Though winter has been mild in our parts, the winter grump at our house has remained unrepentantly grumpy.
He says that Herman Melville got the matter right. In the first paragraph of Moby Dick, the character Ishmael describes a frame of mind so bleak that he is moved to flee dry land altogether. He calls it "a damp, drizzly November in my soul."
He says that Herman Melville got the matter right. In the first paragraph of Moby Dick, the character Ishmael describes a frame of mind so bleak that he is moved to flee dry land altogether. He calls it "a damp, drizzly November in my soul."
In The Grump's opinion, winter is at best a drab pest of a season. He feels that trees -- like some persons -- should not be seen undressed. Day after day should not be a dog's breakfast of discomfort and inconvenience.
In hopes of averting his own version of Ishmael's funk, The Grump resolved this year to focus upon New Winter Purpose. He would take advantage of nature's leafless nakedness to spot the owls in our back yard,
Experts say that a group of owls is called a parliament. They do not say how many owls are needed to qualify for the designation. After listening closely to their night calls, The Grump is satisfied that we have at least a subcommittee.
He has learned that owls come in a remarkable variety of sorts and sizes. All have the penetrating gaze that must be a required item in the curriculum at owl school. A relative who knows things tells us we have great horned owls. She can tell by their sounds.
Experts further say that owls vary their calls to send varying messages. They may be pitching woo. They may be warning of danger. They may be claiming territory.
Thus The Grump has occasion to wonder: What are our owls saying? As he does not speak owl, he is obliged to speculate.
Woo-pitching is not likely, he thinks. The calls seem to have a certain choleric tone. Perhaps the birds are annoyed that their groupings would be associated with politicians. Or perhaps it is not far-fetched to think that they are simply grouchy at being stuck outdoors in the cold soup of winter darkness.
Through his investment of time staring up bare tree trunks, The Grump has not spotted a single owl nest, much less a bird. One near-exception came strictly by happenstance. Glancing out from his easy chair he saw a lone bird -- a barred owl according to our guidebook -- pause on a low branch. It was itinerant, by the look of things. It glared briefly at the back of the house, then flew off into the distance.
The Grump does not deny the lessons of experience. He understands that the odds do not favor success for his owl-spotting enterprise. Other forms of distraction have come to mind.
He has begun following the weather reports from the upper Midwest and Great Plains. Places where the wind roars down unobstructed from the North Pole. Places where, in The Grump's opinion, the climate would need considerable improvement to become merely inhospitable.
Upon this data he bases a kind of melancholy gratitude that fate has not placed him there. It isn't much, but between November and April, melancholy gratitude is the best The Grump can muster. And the exercise gives him a question to noodle: Who first thought those climes agreeable and decided to settle there? Who, after the first winter, would not have moved on to other parts?
One thing is sure.
Ishmael would never have gone there in the first place.
