The Grace of Heavy Snow

There are, of course, occasional "special assessments" charged against this lifestyle.  Not that that can't happen anywhere I suppose, but elsewhere they generally fall into the category of "emergency repair or replacement." 
A leaky roof.
A cold hot water heater.
A spent furnace.
A ruptured pipe.
Here they are the presumptive, albeit unpredictable labors of remote and relatively self-contained living.  Like snow removal.  Two years ago, as but one household among a couple of dozen in our townhome association my only winter exertion was complaining when the hired road and sidewalk crew didn't arrive as early as I wanted them to.  That, and an occasional hike up the entrance road when my car couldn't find the traction to best the icy incline and had to be parked down below.  Now five miles out of town on county roads, the last third unpaved, I am that crew -- with no one to complain about but myself. 

But we prepared.  A large hydraulic snowblower attachment replaces the lawn tractor's mowing deck in the winter, and we have gradually accumulated appropriate shovels and pushers, along with the thermal outerwear to encase us while using them.  And I'll admit that at 5:30 a.m. I had other things on my mind than snow removal -- especially since I had just accomplished it all pretty thoroughly yesterday.  As it turned out, however, yesterday's 7-inch snow was only the beginning, never mind the alluring pause that seduced me into thinking the storm had passed.  The early hour notwithstanding, Lori needed to get to work, and though I had no influence on county plows that would be needed on the longer stretches of road, the driveway was in my job description.  And the front porch and sidewalk -- 3 separate times now by this point in the day.  

Strangely, however, I don't mind the effort.  There is something almost meditative about the throbbing engine, maneuvering the tractor through the accumulated layers, aiming the plume of snow in harmless directions and mechanically painting a clearing through which the cars can pass.  The hand tools leave a clear record of accomplished good.  More importantly, after more than a year of drought I look at the snow as a gift to celebrate rather than a hassle to curse.  Though the experts in such matters caution that it will be almost impossible to fully recover moisture levels by summer, I figure every little bit helps.  In the same way that hog farmers sniff the stench and report that it "smells like money," I look at these 12-14 inches of snow and observe that "it looks like irrigation." 

The sky is brightening, and nothing seems to be falling.  The storm seems to have passed, though I've left the shovels on the front porch just in case I've been deceived again.  It's true that my muscles are hoping they won't be needed for awhile, but I feel a certain melancholy about the calm.  It's nice to be "dug out," and the road crews deserve a chance to catch up and then take a break.  But there has been something profoundly gratifying about this price I get to pay for the deep privilege of living here.