I don't suppose there is any way to make this sound great: a snowfall of about a foot, at 7 degrees F., with a gusty wind of up to ten miles per hour, building up through the night.
I was greeted with just such a happening this morning. I happened to rise about six thirty. It was quite dark out. Today is January 13, and rosy-fingered dawn had not. When I went to bed last night, we had snow cover about ten to twelve inches deep, but the birds who board with us had been fed with hanging suet cages and a couple of the so-called squirrel proof feeders. In addition, there was a broad valley of bare ground about thirty feet long and as wide as the snow thrower makes it, with millet and the like scattered on it.
A view of the yard caused a very definite change in any standing plans for the morning. In the faint light of an orange glow from the clouds over Saginaw, the landscape looked as though an extremely thick blanket had been dropped over it. The valley was no longer broad.
First of all, some usually hungry birds would waken soon. A large sheet of corrugated box material was pressed into service to allow something to be spread out for the ground feeders, and the other facilities were prepared for an onslaught. Some nature data was obtained. Chickadees get out and start foraging at exactly eight o'clock under these conditions. Cardinals, mourning doves, titmice, downeys and a red bellied woodpecker were not such early risers.
I glanced again at the thermometer and started to dress for the occasion. A wool sweater, a painter's cotton overall, heavy socks, two stocking caps, one on my head, the other at my throat with the tassel jammed in the closure of the jump suit, leather gloves with woolen liners, and finally, rubber boots.
The snowshoes had been useful for getting to the barn the previous heavy snowfall, and were again pressed into service. For the trip to the barn, it was not necessary to make a production of the bindings. Just jamming the rubber boots into the sleeves that go around the balls of the feet made the bear-paws convenient and effective.
The John Deere tractor sat at the barn door, open to let yesterday's sun sublimate snow from its mechanism. It turned over with much confidence and no coughing, as usual. In the sort of weather we have had recently, there is a secret arrangement of throttle and choke that must be found before it will speak. There is then an even more arcane combination needed to have the engine come to life. The battery continued strong as suggestion after suggestion was turned down, sometimes with a backfire to punctuate the process. At last, five or six barks in a row led to the final setting that brought it to life.
A north breeze simplified throwing snow without getting very much in the driver's face, The sun came out, and the deep drifts were soon piled up well back from the driveway. The piece of box board was replaced by a new valley and the food spread as usual.
A situation that involved some challenge had been set right.
Backing at top speed between the snow-walled canyon from the drive to the slight grade in front of the barn door is always exciting. There must be enough momentum to get up the snowy hill, yet the machine must be stopped within a foot or two of the point where it clears the door, to avoid ramming into other machinery.
I walked back from the barn, intensely conscious of the great, rolling, tapestry-folded, dune-like shapes in the immediate landscape. The individual snowflakes glittered like spangles in the brilliant sunshine. The high, curved, walls of snow on each side defined our access to the rest of the world.
Coming to a halt in the middle of the driveway, looking around at the beauty, ready to enjoy some well-earned rest, I lifted my arms to the sky and heard myself exclaim, "I wouldn't trade a hundred acres of Florida real estate for this morning's experience".
I walked in to where Meg was sitting. I was still trying to understand. She had no trouble with it.