So I defied my reservations. Wearing a light jacket, I walked out into the day and was instantly broadsided by the wind, as shadows played on the ground like passing thoughts. A few people were out and about, shrouded by the vortex, isolated within their thoughts, since there was too much wind to carry on a conversation. It simply whisked away their voices, but there was still the occasional wave or acknowledging nod from passers by. Columbia folks are friendly.
Yesterday, I heard robins in the rain, but today even they were mute in the face of the gusts.
I heard a train in the distance, wailing through the wind. For me, the past is borne aloft on that cry, sailing down through the years, stirring memories of childhood.
On Mill Street, PPL workers in bucket trucks reconnected lines as fire police directed traffic.
I returned home, with the endless whine and growl of lawn mowers distracting me as I typed this.
T.S. Eliot was right: “April is the cruelest month.” But not necessarily for the reasons he cites: “breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.” Rather, I find the month to be cruel in the fickleness of its weather, not to mention tiresome in its inability for nuance. It just clobbers you over the head with its moods. No subtlety or consistency.
A few times this month, temps were in the 60s and 70s, but over the last few days, conditions have adopted a less friendly demeanor--cloudy, rainy, and cold. Yesterday was just miserable, with a veritable deluge soaking us for hours. And even though the sun is poking through as I write this at midday, the temperature, according to accuweather.com, is 49 degrees but feels like 42 with the wind chill. With an eye towards saving on utility bills, I turned off my heat a few weeks ago. It seemed like a good idea at the time, when the days were growing warmer, and the promise of spring was in the air. Today, however, it’s 58 degrees in the house, and my fingers are stiff as I type this. I’ve opened the blinds to let in the sunlight for some passive solar heating, but I almost can’t wait until things warm up. After all, I can put on only so many sweaters and drink only so much coffee.
This section of wall at Saint Peter's Apartments was once part of a market house which, after that, served as Joe Weisser's warehouse in the 1960s when he owned the IGA store at the "Five Points" (Fourth and Union, and Perry Street). I always remember Joe being slightly hefty until he was shot by two robbers at his store. After being released from the hospital a while later, he was quite a bit thinner.