It's doing it again right now.
Thank goodness Joe built a plow. (Out of a riding mower without a mowing deck and a plow blade – both given to him by people moving). He taught the girl how to drive it and this last storm she scooped snow to the edge of our ever shrinking driveway and he shoveled it over the berm.
I'm actually not sick of it, the snow, which I hate to admit because I know a lot of you are. But the truth is, it doesn't really cramp my style. Only one of the kids gets snow days. So does the man, but that's kind of a sweet deal. It piles up. I get a workout from shoveling. I need that workout, believe me. I need the motivation to get out there. Work to be done does that. Except when the guy gets a snow day and he says I should spend the day in the studio. And so I do. There was that one part where the roof had to be shoveled, and the enormous icicles entangled the outdoor lights I had forgotten to take down, and we used a dozen or more buckets of hot water (which I sent out the second floor window to Joe who was on the roof) to melt a huge ice dam threatening to damage our roof. That part was a little crappy.
But the rest of it? The garden is under nearly three feet. Dogs wade belly deep to try and find their beloved sticks. We are all bundled in layer upon layer to keep warm. Extra seeds get tossed on top of the snow for our forest friends and to our chickens. The bees quietly buzz away. Snowflakes on your nose. Kids playing in a hammock and flailing themselves off into the fluff. As it starts falling again, I can stand still and watch for what seems like forever. A little in love, a little in awe. I'm convinced it is one of the last magical things as a grown up as I watch it flutter from heaven to the earth…. yeah, I'm still kinda digging it. With soul and biceps.