The dead air space in between the layers will stop heat from leaking to the outside of my home and keep the heat in. Then the windows will not be so cold... and the heat won't escape. WHAT A BUMMER NO FROST!TO SPOIL A WONDERFUL SITE TO BE HOLD
Bring back memory of my younger years.
"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening", Robert Frost, 1923.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.'
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by Dr. Jeffrey Lant
I awoke this morning to find as Samuel Taylor Coleridge did in 1798 all had been, o'er night, transformed. This great poet wrote ("Frost at Midnight"):
"The Frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry Came loud -- and hark, again! loud as before."
There was no owlet crying outside my aerie, but I could hear the scurrying squirrels who, glad for the heat in the rafters, made merrie at this unseasonable hour, oblivious to my disapproval.
I peered out the window, or attempted to. The Frost had well and truly come, exhibiting its meticulous work. No longer glass alone, my windows are etched with a brilliant mosaic of pristine silvered white, more intricate its pattern than any lace made by expert Belgian hands.
I was the sole denizen of a crystalled box, the wintered land wore hoar frost... and I was its close observer, transfixed by such a stunning surprise, all mine, a thing of beauty alluring, sure of my attention and regard.
The Frost had, indeed, performed its "secret ministry."
I checked the temperature... 14.7 degrees Fahrenheit... unseasonable... the kind of cold for which the word "cold" falls short, inadequate to the task of accurate description of an event which affects all but few scrutinize or pause to consider.
How had my windows been turned into frost-etched images fit for the palace of a winter king? These are the true Old Masters.
To begin at the beginning, what is frost?
My dictionary says that frost is a deposit of minute ice crystals formed when water vapor condenses at a temperature below freezing.
This tepid definition ill suits something as beautiful as the stunning surface before me... this joy engendering gift of the cold cries out for better words, a clearer picture of its radiance. It is too early for such words to come from me... but they, like the rising temperature, will come.
5:10 am
But if the effect of frost etched on my windows is poetry, the means by which this poem came to be is...prose... and assaults my pocketbook and frugal mien.
The reason there is frost on my windows is prosaic and alarming; it is because my house is losing heat, probably because the windows are single glazed.
This, a good contractor might assure me, could be taken care of by making a frame that fits inside my window frame and then stretching plastic over it to double glaze my windows.
The dead air space in between the layers will stop heat from leaking to the outside of my home and keep the heat in. Then the windows will not be so cold... and the heat won't escape.
This practical solution, beloved of the Yankee mind hereabouts, saves money... and ends any prospect of frost, its beauty, evocations and the delight in a marvel etched in ice for my delectation and happiness.
I think I shall leave the windows single glazed. And so go out to see the universe transformed.
5:20 a.m.
This all-pervasive cold, helped to its ascendancy by the deep chill of the nearby Atlantic, winter bound, turns all of us into friends... and survivors.
People who in temperate days make clear their disinclination to know you, much less even the most significant of your opinions, on days like this, enlivened by frost, seek out any and all wintry travelers and utter such insights as
"Cold, isn't it!"
"Wow, this is the coldest day yet!"
"Cold enough for you?"
These unadorned sentiments make us remember that we are all traveling together, and are glad, from time to time, to recall... and reach out. We feel better for doing so, though of course we do not want to make a habit of such welcomes. There is, after all, no telling where that might lead...
5:31 a.m.
I have left my sheltered perch, snug despite the single glaze, and now without to see first-hand what frost has wrought. Including those who, uncomfortably, watched its advent and quick possession: the homeless, with nothing, experience nature's all... often, in seasons such as these, unto death itself, more silent than the frost.
Hypothermia is the enemy here, and its presence is noted. It is primarily an urban problem; cannier country folk are too smart and seasoned to fall victim to this malady of negligence. It is a condition afflicting mostly men, homeless, drug and alcohol addicted, mentally ill. Nonwhites over 65 (victims ready made) are four times as likely to succumb as whites, a statistic that comes alive as I enter Harvard Square and see those who chose to mark frost's advent by turning down the kindly meant offers of shelter from good Samaritans.
The truth is, despite pressing invitations from the well-meaning, these people, mostly men, decline the bed and the appalling sight of so many like themselves; it is too real a reminder of where they started... and where they have ended up. Of 60 homeless people offered last night a bed and relative comforts,only 2 accepted. Their freedom comes at cost to the Samaritans, for they could easily oversee the human flotsam within the shelter; now they must check and check again throughout the night. So freedom for one, becomes extra labor for others.
As for the rest, they chose freedom... to live, and to die, their own ways. For make no mistake, such men, falling too soon and unprepared to sleep, prove what frost and cold can do... for they are killers, too, ready, certain, deadly... and always, beautiful.
6:11 a.m.
It is time now for me to return home, cheered by the thought that I have, this frosty day, seen things of value and importance; I have seen things and learned what scurrying neighbors will today miss, as items too common to be regarded, much less truly seen.
My wintry poets stand ready at my return.
There's Shakespeare, from "As You Like It."
Blow, blow, thou winter wind. Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude. Thy tooth is not so keen, Although thy breath be rude.
Then Thomas Campion's "Now Winter Nights Enlarge" (1617).
"Winter: A Dirge, Robert Burns, 1781.
Winter Heavens" George Meredith, 1888.
"Sharp is the night, but stars with frost alive Leap off the rim of earth across the dome."
Then always and forever...
"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening", Robert Frost, 1923.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.'
***
And so do I.
About The Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., where small and home-based businesses learn how to profit online. Dr. Lant is the author of 18 best-selling business books. Republished with author's permission by Lawrence Rinke http://ActionEqualsProfit.com.
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