“Is it big snow or a mood, that arrests the inhabitants of snow land? At dawn, or before, as you move your head off the pillow, cocking an ear towards the visceral weight of the outdoors having changed while you slept, or slept fitfully, half aware of something pushing on your place, altering it, a force awaiting your response, yet, you might turn over, adjust your pillow, and go back to sleep, buying time, before you must enter it. It hits on everyone, with more, or less, cruelty, or, absolution. I have both joy, and sorrow, attached, to what I feel while still under the covers. I may rotate, inexplicably stricken one moment, then at peace, and then focused, as the largesse of weather begins to define my day, before coffee, before I have even taken stock, of what my life has become, according to what last I can remember, of who I was. Yesterday seems far, far away. However its bullet points, & where it steered me, are really all I have to stand on, standing side-by-side with today’s extremis, the immediacy of apparent obstacles awaiting me, as I quickly comprehend their requirements. No one will be able to get in. Literally, the road will be impassable. At least, for a while. I may not be able to even get to the garage, without a major effort. And no one else is here, to take on the role of the strong one, the one in charge, the protector, unless it is me. It’s how some lives go; don’t ask me why. I wish I’d gone snow pants shopping with Nikki, while we still had the harshest winter months still ahead of us. But somehow, I was too busy. I couldn’t juggle it all, the least of it, snow pants. Or a day of shopping, and maybe a leisurely lunch, with a friend. I regret that now. For I see now, the path I will forge today, in jeans, and long underwear, with one pair of boots with a frayed lace, and one with holes, and it is a path of wet, and cold and fortitude in the service of property maintenance. Call it survival, though, that is a bit dramatic. I won’t be dying in my tracks, not today. I’ve got health, for the moment, and good neighbors, & nearby family, who would help me, in any pinch. It’s just that all of us, everyone of us on this mountain, is doing the same kind of dance with snow this morning, the same tractor contemplations, shovel assessments, some with child care issues, some with depression, some with lack of funds. I’m not special, just important in my own mind, in terms of how I must rally. The simplest place to begin, is my open air mudroom, now filled with a foot of snow, draping boxes of joist hangers & extension cords with layers of white, frosting dry wood piles, coating antique storage boxes, and post and beam timbers. This will lead me to the outdoors, the walkways, the blocked entrances to wood shop, and wood storage. The well head, the gas vents, the kindling supply, the narrow passages to guest accommodations, and overwhelmed shrubbery. I’m not nearly set up for blizzards, yet, not nearly. Lack of a man, I will say it without excuse, is something I feel acutely during storms. As much as a person can love storms, wild horses, lost routes to the North Pole, and secret gardens, I am still a waif at the crossroads. And despite the eventual arrival of a skid steer, and the polite young driver sent to dig me out, I am ashamed of my need. I’ve shoveled for hours, to minimize the scope of his chores. Over compensating, I guess, because the day is now given over to micro-managing snow removal. I fine tune the whole operation at the end of the daylight, with a broom. Making sure to move the lumber scraps, so that I can sweep behind each board. My head hits to bird feeder, raining seed down, onto a snowless porch. Damn, I think, I’m good. On the long side of the decade, maybe someone, some misguided polar explorer, will find me here, and build a bonfire, and cook some meat, and share his grog. Just short of that, I’m still holding down a massive fort, for the children, for the gods.”
