The new Mary Janes Farm issue for February-March should be out today. I have an essay published in the issue: Rain Coats. There are several nice essays in the “Keeping in Touch” section, in addition to mine. 

Below is my essay from the last issue, if you didn’t catch it in the magazine. It’s perfect timing to share, since we are supposed to get some serious snow tonight. 

Snow Secrets

There is something completely satisfying about finishing the outside chores during winter evenings, then retreating inside to the warmth.  Chores like making sure the horses are fed and bedded down, the water troughs are thawed, or just that last evening barn-check under the stars while taking the dog out for her late walk.  The winter nights are so quiet, especially when it’s snowing. 

I remember one night when the snow was falling gently, then coming down hard, then dumping even more.  Soon we had six inches in the driveway.  Usually, my husband volunteers for the snow removal duties, whether by shovel or snow-blower.  I always thought it was just because he was a good husband, and it was a heavy and time-consuming chore.  That evening, he was out of town and the snow clearing would not wait; I needed to get the car out in the morning.  My boys were little, but old enough to leave unattended for a bit with books and toys to occupy them.  

After dinner I dutifully suited up in snow pants, boots, hat, and mittens.  I briefly considered the snow blower, and then looked at the texture of the light and fluffy snow– a shovel would do for this task.   I grabbed the snow shovel, frowned at the expanse of driveway, then started in.  I prepared for heavy work and sore muscles. 

The first slide of the shovel across the driveway was smooth, like dipping a spoon in soft ice-cream.  The snowflakes continued to fall, sparkling like sugar in the porchlight.  I slid my second shovel path across the driveway, tossing the snow up at the end.   There was only the sound of the scraping shovel. No kids, no TV, no cars driving by.  I pushed the shovel again across the driveway, noticing how bright the snow was, with subtle colors of blue and gray softening nearby fence boards in the night.  Soon I had my rhythm going, making steady progress down the driveway.  Few of my jobs at home or work have such visible progress, this was an exception.  Each push of the shovel made a difference, soon I was halfway through.  I took my hat off.  The night wasn’t too cold, and snowflakes landed on my eyelashes.  I tasted the snow on my lips.  I paused a moment, leaning on the shovel, and looked across the yard to see the horses watching me from their warm clean stalls.  I took several rests, not because the work was so hard, but because the night was so serene.  Bright snowbanks grew in the gray dark, a toss at a time.  The air smelled clean and cold.  I finished the job quicker than I expected, doing the barest minimum so I could get back inside to the kids and the warmth. But I hated to leave the stillness.    

I discovered my husband’s secret that night.  Shoveling light snow on a winter evening is a delight.  Later that winter, I learned that snow-blowing had its own kind of repetitive satisfaction, guiding the machine while chewing through deep snow, watching it spray to the side.  That winter though, our snow falls added up, and the delight of the job faded with time, weighed down by wet heavy snow. The work got harder and harder as the snowbanks grew higher and higher along the edge of the driveway.  But I still remember that first snow, glittering and sparkling around me, flakes floating down and decorating my mittens on the shovel-handle, all sounds absorbed in the soft mounds of snow.