A little tour of the neighborhood. The sky was completely gray, almost white. The boughs of the trees are inky black and frosted in white icing.
There is something about a large snowfall like this that changes people. I wasn't the only one walking about with a camera. The appearance of everything changes so drastically. And then there's the physical difficulties that the snow creates. Huge puddles of slush at the crosswalks. Or crosswalks that have been buried in mounds of snow. Uneven, unstable paths of packed snow from many feet. People just have to be more patient. You wait for the person in front of you to negotiate the narrow pathway. You can't push ahead, because there is no room to do so. You have to walk around snow piles to get to an area that's not inundated in slushy snow water in order to cross the street. Nothing is simple or clear cut. I think that provokes some childlike qualities in the city. For instance, the childlike need to lay claim to...oh let's say...shoveled out parking spots.
"Dat's my spot!"
"Na-uhhhh."
"Uh-huhhh"
"My spot, see. I'm saving it with this here chair."
I believe in the sacredness of the Chicago chair system. I know there are many who do not agree. But as long as I can remember, there was the chair. I don't drive any more, but walking past a chair setting in the snow, makes me smile. There's a twisted, desperate logic to it that I can appreciate.
Paths cut through two-feet high snow, remind me of building forts out of blankets and chairs. I remember dismantling the bed and using the mattresses and the pillows and the chairs to create these fantastic tunnels. Little cozy enclosed spaces...
Then wide open ones. Reaching the lake, it all opens up until it feels closed, because you can barely tell the difference between the lake and the sky. They are both a gray-green. And the lake water has a layer of slushy ice. Like a giant Lake Michigan flavored Slurpie. And there are little trails in it, as if a duck pushed its way through the slushy ice. The lake has soft little swirls of white ice like a green marble.
And don't forget the trees. The weeping willows are orange. Their leaves hang down like soft flames flickering against the frozen sky. Their fringe frames the lighthouse.
The weeping willows don't look sad in the winter at all. They look like a fantasy. I picture fairy princesses regal in their gowns, traipsing about under the fringes, highly aware of their beauty. The trees themselves, could care less.
