We’ve weathered monster snowstorms before. The ones etched most firmly in my memory are a couple of double-punch storms in a week totaling well over three feet: one in 2010 that had us snowed in for nine days—we had to sled groceries in from the main road!—and the 1996 blizzard that struck when my daughter was about three weeks old, and we were very new to rural living. As both of those storms hit, my husband was reading The Long Winter to our kids. After 2010, we banned that book. But to no avail. With no whisper of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s words in our house, this weekend’s SINGLE storm dumped over three feet and left behind drifts five feet and higher. As I write this, we are still snowbound and waiting on a friend with a big plow.
As the snow fell, so quiet and lovely, Rick captured this lovely image, and I was reminded of Emily Dickinson’s poem.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers –That perches in the soul –And sings the tune without the words –And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –And sore must be the storm –That could abash the little BirdThat kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chillest land –And on the strangest Sea –Yet – never – in Extremity,It asked a crumb – of me.