I haven't referred to a Fred Armisen SNL skit in a long time. But that doesn't mean he isn't ever-present in my thoughts. (Ah, Mr. Armisen...may I call you Fred?) Today's post brings us
here: as a prelude.
Some people long for hustle and bustle. Some folks love big cities with their lights and noise and the sense of excitement and importance that comes from a never-ending variety of things to do involving crowds and clamor.
You won't find me in that category. A hurried, agitated life has never seemed remotely appealing. This might have more to do with being inherently, incurably lazy rather than the fact that I am an introvert. I take no particular pride nor shame in this confession. It is what it is.
But being an introvert means, rather than reacting with horror at the recent record-breaking amounts of snow-fall, I am overjoyed. To be able to use the weather as an excuse to remain isolated from the rest of humankind feels like a benediction rather than a curse. The snow is veritable manna.
I don't know how many introverts there are in Obedin. Something tells me people around here have better things to think about than what en vogue personality type they belong to. But introverts or extroverts, everyone eventually needs to get out and shovel their driveways clear. Just as eventually I realized that if I am ever to rid myself of this 8 lbs of travel-acquired, food-overindulgence, I must get out of the house and
move.
So we're back to walking through the village these days. And everywhere we see the same ingredients for our visual stew: piles of snow, shovels, cold hands, sweaty brows.
This woman is 82. I dislike infantilizing the elderly. I know she can shovel that whole mess herself. But should she have to? Not while my fat roll is present, just begging for a little to be sweated away.
There were other ladies shoveling across the road and, for once, very few cars passing by. About one every quarter of an hour. I suppose that makes it as good a time as any to start talking about dead husbands and children. Sharing death stories in the cold quiet of a winter afternoon with our breath hanging in the air and the rhythmic scrape of shovel into snow.
Those are the times when you put your camera away and just listen.
Foanza was down the road a bit hanging out at the tractor factory, helping them clear their roof and yard.
Photographing on such a gray day is really difficult because the camera can't figure out where to focus. But it didn't matter to Foanza, he wanted an action shot and wouldn't quit shoveling. Not even when he was looking back over his shoulder to grin for the camera, throwing snow willy-nilly.
A professional photographer would have no problem with the monochromatic background. But of course I'm not a professional by any stretch. So I struggle.
But I love how the snow and sky act as a canvas for the fences and gates. I have walked by these every day for a year and I've never noticed the colors in half of them until the snows came.
The snow has made the village new. So I'm back to carrying my camera whenever we venture out.
I suppose the presence of the camera morphs me into someone foreign once more. People stop and stare as if seeing me for the first time. "Doamna, pentru ce aveti aparatul de fotografiat?"
Why do you have that camera? they ask.
"Ca sa pozez zapada."
I am taking pictures of the snow I reply. "Nu ninge unde locuisec."
It doesn't snow where I live.
A quizzical tilt of the head. "Zau? Am crezut ca ninge in Italia."
Really? I thought it snowed in Italy.
