Someone at the National Weather Service thought up the name "polar vortex". Cute. Well, we're in one, about the fourth one so far this winter halfway along the eastern seaboard of the United States.
BUT, the birds are singing, and the sun is warm when it comes up. Sun triggers memories: falling asleep on the train to the rhythmic clack of the wheels on the tracks; waking up early to crisp, pre-dawn air blowing in the open windows.
After that first cup of tea, I find a spot to watch the morning wake on the plains of India. From the window, I get a front row seat on the proceedings. Before the seething heat overcomes the lowlands, there is a peace at sunrise.
As we chug through the villages, morning exposes residents squatting in their private sections of field with their water bottles, taking care of morning necessities. The Mrs. is already making the first cup of tea to greet the day. I glimpse the fire winking through the low wooden doorway. I see the Mr. hitching the hulking water buffalo to the cart for the first load of the morning--maybe a lot of little kids in their uniforms, hair neatly oiled and pulled into pigtails with ribbons, going to school.
I peek over the fence at the Daughter sweeping the door yard so the activities of the day can get a fresh start. I see the Younger Brother milking the gentle she-buffalo. If there is some milk left over after deliveries the family might get some in their afternoon tea with their biscuits.
Soon that magic, misty sheen will burn off and the sun will just be up. Horns will blare as we pass lines of traffic. Commuters will join us at each stop and sit on the end of the bunk. Conversations will rise and fall; business will be completed. But for now, there's peace.
BUT, the birds are singing, and the sun is warm when it comes up. Sun triggers memories: falling asleep on the train to the rhythmic clack of the wheels on the tracks; waking up early to crisp, pre-dawn air blowing in the open windows.
After that first cup of tea, I find a spot to watch the morning wake on the plains of India. From the window, I get a front row seat on the proceedings. Before the seething heat overcomes the lowlands, there is a peace at sunrise.
As we chug through the villages, morning exposes residents squatting in their private sections of field with their water bottles, taking care of morning necessities. The Mrs. is already making the first cup of tea to greet the day. I glimpse the fire winking through the low wooden doorway. I see the Mr. hitching the hulking water buffalo to the cart for the first load of the morning--maybe a lot of little kids in their uniforms, hair neatly oiled and pulled into pigtails with ribbons, going to school.
I peek over the fence at the Daughter sweeping the door yard so the activities of the day can get a fresh start. I see the Younger Brother milking the gentle she-buffalo. If there is some milk left over after deliveries the family might get some in their afternoon tea with their biscuits.
Soon that magic, misty sheen will burn off and the sun will just be up. Horns will blare as we pass lines of traffic. Commuters will join us at each stop and sit on the end of the bunk. Conversations will rise and fall; business will be completed. But for now, there's peace.
