Dec 4

The abominable snowman went dancing today. Not on purpose or anything. What happened was that when we left for the wilds of the Scarborough microclimate, there was no snow. And when we got to Warden, where we catch the bus, there was no snow. But somewhere around Ellesmere Road, we looked up from our book and there was snow.

The Scarborough microclimate deteriorated after that. The sun declined to come up. The fog hung about like that cat in the T. S. Elliot poem that rubs itself against the windowpane. Supposedly, the sunset was at 16:40, but it looked like midnight by 1600, so…

Anyway, I messaged the dance people to see if the class was still on.

‘There’s not that much snow is there?’ asked she.

‘Not at all,’ said naive, foolish, past us, cozily onboard a bus now headed back through the snow and the gloom to home. There still wasn’t all that much snow when we made our eleventh-hour trip to the bank. But then we went to dance, and here the whole thing fell apart, because there was really quite a lot (British usage) of snow, and we had no boots, because they’re in a box of undisclosed location while renovators redo the front hall and what have you.

So, there we were, going along in increasingly wet suede shoes and no hat. Snow accumulating on our coat. It was very nice to get into the warm and dance Rutland’s Reel and other favourites. But then we had to do the whole thing backwards. There’s still really quite a lot of snow.

Now we are having Masala Chai. It’s not the designated tea for today, it’s just what’s on top of the box. An executive decision, because we don’t like knowing what we’re pulling out of the calendar. It’s like knowing what’s in the Christmas presents before you unwrap them. Spoils the fun.

It’s hard to describe the chai. For lack of a better word it tastes unfinished. Not because it’s bad, but because we had no sugar in, so we’re drinking it unsweetened. An Indian cab driver once got into this at length with us, and apparently there are some regions of India that make their chai this way. It’s a regional thing, sweetening to taste. But it’s the way we had it first, so that’s how it tastes best to us. The sugar brings out the spices. Still, it’s nice and warming, which is what we wanted. No one wants to be the abominable snowman forever.

Speaking of. Have a poem.

The Snowman
Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.