Snow on Postcards
When weather forecasters started warning us of a potentially heavy snowfall for the weekend before Christmas, I checked my pantry for cookie ingredients, canned food, drinking water, and, of course, toilet paper. Satisfied that we had what we needed if the power went out, I asked for two feet of the white stuff. Hubby didn't want a single flake. I pointed out the beauty of heavy snow, how clean and pure snow makes everything seem. He argued that walking becomes treacherous, entry ways messy, and doggies get a little too creative when going outside to potty. And shoveling snow hurts his back.
When the snow ceased on Saturday, 15 gorgeous inches blanketed our wonderland. Everything looked unspoiled, beautiful. The lake sparkled. Two pairs of ducks swam across the cove. If not for the dark green pines and the brown oak leaves, you'd think you were in a totally black and white world.
And then I heard hubby's 1953 Ferguson farm tractor crank up. He worked on our driveway and several others on our street for hours. He claims he hates snow and all the work involved. I believed him when we had horses and had to get water and feed to them, but that was years ago before hubby became allergic to hay and we had to give up our horses. (It broke my heart, but it was the horses or Ron. I chose Ron. I'm glad I did. But I still miss my horses.) Deep down, I think he likes to get on his tractor, show Mother Nature that she can't stop him. But please don't tell him I said that.
Today, deep, crusty snow still covers the ground, makes crossing the yard a dangerous feat for my 45-pound, 18-year-old dog Angus. He slips and falls easily; I worry that he will break a leg or a rib. Yellow Dawg handles it okay, but at 60+ pounds, he's taller and heavier than Angus. I heard yesterday that there's a chance of freezing rain. Hubby and his tractor do not like ice. Neither do I.