Snow at last-- be safe, though.

So, it's Sunday. And it's snowing-- we haven't gotten enough to make it worthy of "storm," but it's out there making things look a little less brown/gray/faded. 

There's a poem that lurks in my head, one by Robert Frost, that really creates the tension of living in the north country during a real hum-dinger of a snow storm. It's titled, "Storm Fear," in which he confronts the direness of being snowed in full-on. He calls the storm a "beast" and the speaker assesses the situation, finding that he, and his small family, will likely not be able to survive without outside help. 

I haven't been in that situation too many times, but there were a few when I was growing up in northern Vermont, one winter in particular, when the snow had us blocked in tight; well below zero with a wind, and the drifts packed against the doors several feet up. The road was impassable for days, until they got heavy machinery to clear the drifts. Snow was packed so hard, it could not be shoveled out of the way, more like chipped at. And the cold was relentless as well. 

That was our first winter in Vermont (1978-79), and it was a brutal orientation to living so far away from pavement, other houses, and safety, if we needed it. 

Here's Frost's poem. Have a good day and stay warm!

C

Storm Fear

When the wind works against us in the dark,
And pelts the snow
The lower chamber window on the east,
And whispers with a sort of stifled bark,
The beast,
‘Come out! Come out!’—
It costs no inward struggle not to go,
Ah, no!
I count our strength,
Two and a child,
Those of us not asleep subdued to mark
How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length,—
How drifts are piled,
Dooryard and road ungraded,
Till even the comforting barn grows far away
And my heart owns a doubt
Whether ’tis in us to arise with day
And save ourselves unaided.