This Ain’t No Dream, Baby

Well, I hope Bing Crosby is happy; I’ve been shoveling his dream for the past three days! And yes, I’ll admit that it is lovely on a day with nothing else to do but sit inside by a roaring fireplace, sipping hot chocolate and watching the flakes twirl down in mesmerizing swirl. There is beauty, too, in the long sloping drifts and the curious lips that form over the edges of walls, and in the pockets that surround trunks and posts and whatever else altered the winds that have blown. Lovely, too, are the incredible shapes that formed in such places as the bends in the stonewall planters and above the old green garden hose hanging against the brick in the lee of the southern wall.

But when the wind sends the drifting snow back across the steps I’ve shoveled four times now, it’s harder to appreciate the beauty. When cars stall out on level streets with the ten inches of snow above the layer of frozen sleet beneath, thoughts other than beauty often enter into the realm of consciousness.

There is a certain deliberateness necessary in times such as this, in the aftermath of our first blizzard in twenty-something years. An acceptance of the inconvenience and duty that comes with the sweeping beauty of such a storm. A choosing of sorts that marvels at the mounded snow deep on the rails of the trailer while shoveling a path to the garage and a rejoicing in the blessings of sturdy walls and firewood stacked beside the door. It is easier to consider that even storms bring wonder when we have a well-stocked pantry and a warm place to sleep at night.

H. Arnett
12/28/09