We woke this morning with the first glimmers of dawn filtering through heavy layers of clouds sifting snow onto the landscape. While we were drinking our first cup of coffee hunkered beside the wood stove, the light gradually exposed branches of trees and boughs of pines fat with piled snow. The bushes and our automobiles had become puffy mounds. Snow was spread thick across the landscape the way I, as a child, would spread frosting on a cake.
“You’re putting on too much,” mom would say.
Too much? I wondered, thinking I had been frugal with the frosting. The way I think I’m being frugal with my emotions, though I want to giggle with glee, but as we step out into the weather Ben looked at me and grinned, softly shaking his head.
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
“It is beautiful. It’s a wonderland,” he said. “I wonder if we’ll ever get out again.” But then he smiled and kicked up a puff of snow.
Nature had certainly not been frugal frosting the land overnight, adding nearly another foot on top of what she had piled yesterday. I giggled as we plowed with our legs down to the meadow to do chores. I giggled while I was scooping snow away from the hen house. And I giggled sweeping snow off the woodpile. I haven’t seen snow this deep since the early years after moving to Montana. For now we have coffee and food enough to last through this storm, so I don’t even care if we can’t get out. It’s still a wonderland for me.
I know the weather is going to warm back up again next week and at least most of this will disappear, but perhaps that helps me enjoy it all the more. I feel like I just shed forty five or fifty years and I’m a little boy again.
The greenhouse imitating an igloo