A Fool in Winter

Ice is falling from the sky, little shards and pellets of car-glazing misery that I’ll have to contend with eventually. Much as we love the unobstructed view from the porch as it gently rolls to a stop at the entrance to the old old goat barn, I’d be willing to give that up right now to see the hulking side of a well-constructed garage.

Off work all last week and no plans to head down the driveway to anywhere (‘cept the post office to mail copies of the new book to kind readers), news of the approaching historic winter storm landed with a soft flummmp even as I imagined the work of clearing windshields with naught but a 6” scraper and my own determined elbow grease (the viscosity of which would no doubt be thickened by the predicted -10 windchill). Just knowing I wouldn’t be making the daily commute to work kept my already steady blood pressure at soothingly normal levels. We filled some gallon jugs with water for flushing the toilet in case the power went out, checked the fuel in the kerosene heater and finished up two loads of laundry. I even made a couple batches of granola for Saturday’s indoor market so we wouldn’t be caught short on the new cranberry orange pecan flavor making its debut. I was the poster child for disaster preparedness.

I’m also a hopeless romantic when it comes to seeing the trees dressed in a thin coat of sheer crystal, their branches clacking softly against each other as the wind pushes through them. If we really do get the seven inches of snow they’re forecasting after the sleet has had its say (sometime between late Thursday afternoon and Friday evening), I’ll be a happy soul, lost in the white drifts that will most likely seal the backdoor shut until April. I don’t mind walking the extra steps around the house to empty the kitchen compost buckets. With the birdfeeders on the way, I can linger outside refilling them and watch from the front deck as the sparrows and mourning doves jockey for position on the one that looks like a vintage porch swing.

So mid-morning on Thursday, with ice falling from the skies, I suited up in enough layers to keep me warm yet still allow me to move my arms, grasped the foam-covered handle of that humble 6” scraping tool and got to work on the truck and the smaller Hyundai Kona. With the heaters going full blast in each of them, I was able to clear the side windows and windshields in less than twenty minutes. I felt purposeful and sturdy while jackhammering my arms and wrists against the stubborn accumulation of ice (I’d be regretting that in the morning, I can tell you. Raise a glass to Advil) but filled with the satisfaction that I was making Friday’s snow-brushing chore that much easier.

Too bad the sleet didn’t have the same timeline or agenda.

Within three hours, both vehicles were encrusted again, and my muscles made it clear there would be no round two against the elements. I consoled myself that at least the new layer of ice wouldn’t be as thick as it could have been. Plus, the birds were happy and the compost buckets empty. Hey—a win is a win.

Against a backdrop of greys and browns standing patiently in the thickness of white at their feet, I surrendered to the power of a winter storm, accepted defeat most graciously and headed inside where Patrick (also off work thanks to his employer’s good judgment) had set up one of the folding market tables in the living room. On the warmer side of winter’s stunning snow-covered vistas, we put our hands to art, making beads from thin strips of magazine pages, rolling some of them in paint and setting them to dry on toothpicks stuck into a block of styrofoam as white as the snow on the front porch.