Reflections on the Sixth Week of Winter

When I drove home Tuesday night, the waxing moon shone above the garage, Orion glowed over the log house, and the mailbox was missing. I greeted Spence with “Hi, Sweetie. What happened?” He said, “I didn't think you'd notice.” Late afternoon, after I'd left for Meadville errands and a quilt lecture on color in Saegertown, Spence had plowed the driveway with the Mahindra. He was backing up to pull snow with the bucket when the front wheels slid. Spence tried to straighten the wheels. The tractor kept slipping and hit the mailbox. “I just tapped it.” The box fell. The post had rotted–only ice had held the box upright. Wednesday morning, when the temperature had risen from -2° to -1°, we drove to Carlton Post Office. The transgender postmistress helped with the hold form. She suggested putting a box on a sawhorse till the ground thaws for digging a post hole. Spence has ideas to build a wood stand for a temporary box. In the meantime, the frigid scenery on the 7.7 mile round trip to fetch our mail is a winter delight–sunshine, snow-lined twigs, icy French Creek, and frosted ornamental grasses.