Gray days in the Northwest

In that house, once my father had gone, my mother reverted to a version of herself that I had never known before.  In the morning, as soon as she had got out of bed, she would put some kindling in the stove, scrunch up a page of newspaper, and strike a match on the rough surface of the cast iron.  She wasn't bothered by the smoke that would then unfurl into the kitchen, or by the need to wrap ourselves in a blanket until the room warmed up, or by the milk that she would overheat and burn on the scalding hotplate.  For breakfast she would give me toast and jam.  She would wash me under the tap, scrubbing my face, neck, and ears before drying me with a kitchen rag and sending me on my way outdoors: out into the wind and the rain, so that I would finally lose a little of my delicate urban constitution.

--Paolo Cognetti, The Eight Mountains

Seattle today embraces its reputation.  The sky is gray and overcast.  It hasn't rained for perhaps 24 hours, but rain is always threatened.  In fact, rain is forecast within the hour.  The temperature is 43 degrees (6° C.), and hasn't changed by more than a few degrees, night or day, for a number of days.  There is a wind -- not a strong wind but enough of a wind to remind you that it isn't summer.

I love it.  I've been out walking for an hour and a half, and I love it.

If you grew up in California, you'd hate it for obvious reasons.  If you grew up in New England or the Mid-West, you'd miss experiencing a "true" winter, with blizzards and snow perpetually on the ground.  The Cleveland world of A Christmas Story.  But I grew up in the Northwest Corner, and, just as much as the sunny days of summer, days like this were the days of my childhood.

Like the mother in Cognetti's novel, on a day like today my own mother would tell us kids, at some point, to get out of the house and go play outside.  Not merely because she wanted a little peace and quiet -- although that was certainly a consideration -- but because that's what kids should do.  Reading books was great -- my mother was an avid reader -- but we needed to run around on our own with other kids, get cold, fall off our bikes, skin our knees, argue with each other.  It was part of growing up.

When I think of days like this, I think of raw knuckles, red from the cold and wet.  I think of my perpetually runny nose, repeatedly and unconsciously wiped against my bare arm or my sleeve -- whichever was more handy.  I  think of wading in puddles, deeper and deeper, feeling the increased water pressure against the tops of my boots until -- oops! -- I waded one inch too far and the water poured over the top and into my boots, drowning my shoes. 

My mother may have complained, but I can't recall it.  Mistakes like that were the cost of getting me outside.  Maybe even a desired result, at some level of her thinking.

Unlike the mountain cabin in Cognetti's novel, we did have electric appliances, thank you very much.  But we were well familiar with wood stoves -- lighting them using newspapers as kindling, waiting for them to heat up and heat up the entire room, cooking on them.  We had similar stoves in beach cabins and cheap motels we visited.  My grandmother ran a boarding house with an enormous wood stove on which all the cooking was done -- eggs and pancakes cooked in great number directly on the cast iron top.

These memories flooded my mind today as I was out walking in the gray cold.  The vacation cabins.  The coziness of huddling under the covers while my mother or dad got the stove going.  The rain beating against the windows, because beaches in the Northwest may have sun but they also may very well have rain.  Even at home, in my own house, feeling secure in bed as the rain beat against the roof, blew from the southwest against the windows.  Knowing that someone beside myself was looking after me, keeping the elements at bay.

A similar feeling, less intense, years later, in cabins at ski areas, seeing the snow drifting outside the windows.  Wondering if we could make it up to the slopes today, or if today would be a day spent drinking coffee and playing cards and board games, as the snow fell ever deeper.

Or Cornwall. I hiked in Cornwall last May, but I've never been there in the winter. But I've read stories. I can picture the storms brewing at sea, blowing rain and wind in upon the coast. I can see myself walking the shoreline, the damp wind in my face; I can imagine myself camped in a rustic but cozy small house, as the rain beats against the windows. England's weather is similar in many ways to that of the Northwest Corner. In Cornwall, I probably would feel at home.

To parody Hemingway, if you're lucky enough to grow up in the Northwest Corner, wherever you go later, the Northwest stays with you.  A moveable feast.  I lived for a year in Honolulu, a wonderful experience I'd never surrender.  But half way through the year, back in Seattle for a visit, I walked along a downtown street feeling the cold but not frigid wind against my face, smelling the scents off the Sound, and hearing the shrill cries of seagulls -- a bird unknown in Hawaiian skies.  I felt invigorated.  I knew then I'd always love being a tourist in Hawaii, but would never become a permanent resident.

I've walked my daily four miles today.  But I've almost written myself into the mood to walk a few more!