Ruminations

Snow is slopping down right now--I see it through my study window as I type. I can also see the occasional little river of run-off, the exhalations of our new sump pump as they flow along their little track, disappearing into the ivy alongside our house. On these wet days, the sump pump is sighing every fifteen minutes or so. We're going to have a swamp out there soon; alligators will arrive.

Ruminate (vb. and adj.). Related to ruminant (adj. and n.).

A ruminant is an animal that chews its cud--literally it ruminates. We are ruminant creatures, too, but in a cognitive sense. We chew our mental cuds, often to no (or ill) effect, sometimes otherwise (usually the former).

And so as I look out my study window right now, I begin chewing my (mental) cud ...

Cud, by the way, is a most pleasant word. Here's what Merriam-Webster says:

the portion of food that is brought up into the mouth by ruminating animals from their first stomach to be chewed a second time

Cud goes back before the 12th century--and has a nasty kind of sound that's most apt.

Anyway, when we ruminate, we bring things back up, too, chew them a bit more. I should say right here, by the way, that I learned this from Joyce, who wrote about the idea years ago. She has always been years ahead of me, even though I'm three years older, by the calendar. So ... I'm late to the party, but I do eventually show up!

Anyway, as I see the sloppy snow falling, I think about all kinds of things--about how I will no doubt have to employ the snow shovel later on--and pay again the kind guy who plows our drive--be even more careful when I walk over to the coffee shop--brush off the car before I go out to the health club this afternoon (if, that is, Desire for Fitness wins out over Desire for Nap)--worry about our son and his family driving up here from Green tomorrow afternoon to celebrate Christmas with us on its Eve--think about how I used to love snow--think about how I dislike it now--remember Dumb Snow Moves I've made ... here's one:

How about driving in a snowstorm from northeastern Ohio into the Berkshires in western Massachusetts (about 570 miles away)--with my wife and son in the car.

Dumb. Arrogant. Irresponsible. Vaguely homicidal--and suicidal.

But I did it. Years ago.

I was young. Dumb. Arrogant. Irresponsible. Etc.

We got there--the place my brothers share for holidays and weekends in the Berkshires--alive, weary, countless hours later. No biggie, right? We did it!

I don't do such things now. I've learned more about ... fragility, I guess. I've realized that Danger has earned his name. I've learned that sloppy snow is more than an inconvenience. It's a murder weapon.

And that, my friends, is something to chew on.