Reflections on the Tenth Week of Winter

    I slipped behind the wheel of our new Subaru Crosstrek and inhaled the mixed fragrances of plastic, metal, and adhesives. Though the new car smell will fade, the memory of my first drive Friday morning won't.

    In the parking lot of A. Crivelli Subaru in Franklin, fat snow flakes splatted the white Crosstrek. The car has a flat four engine, five speed manual transmission, all wheel drive, and a higher ground clearance than our previous Imprezas. I shifted the gear stick into first, eased out the clutch, and steered the Crosstrek onto Route 62 South. Driving three blocks on the four lane highway, I adjusted windshield wiper speeds, tested the defrost control, and discovered how to squirt washer fluid.

    Spence followed in our red Chevy truck.

    The new car purred like a kitten. Giddy with pleasure, I tried out the hands-free phone system. I pushed the “Talk” switch on the steering column and enunciated, “Call Spence.”

The control screen lit up and listed 1) Spencer Charles and 2) Spencer Thomas. While I concentrated on city traffic, a female computer voice said, “Say a number.”

    I said, “Two” for Spencer Thomas.

    The computer voice instructed, “Say dial.”

    I said, “Dial,” the phone rang, and Spence answered.

    “The phone is magic!” I said.

    “It's just a phone,” he said. “Be careful. It's slippery.”

    Wipers clicked, and slush swished under the tires. I caught up to a small-sized tank truck on Route 322 by the French Creek s-curves. The tanker slid to the right then fishtailed to the left.

    I recalled the last ride in our previous Subaru–like being in a dodgem car we'd swerved and slid off Adamsville Road into a snow covered field and the side of a telephone pole. In this case, I didn't need the car's computer voice to instruct me. I commanded myself. Don't panic. Slow down.

    I pressed the brake. The anti-lock system engaged and vibrated the pedal under my foot. The Crosstrek slowed increasing the distance between the tanker and me to four car lengths.

    The tanker jackknifed.

    Would it slide into French Creek? Would it crash into an oncoming car?

    At six car lengths behind, I eased off the break and held my breath.

    The tanker straightened and moved forward. More magic.

     I exhaled a gallon of air, gripped the wheel, and stayed eight car lengths behind the tanker till it turned left onto the Utica Road.

    At a modest speed, I wound through back roads to our log house. Muddy slush covered the bottom of the white car and brown icicles hung from the frame. The car still looked new–just winter-driving tested.

Reflections on the Ninth Week of Winter

 

    Instead of packing my swim bag Tuesday, I grabbed my Nikon, a pocket tape measure, and the red handled broom. I walked outside and edged down our snow covered porch steps.

    Following me, Spence picked up his shovel, cleared the snowy steps, and paused in the log house driveway.

    I thrust the broom handle into the snow then gripped it at the snow line with my gloved index finger and thumb. Camera swinging on a strap around my neck, I pulled out the upside down broom.

    Spence laughed. “If only your children could see you now.”

    Was he talking about the calf high boots, striped leggings, black winter jacket, maroon scarf, and blue hat I wore for the falling snow and thirty degree weather? Probably not.

    I slipped the end of the measuring tape under my gloved finger and eased the tape out of its plastic case. Eleven inches of snow lay on the driveway. Sixteen lay over the grass beside the driveway.

    Carrying the shovel on his shoulder, Spence walked to the garage basement door. He shoveled a space for the doors to swing open then revved his Mahindra tractor. He scooped and dumped one tractor bucketful of snow at a time to make a path around the garage and up the slippery hill to West Creek Road.

     I returned the broom to the porch and waded through snow in search of photos. Snow depth varied. Once it came above my waist, but that didn't count. I had tripped over a snow-buried log and fallen on my butt. I circled both fields then slogged downhill and across the flood plain. My boots swooshed in and out of snow waves coming up my legs from mid calf to knee top–fourteen to twenty-one inches.

   Clumps of snow plopped off evergreens. Deer Creek burbled under ice. Chickadees chirped.

    After an hour of aerobic wading through the snow, I climbed the hill to the log house–staggered two steps, paused to pant, tugged my boot out of the snow and staggered another step. Sweat beaded on my neck, back, and arms. I placed the camera on Spence's porch desk and picked up the broom. With blood rushing through my limbs, fresh air filling my lungs, and cheeks tingling from the cold, I swept snow off my leggings then carried my gear inside.

    Spence and the Mahindra cleared snow for two more hours.

Reflections on the Eighth Week of Winter

 When we left for Cleveland Tuesday afternoon, not one flake of snow lay on Wells Wood. The drive home was different. 

   Wednesday evening, after a workday at the Cleveland house clearing clutter, painting, and shoveling snow, we headed east. Fat snowflakes fell. The number of tractor-trailers driving west on Route 322 puzzled me. “Are there more big rigs than usual tonight?” I asked.

    Spence said, “Didn't you hear? The radio said I90 was closed around Cleveland.”

    Windshield whippers clicked. Spence drove the Subaru at 40 mph or less. When he turned on the high beams, glowing snowflakes obscured our view. Low beams highlighted a few car lengths of shiny, snow-covered road.

    In Jamestown, Spence turned onto Adamsville Road. “There will be less traffic,” he said. I wondered how we'd manage the long descent into Adamsville. Luckily, we caught up to a snowplow and followed it down the steep hill. Only twenty more miles to go.

