White world

The first time it snows, you notice. Everyone runs to the supermarket and buys bread and milk. Just in case. And the next few times there’s talk of closing the office or schools. Then the reality sets in that this isn’t going to stop. Get used to it. Life can’t afford to stop.

This is a different winter.

No more wondering what the weather will be tomorrow. You know. No more waking in the middle of the night to see if the predicted snow really did come. You know. You know the drill. The stuff is deep and still coming.

You wake in the dark and get ready for work in the dark. Gortex jacket, gloves, scarf, hat. Some mornings the night’s dump is a light enough drift to use the broom, but most days it’s the blower and shovel. House to car in the garage is easy, but the minute you hit the drive you hear the squeaking crunch of tires on dry powder.

Too cold to be slippery. Too cold to freeze and thaw. Yet somehow, a dash to the mailbox or across the yard in shirt sleeves doesn’t feel all that bad.

Life takes on a rhythm of black and white. Black road surfaces, white drifts. Black tree limbs, white etching. Black pine boughs, white frosting on every branch.

Some days it’s all you can do to keep ahead of the piles. The Tech, a Michigander to the core, takes on the challenge. Mikey, retired next door, also rises to the task. The blowers hit the drives simultaneously in a race to see who can clean it up fastest. Then two hours later they are back at it. Cell phone communication keeps on through the day.

“What do you think? Hit it again or wait an hour?”
“Maybe wait.”
“I don’t know. I’m heading out before then. Can’t let it get too deep.”

The guys who plow for a living are making a killing. And dropping over with exhaustion.

Sunshine eventually peeks through the drifts at some point most days, turning the world to glitter. Clouds scud across a powder blue sky tinged with pink by evening. Dark closes in early, ending the day as it began. Comfort food beckons from the kitchen.

Time will come when the temps will rise and a mere 40 degrees will feel like summer. Lawns and streets and trees will emerge and take on shape. Gingerbread houses, eaves deeply frosted, will melt into normality. The sun will rise before eight.

But for now, it’s deep and white. Cold and dark. And totally delightful.