders of cloud as they reached the level ground where we stood. The slight warmth from the streetlights and the still-warm asphalt of a driveway carved out streaks of clear air that twisted about, creating streamers of cotton candy that cascaded from the light into the darkness beyond.

The dogs ran back and forth over the melting snow, happy to be out of the house after a long day inside. They were shadowed by ghost clouds, which twisted in the breeze of their passage. As we walked further into the fog, the light became more diffuse and sounds more muted, until finally it seemed we were wrapped in cotton.

Occasionally, we'd hear what seemed like thunder around us. The homes where we walk are old, dating from an age when houses were built one at a time by a few carpenters or masons, probably revered great-grandfathers by now. There are Victorians with their clapboard and gingerbread trim, Federalist with their tall columns, and brick Colonials. The roofs are steep and covered with slate, and the snow packs that build up on them in the winter come avalanching down in the thaw with a rumbling crash. Folks around here are used to the sound, and generally react with an unconscious twist to the thermostat to compensate for the missing insulation the snow provided their upstairs rooms. The most prudent make mental notes to see if any slates came down along with the snow, warranting a call to the builder's grandsons and great-grandsons for some repair work in the spring.

The dogs were starting to look tired as our path took us first up and out of the fog, and then down again to the turn that took us home again. Taking them inside, I towelled off the mud and grit they'd kicked up as they walked, and smiled as they curled up next to each other for a nap.

The temperature reached sixty by dawn and it began to rain, but snow was predicted for the weekend. Welcome to New England.