Dave Rexroth, chief meteorologist for Channel 7 Action News, has made the announcement: January 2024 was the wettest January since Michigan started keeping track of such things. The Big Wet arrived in many forms. Snow. Rain. Freezing rain. Sleet. What exactly is the difference between freezing rain and sleet? Freezing rain is when raindrops don’t have time to freeze before hitting the ground, although they do freeze on arrival. Sleet is when frozen precipitation melts in the air and then freezes again before it hits the ground. Freezing rain and sleet both lead to ice, but then, so does winter in general.
My friend Abby says the thick fog we’ve had counts as precipitation, too. She just got back from Arizona. The sun came out for a few minutes today, and Abby says she ran right outside. My friend Pat, who grew up in Arizona, suggests we run a draw-the-sun-from-memory contest about this time of year. She had to cancel her Arizona Highways subscription because the photographs of the sunny land of her youth made her too homesick.
Our dog, lacking a basis of comparison, remains steadfastly resolute in pretty much all Michigan weather. Even when snowballs form in his fetlocks, he doesn’t complain. He met his match this week. The snowballs didn’t stop near his paws. They kept forming higher and higher on his furry little legs. Usually when we’re out in falling snow that packs, I look at him and think things like, “Fat snowflakes on a black dog—a mobile art exhibit.” “He has poodle paws.” And, “We should call him Snowfoot.”
This time, the snowballs went up his legs all the way to his torso. Big, wet flakes socked in his back, turning it completely grey. My thoughts were more along the lines of, “He looks like a two-tone poodle.” “He’s wearing snow chaps.” And, “We should call him Cowboy Dog.” By the time we got home from our walk, his legs were so packed in snow he could scarcely move them. My husband took him to the washtub for thawing, and I took off my boots and wraps and went to lie down. That walk was tough going.
On the other hand, in the great cycle of life, this is also a time of renewal. It’s calving season. No, not cows, or even glaciers. Midwestern tumbleweed. That is to say, last summer’s hydrangea blossoms, which have been drying on their bushes since the growing season ended, are now making their annual leap into the unknown. Rain, snow, freezing rain, sleet, and fog—what Dave Rexroth dubs “wintry mix”—have imparted their moisture to rehydrate and give weight to the blossoms.
When they’re heavy enough, the flower heads separate from their stems and fall to the snow-covered ground, ready to begin the nomadic period of their existence. We are fortunate enough to have hydrangeas of our own and to live near a whole hedge of hydrangeas, so we see this calving happening right here in the neighborhood. All we need now is some dry weather and a bit of breeze, and the Midwestern tumbleweed will be on its way. It’s a beautiful thing.
At the Thrift Shop today, we sold lots and lots of small pieces of china. Two different customers each bought two exceptionally elegant dishes clearly intended for corn-on-the-cob. This not being corn-on-the-cob season, I asked them how they planned to use the dishes. They both said they knew the intent was corn-on-the-cob, but one planned to use them as receptacles for earrings and small jewelry items, and the other said they would be docking places for reading glasses.
One of the other volunteers, bringing items to the shop floor for sale, brought something over and asked what I supposed it was. If we could identify it, she figured, she’d know where in the shop to display it. I looked at the object, still in its original package, which proclaimed it a strap. The price tag covered any other descriptors. Chris removed the tag, revealing that the package contained a “paracord strap.” “Where should I put it?” she wondered. “On your parachute?” I guessed. Having now looked up what a paracord strap is, I can report that it is simply a short strap made of nylon cord. Chris put the price tag back on the package and placed the object in Housewares.
My favorite purchase of the day was an itty-bitty ceramic pot, a lovely green and just over an inch tall. What will anthropologists make of this tiny pot, centuries from now? And will hydrangea herds still roam wild in this part of the state?
2 February 2024