Endless visions of white surround the dissolved landscape. From the vast reaches of lucid sight, to zenith and horizon, all that can be observed is fine, talc like powder. The two worlds of sky and land appear to blend together like a photographic set, in faultless unity, as aged snow shapes the dismal world into neutral brilliance. Small particles of crystalline snow hit against his aged Columbia jacket. Staring at the contrast between the blackness of his sleeve, he meticulously scoops, onto his finger, a single flake. Observing the pointed edges with intricate configuration, he watches the ends deteriorate and eventually melt into nothingness.
The silence of this world is deafening in itself. The only sound that can be heard is an occasional swallow as he gulps down handfuls of snow. Rhythmically and mindfully trudging through this open space, he can feel the thinness of winter air. It feels sharp against the warmth of his lungs. The warmth evokes a memory of flying with Janet to Cancun for their honeymoon. How wonderful and simplistic was the past. But the past is forever unobtainable. The memories are gone now; deeply buried beneath the dirt of his subconscious thoughts.
With a heavy sigh, he grabs his fishing pole and begins to feed the line down the hole. There is nobody on the lake, but yet nothing is omitted. Everything is where it should be: the pole in his hand, the icehouse to the right, a gray bucket for bait used as a footrest, and his spirit, satisfied by the comforting condition of his surroundings.
... the Rabbi for his stories, for his appreciation of the world, and also his moral lessons. He loved that the Rabbi ... English Project Snow In August Project The Rabbi and Michael Devlin have a very close relationship because Michaels father died in World War ...
The nights have been cold. The coldness can be felt by the tacit order of eminency. The two powers have flexed their muscles and will stop at nothing until victory is obtained. There has always been a hidden, but very real fear of what may fall from the sky. While children are sleeping, parents step out onto the lawn and observe the heavens- searching for any streak in the night that may signal an attack.
In 1962, the Cuban missile crisis sent a chilling and much needed reminder to America. The Soviet Union is a power that can obliterate our country in the blink of an eye. Consequently, it is imperative that the U.S. defends itself from foreign aggression. Bomb shelters begin to arise and are accepted as underground halos. Additionally, nuclear attack drills are a quotidian token given to us gladly by the Soviets.
We live in a time when citizens are watchful of peculiar activity. We live, now, when evil knocks condescendingly on our windows. We live in fear.
Aside from the whitewashed, snowy location, there stands, with an almost urbane quality and plainly identified by its overuse, a yellow icehouse. The tarp, with distinct folds, flaps liberally in the calm wind. Strings of frayed nylon show its age and weakness under the unforgiving environment it has been subjected to for years. The plastic windows that had once shown as clear as glass are now fogged by decades of summer storage.
Stepping into the icehouse one can smell the combination of fish residue and old, moistened wood. The floor, wooden in composition, squeaks as it is walked upon. An inner glow of the private fishing residence is muted and when the wind blows strong enough, the light appears to release its languidness while dancing carelessly in casual formations. The walls of the icehouse are secured by a metal frame, but at times; allow traces of snow to blow in from the outside.
Still standing and supporting its inhabitants, the yellow icehouse is conspicuously placed and shines brilliant against the monochrome horizon.