By Pam Hadder
Winter is hanging on - and I’ve been kicking myself for
changing all but four windows in my little war-era home. Affectionately called “the
sugar cube,” the house is modest but solid, with touches of character and craftsmanship
that used to be basic, but are a lost art today.
A few years back, I received a performance bonus, and used it to change out aging windows in the sugar cube, musing happily about the improvements I’d see on my heating bills – all but a small-ish bathroom window, a mid-size kitchen window and two leaded glass piano windows with harlequin-suit-like diamond panes were removed and replace. The old windows which remain are more predictable than the weather channel - you know it’s getting cold when they fog over, and eventually form icy glaze that can transform into elaborate Jack Frost works of art – unique crystalline patterns, feathering, swirling and spreading across the hyper-chilled surfaces; never two works the same.
A few years back, I received a performance bonus, and used it to change out aging windows in the sugar cube, musing happily about the improvements I’d see on my heating bills – all but a small-ish bathroom window, a mid-size kitchen window and two leaded glass piano windows with harlequin-suit-like diamond panes were removed and replace. The old windows which remain are more predictable than the weather channel - you know it’s getting cold when they fog over, and eventually form icy glaze that can transform into elaborate Jack Frost works of art – unique crystalline patterns, feathering, swirling and spreading across the hyper-chilled surfaces; never two works the same.
My old windows made me recall my young self – perhaps seven
or eight years old, coming into the back entrance of the family bungalow
to change out sopping wet mitts bedazzled with confounding ice nubs, and warming
frozen toes by the electric baseboard heater, before returning to the snow drifts, starry
night sky and fort-building. I was
rather famous (in my mind!) for my snow fort construction, including
manufacture of my weapons-of-choice: double-iced snow balls! At all times, my army of one was ready to
fight off the enemy. Of course, my
warrior fantasies were only acted out in my imagination, and the ammo was never
used. The stockpile would freeze to the ground in a lumpy mass – no surprise
that it was the last thing to melt in March, leaving a dead spot on the lawn
that my parents attributed to the dog’s “business!”
I recall dreaming about being a princess, a Spanish dancer, a cow girl and other fanciful things while staring at the frost patterns on the back door glass; seeing fanciful shapes in the intriguing abstractions. Sometimes I would drag fingernails through the frost and contribute my interpretations to the surfaces; carving and tracing my visions. I wonder how many kids still do this? Have they even seen Jack Frost’s paintings? Could I sell admission tickets to the daycare kids across the lane? I am doubly blessed – windows that predict the weather and which create artistic interpretations of winter schemes.
I recall dreaming about being a princess, a Spanish dancer, a cow girl and other fanciful things while staring at the frost patterns on the back door glass; seeing fanciful shapes in the intriguing abstractions. Sometimes I would drag fingernails through the frost and contribute my interpretations to the surfaces; carving and tracing my visions. I wonder how many kids still do this? Have they even seen Jack Frost’s paintings? Could I sell admission tickets to the daycare kids across the lane? I am doubly blessed – windows that predict the weather and which create artistic interpretations of winter schemes.