    Spence wound around curves. On the straightaway past Laird, the right front tire hit a two-inch higher pile of snow. The Subaru slid to the right, swerved to the left, slipped back to the right, then fishtailed. To avoid a straight-on collision with a telephone pole, Spence steered the car into a field. But the car slid sideways. The back passenger door hit the pole. The Subaru stopped. Spence shut off the engine.

We gazed at each other and, in unison, asked, “Are you all right?” We were.

    I dug the AAA card from my wallet. Spence keyed the emergency number into his cell. The woman who answered asked, “Is everyone all right?” She took information and ordered a tow.

    A Leonard's tow truck driver called Spence five minutes later. He said he'd arrive in an hour. He had to drive eleven miles back to his shop for the flatbed truck (because he couldn't tow the four-wheel drive Subaru) then drive thirty miles to reach us. “Call the state police. I can't pull you out if the trooper isn't there.”

    Spence called 911.

    We sat in the cooling car.

    “We're alive. We're in love,” Spence said. “What else do we need?”

    I squeezed his hand and quoted Winnie the Pooh. “Together whatever.”

    A white pickup stopped on the road. A hefty man got out, walked to the Subaru, and tapped on Spence's window.

    We climbed out of the car.

    The man asked, “Are you all right?”

    Spence said we were and explained the slip-sliding incident.

    “Do you know who owns this field?” I asked. “Is this the field full of flowers in the summer?”

    “It's mine. The black-eyed Susans will be even more beautiful this year. I'm adding two more acres in the back.” He introduced himself as Dan and offered to let us warm up in his kitchen.

    “I want to stay with the car till the state trooper arrives,” Spence said.

    “I'll come over if I get cold,” I said. “Thanks.”

    “I have to take my son home to write his valentines for school tomorrow, but I'll be back to check on you.”

    We watched Dan's tail lights go down the road a quarter of a mile and disappear into the garage under a farm house with a light shining in the kitchen window.

    We sat back in the chilly car, held hands, and waited.

    Another pickup truck driver stopped to ask, “Are you okay?”

    Spence assured the neighbor we were fine, said the tow truck was on the way, and thanked him for stopping.

    Dan returned with a thermos of coffee and two Styrofoam cups. He poured the steaming liquid and handed us each a cup. “If you don't want to drink it, hold it to warm your hands.”

    Holding the cup did warm my hands. I took a deep breath and savored the aroma.

    “My wife has hot chili ready if you want to come up to the kitchen for some,” Dan said.

    Spence shook his head. “Thanks, but we already ate.”

    “You're welcome to come over if you get cold,” Dan said. He shook our hands and left.

    Spence did get cold around the time a friendly state trooper came and turned on his flashers. He requested Spence's license and the Subaru's insurance and registration cards. When the trooper finished the preliminary report, the tow truck arrived.

    Spence asked the driver, “Can you take us home after you drop the car off at Matt's? It's only three more miles.”

    “My husband's chilled,” I said. “He needs to warm up.”

    “Sit in my cab. It's warm,” the driver said, “but I can't take you home. I have three more people waiting.”

    In the cab Spence shivered, and I called Kathy. Because it was after nine-thirty, the time I'd usually be in my nightgown, I asked, “Are you still dressed? Did I wake you?”

    “Of course I'm dressed. What's up?”

    We arranged that I'd call her when the tow truck got close to Matt's. But when I called back, Kathy said, “Tom's already there. He didn't want you to wait in the cold.”

    In the country, houses may be far apart, but neighbors can be close.

Reflections on the Seventh Week of Winter

      Groundhog Day? Already? Without weeks of snow, ice, and below freezing temperatures, February second surprised me.

    Emma's uncharacteristic behavior surprised me too. Before breakfast on Groundhog Day, I climbed to the loft for yoga. She, the cat who stays inside till toasty-warm end of spring, followed Spence outside when he fetched wood. She roamed the porch and deck. Did she see her shadow? After Spence let her in, I heard marching paws climb the spiral stairs. Continuing her strange behavior, she strutted under my downward-facing dog pose and head butted my breast then my knee. When I lunged over my crossed left leg, she moved to the side of the mat and butted my ribs. Unsuccessful in collecting pets, she lay on her side facing me, purred, and twitched the end of her tail.

    Back downstairs, I bundled into outdoor gear and surprised our other cat by cradling him in my arms. “We're going to look for our shadows.” George bleated what sounded like “no,” but I walked to the middle of West Creek Road with him wriggling in my arms. As if taking groundhog duties seriously, George settled and slowly swiveled his head back and forth. Frost covered grass, gardens, and pebbles in the driveway. A woodpecker called, a chickadee sang, and Deer Creek babbled in the valley. We didn't see a shadow. I carried the groundhog substitute back inside. “No shadow,” I said to Spence.

    “But the sun isn't up yet,” he said. “Of course you didn't see a shadow.”

Spence was right. We had clear skies, and, in our valley, the sun doesn't rise above hillside trees till mid morning.

    After exchanging Groundhog Day greetings with friends in England and taking a windy walk through woods accented by afternoon shadows, I did the math to verify the feeling that we'd had less than our usual share of winter. Of forty-four days, eighteen had below average temperatures and twenty-six had above. In the first half of winter, Wells Wood temperatures average 33.2º F (0.6ºC). This winter, we averaged 36.8º F (2.6º C). I extended the math check with firewood calculations. Folk lore says you need half your firewood left on February second.

February 2	Wood Cut	Wood Used	Wood Left
2015	2 ½ Cords	1 ½ Cords	1 Cord
2016	3 ½ Cords	¾ Cord	2 ¾ Cords

Last year Spence had less than half his wood left on February second. This year he had four-fifths.