Snow Big Deal
Set adrift again
BLIZZARD the snow has forgotten how to stop it falls stuttering at the glass a silk windsock of snow blowing under the porch light tangling trees which bend like old women snarled in their own knitting snow drifts up to the step over the doorsill a pointillist’s blur the wedding of form and motion shaping itself to the wish of any object it touches chairs become laps of snow the moon could be breaking apart and falling over the eaves over the roof a white bear - Linda Pastan, brought to you from the Poetry Foundation site. It describes the blizzard experience with such clarity.

This weekend
Free from the cloying presence of 20-odd inches of snow piled against the front and garage doors, it’s hard to take my mind back to last weekend’s snowstorm. Curled up in bed, warm under a patchwork quilt, two hungry cats becoming increasingly agitated, I listen to Neil Sedaka (RIP) and riffle through pictures and scribbled notes. The past, very snowy weekend seems impossibly far away, memories dissolving rapidly, replaced by new thoughts, new feelings, new emotions. Three or four redwing blackbirds are by the bird feeders. The signs of spring, though muted, are elbowing their way in. Snow is still thick on the ground. By tomorrow, most of it will be gone.
Saturday, a week ago

My lack of preparation for the previous storm spurs me into action on Saturday. I shop for groceries, stop at the pharmacy, pick up a squirrel baffle for the finch feeder, and fill all the feeders. In the afternoon, Lena asks if anyone wants to play board games at Jamesbrew. Chores done, I join the group in a couple of games of the Partridge Family. The game requires no skills and allows us to chat about everything and nothing.
Sunday
There is little sign of precipitation on Sunday morning as I prepare for the week ahead. Late in the afternoon, the snow starts falling. I settle down to my origami project, Luca beside me, Tabby perched on the loft railing, glaring down at us, defying gravity. It’s not long before the patio chairs, pots and bushes look like frosted confectionery. Snow is sticking to the rosy paper birch trunks. My phone dings - it’s a message from work, saying the site is closed the following day.
Monday
When I get out of bed at 6 a.m. on Monday morning, there is a huge pile of snow all the way up to the front door and it is snowing heavily. In the soft dawn light, the blue-tinted views from my windows are magical. The birds line up at the feeders, perched on every branch of the tree above, swooping down to get stake their claims. The mild-mannered cardinals sit higher up, waiting for their chance. When one doesn’t come, they fly away dejectedly, scattering snow in their wake. An egg hisses and spits loudly on the stove, calling my attention back from the window to my breakfast preparations.
By late afternoon, the birds have had enough. Mourning doves sit heavily on birch branches, looking glum. The sparrows, finches and juncos are still feasting at the feeders.
The snow eases off in the afternoon. By nightfall, the sky starts to clear and I see a bright sliver of moon as I get ready for bed.
Tuesday
As dawn breaks the next day, I can see that the snow plow was hard at work. The roads are clear. My driveway and walkway, not so much. A neighbor posts winter survival tips. “Dust snow off the outdoor gas regulator,” he says. If only I could get to it.
I call Flo to check on her. As we chat, I glance towards the bird feeders. One has disappeared. I look down and see a tiny piece of its handle sticking out of the snow. The baffle is nowhere to be seen. I pull on my boots, a heavy jacket, gloves, grab the snow shovel and march outside. The snow is easy to move. It’s a wet snow that packs well, perfect for making snowmen. I create a rough path to the fallen feeder. It is packed with snow. The baffle is nearby. I bring both into the garage.
Later in the day, I hear the bobcats rumble heavily on my driveway clearing it. When I get lunch, I notice that the walkway is clean too. Neighbors post pictures of their snow menageries. 20” of snow, someone comments.
In the evening, I spy the bird feeder and baffle, now devoid of snow. I haul a stepladder out to hang them on a higher, more secure branch.
Wednesday
It’s the middle of the week by the time they clear the snow from all the parking lots at work and let us back on site. I go through Wednesday morning chores at my usual pace. Chatting with Mum on the phone, I open the front door. There are snowflakes floating down gently and there’s a thin layer on the ground. A squirrel scrambles up the tree, runs along to the finch feeder then doubles back in disgust, frustrated by the newly acquired baffle. In seconds, he is below the kitchen window, giving me the stink eye.
After my 8 am meeting, I open the garage door and lift the shovel down from its hook. There is a delicate tracery of bird tracks in the snow , dotted here and there with paw prints. The squirrel? The resident fox? I can’t tell.
Although the trees are mostly bare by now, small pockets of snow still linger in the crooks of branches.














Another well-told story. You make even horrible snowstorms turn into a magical wonderland.
Those tracks probably came from a duck with hands, IMHO.
That's so much snow! You make it feel very cozy.