Feb 10 2010
It hard to tell where Friday’s blizzard ends and the new snow begins. What fell overnight erased all of our hard work — painting over the plowing, the paths painstakingly worn down from house to barn. The gates dug out and cracked open. Every footprint filled in. We’re back in the snow globe and closing in on 40 inches.
And that would fine if we could hunker down with two cabin-crazy kids. It’s the chores that have become loathsome — and solitary, now that Martin’s back is injured. (He’s on the couch in a drug-induced stupor. I know he’s legitimately hurt, but the timing stinks.)
I’m sick of heaving full manure tubs over the fence. Smashing ice in water buckets. Forcing gates off their hinges. Wading through thigh-high snow to the sheep shed. Throwing down bale after bale of hay. I haven’t even pondered plowing.
Admittedly, there are brief moments of satisfaction. Last night before the snow fell hard, I walked the dog and it was so peaceful. No planes, no cars, not even the echo of a train carting coal down the line. All I could hear was the crunch of snow, breathy animals and the distant tick of an electric fence pulsing away.
Afterward, I fed the horses an evening feast: a hot soupy meal of beet pulp topped with grain, apple peels and carrot bits. It was nice, listening to them slurp and munch with such vigor, in the glow of the barn lights.