The weather report announces snow days are coming. Having lived rurally for half my life, I heed the call and first thing in the morning set out to bring in supplies. Once at the store, I can’t tell you how many friends I run into doing pretty much the same thing. We don’t chat for long. We are all on the same errand. Snow>Supplies>Home.
Onions, carrots, potatoes, greens, dry beans, apples, bananas, butter, cream, coffee, tea, flour, sugar, crackers, cheese, eggs, oats, cornmeal, rice, cat food, dog food, and a bone for Gretapie. I’m prepared for pretty much anything.
Chores next. Unload car, stow everything away, bring inside armload after armload of cord wood, kindle fire in the wood stove, head to the kitchen, start beans to soak for soup, add wood to stove between each chore. I want to wash my floor. Do I have wool for knitting? Books? If I run out, which favorites will I re-read?
What is it about this kind of weather that sends me into nesting mode just like before going into labor with the births of my children?
The sky, so clear a few hours earlier, is now a flat gray blanket. It’s coming.
Tiny flecks of white land and immediately melt on the deck.
The temperature drops and larger ones begin to stick.
Stir soup, stoke fire, see snow. White on deck.
Steam builds on windows as soup simmers.
Snow day music, mainly Celtic, and early Joni…you know, Mitchell.
The grass is white. The sky darkens even more as the cloud covered sun passes beneath the invisible horizon.
A silent white world greets me in the morning. Embers remain from last night. Rekindle fire.
Feed Gretapie and Fez. Start coffee. Stoke fire. Bring inside more wood.
Fill a big stock pot full with water in case it goes out like it threatened to in December.
Check candles and lantern fuel if needed.
I hate these new boxes of green tipped safety matches that don’t light as easily as the old blue tip ones did.
I see my neighbor’s car is still at home.
No School. No Busses. Snow Day.
The walk to my front door is covered with white.
Another neighbor comes over to shovel it and clears a path to the woodshed, too.
I bake a pie to take over later as a thank you.
Bring inside more wood. Stoke stove.
Afternoon comes. Still snowing. Evening comes. More snow.
Reports come in. Roads closed.
How high is it where you are?
When there is a break, Gretapie zooms around leaving visible tracks of glee.
Mr Fez looks out the door and turns back inside.
I bring in more wood.
Sunday Supper with my son and his girlfriend.
We spoon up beans of long simmering black bean chili, and melt butter pats on hot corn bread baked in a cast iron skillet just out of the oven.
Gretapie follows them to the gate. Hopeful. Might we walk tonight?
Back inside. Stoke stove.
Snow falls all night. I get up once to stoke the fire and look. Deeper now. So quiet.
I shovel snow off the paths in the morning.
I am so stylish in my flannel nightgown, black boots, jacket, and knit hat.
Bring in more wood. Kindle fire.
Feed Gretapie and Fez. Make coffee. Stoke stove.
Shovel paths. Soak beans. Stir soup.
Quiet now. Snow falls.