Each Sunday we refer back to the tattered paper list we keep on the counter with the title, “Winter Things to do.” Over Sunday eggs and toast, we divide chores according to skill sets. Paul sets off in the truck, chainsaw in the back, down to the woods to cut some blocks we left after doing some clearing for more pasture last spring. I watch the taillights head down Magic Road, Muir in hot pursuit. Part of the reason he is so visible is his bright orange collar, velcro-ed around his neck this morning, A response to the first weekend of hunting season.
I putter around, scrubbing egg from cast iron, browning a pork roast, washing and roasting some of our potatoes for dinner. Afterward I slide incandescent yellow crocs over my heavy socks and head out to the garage to organize wool blankets for a customer coming later in the day.
The calendar says November. Having lived here all my life, I know what is possible, but when we flick on outside lights to let dogs out before going to bed, we notice drizzle, with a little added weight to it. Should not be as much of a surprise as it is when we wake up to a white world.
The leaf piles that lay waiting to be picked up and put on the garden are now large white turtles lying silently on the stone path to the front door. I look down across the pasture and see the garden gate open, frosted with snow and the wagon, waiting, half emptied of leaves, frozen in time.
I open the front door and the dogs leap out, energized by the cold morning air. Muir, having only seen one other winter, lies down and rolls around, every few minutes levitating into the air, intoxicated. Sam, fourteen, stands quietly, his white paws almost invisible. He licks up some of the cold snow then begins his monotonous, car-alarm bark to come back inside and doze close to the wood stove.
When I open the guillotine doors to the coops, the chickens poke their heads out and high-step onto the path I have created with my boots. They lift each leg carefully with a bit of distaste. Only a few old enough to remember.
The weight of the snow, both literal and metaphoric, instills a seriousness to every-day life. At this time of year we doubt the snow will last, but we don’t know for sure. We take careful steps in boots covered with dust having been relegated to the back of the closet for the summer. I braid my hair and pull a knit hat down tight over my ears to do morning chores.
The cold feels hard and clean when I take a breath. Everything slows down, takes more time, is a little harder. I find my step quickening when I go out to check animals in the new early darkness. Being too lazy to grab gloves means fingers get slightly numb so I shake them and jam them into the pockets of my barn coat. I hurry tossing straw for bedding, anxious to return to the wool blankets of my own bedding.
In the house again I take several sticks from the wood box and toss them into the stove. I turn on the outside light and watch newborn icicles drip from the rooftop. I listen to the tick of the wood stove expanding simultaneously with the tea kettle’s. This time of year I love being cold because it makes me relish being warm.
Everything has suddenly changed. The first snowfall, always unique and unexpected, reminding me of the futility of planning. Early darkness and cold pushes me inside, the new snow making my world still as I sip tea.