Well, they were right.
After weeks of wrong guesses, the snow finally came in droves. Not just a dusting. A full past-your-knee plunge. Drifts that engulf the side of a building. A white mountain that swallowed Alan’s car whole.
The situation is nowhere near ideal. The plow truck is down by the cabin with a flatlined battery. We went through the typical machinations: should we keep it? Sell it? It has served us well. Maybe it’s time to go… Either option takes work. Even ending requires starting.
And so it sits.
We have animals to feed. A path to clear. Alan bundles up to take the first shift. He’ll plow a path with the tractor. He’ll be out in the elements, but in moments like these, any motor will do.
I sit inside and wait my turn. Two pairs of pants, a shirt, a thick wool sweater at the ready.
I’m not ready.
I move a few pieces of firewood into the living room to keep busy. The stove glows like a hot coal. The cold seeps in around the edges. The farmhouse walls are thick of brick and stone, as wide as my torso from side to side. But when rock and stone get cold, they stay that way.
I suppose that’s true for people too.
Alan comes in to warm his hands. I take my turn. I walk through the garage, the only door we can open. The snow blows in and it doesn’t close. I wade through drifts as high as my hip, first to the chickens and then the ducks. I lose my balance at one point, but go nowhere. The ducks climb a bank to the top of the fence, then realize there’s no where to go. They decide to turn in early today.
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