Reflections - A Snowy, Blowy Adventure

Spence Pulling the First Swath in the Garage Driveway

Sitting by the wood stove fire last Sunday, I gazed awestruck. On the other side of the sliding glass door, plump snowflakes danced in the wind, perched on bare branches, and clung to white pine needles. Enticing. I craved a snow adventure. “Can I help you plow, Spence?”

From my husband’s startled expression, I may as well have asked him if we could skinny dip in the creek on the overcast, 20° F ( -7° C) afternoon.

“I’ll have to call someone to pull you out of a ditch,” he muttered. Then his face relaxed to normal calm. “I made mistakes when I learned to plow.” He set his computer on the table and walked to the coat tree by the front door. “You have to do it outside.” He slipped into a work-soiled, downy vest. “Where it’s cold.”

I bundled. Over my layered-indoor-winter clothes, I pulled on striped leg warmers and my thickest stocking knit cap. I didn’t wrap a scarf around my neck for wind to entangle in tractor wheels and replicate Isadora Duncan’s fatal accident. Nor did I choose my warmest gloves. I settled for the gloves without fingertips but with mitten caps. I could pull the caps off to take photos. Tying boot laces and grabbing my camera, I tramped outside.

Cold smacked my cheeks. Adrenalin warmed my insides. I giant stepped through smooshing snow.

Tractor engine rumbles emerged from the garage basement. Spence drove the Mahindra out the back and around the garage to the road. 

Following, my boots crunched the snow-quilted tire tracks.

Spence cruised along the edge of the driveway by a three-foot drop. Under an old spruce tree, brambles lined the ditch I might need to be rescued from. 

He stopped the tractor, hopped off, and opened the garage door. 

I pulled the mitten caps off my fingers and focused the camera for my first photo—the tractor before I drove it into a ditch.

Spence hustled toward me, clamped a pair of ear protectors onto my head, and shouted. “Watch me do the first pass.”

He jumped onto the tractor, inched it to the open garage doorway, and dropped the bucket onto the ground. Looking over his shoulder, he backed pulling snow with the bucket. At the edge of the road, he swerved around his snow pile, drove back to the garage, and jumped off. “You try. Follow my swath.” He motioned me onto the tractor seat. “Watch for cars.”

Handing him the camera, I climbed onto the tractor and raised the lever to lower the bucket. 

The bucket banged. 

Front wheels lifted.

The tractor bucked like a bronco. 

I pushed the lever down to raise the bucket. Up-down, up-down, up-down. Finally, the bucket rested against the gravel, and all four tractor wheels stayed on the driveway. Twisting in the seat, I pressed my heel and inched the tractor backward. Focusing on the snow behind the tractor wheels, I guided the tractor beside Spence’s swath.

Bang!

Sheesh. Had I hit something, or had Spence slammed his fist against the tractor?

He yelled, “STOP!”

I stopped.

Spence flapped his arms as if trying to fly. “Didn’t you see that speeding car?”

What speeding car? Looking beyond the tractor wheels, I discovered I’d reached the road. No cars in sight. “I didn’t. Sorry.” 

“Watch. Be careful next time.”

Next time meant he trusted me with his tractor for another pass. I pushed the pedal with my toes and inched forward.

Like an aircraft marshaller, Spence signaled—forward, back, lower, raise, stop, stop, stop.

The dragging bucket left a thin layer of snow on the gravel—not as clean as scraping and lifting snow with a shovel, but more fun. When I neared the road, I checked both ways for cars. I made several passes before Spence patted my thigh. 

“This is a tricky part. I’ll do it.” He handed me the camera.

Instead of taking the next swath, about three feet from the mailbox, he drove the tractor to the edge of the garage where we’d started and pulled snow at a ninety degree angle from the first pass. Jumping off the tractor, he reached for the camera. “Don’t hit the mailbox.”

After two passes, missing the mailbox each time, he handed me the camera. “I’ll do the last part.” He finished the lane by the mailbox. Piles of snow stretched across the wide, road-end of the driveway. “Watch.” He lowered the bucket, plowed a third of the snow to the old spruce tree, raised the bucket, and wiggled the lever which changed the bucket angle and dislodged the snow. ”You try.”

Janet Plowing Pulled Snow

I concentrated on each step.

• Push the lever right to tilt the bucket down.
• Raise the lever to lower the bucket.
• Press my toes to move forward.
• Push the lever left to tilt the bucket up.
• Lower the lever to raise the bucket. 
• Push the lever right to tilt the bucket down. 
• Wiggle the lever left and right—tilting the bucket up and down to dislodge the snow.

Phew! How long would it take me to move the levers instinctively like Spence? 

My brain overheated from the concentration, but fingertips numbed. I figured Spence would call a warming-up break. Instead, he grinned as if it were a bright sunny day. “We’ll do the house driveway next.”

Wind chimes clanged. The welcome flag whipped against the porch ceiling. 

From the porch to the road, he pulled a swath beside the house. Repositioning the tractor at the porch end, he jumped off. “Keep the steering wheel straight. Don’t wobble it back and forth.”

Janet Pulling Snow in House Driveway

Twisting to look back and down, I pressed my heel. The tractor crawled. The front wheels slipped. Despite Spence’s warning, I eased the steering wheel—back and forth—to keep the bucket beside Spence’s swath. When he didn’t scold me and didn’t wave aircraft marshalling signals, I drove to the porch-end, heeled the reverse pedal, and pulled. No wonder he didn’t complain about plowing snow. Disregarding the rumble of the tractor engine, riding the tractor—backward in fresh snow—was a hoot.

With one more swipe to clear, Spence gave me the camera. “This is a tricky part.” 

Fine with me. The edge of the driveway sloped down to the north garden—another place I could slip off and land in a proverbial ditch. 

I shivered and struggled to hold the camera still.

He plowed the front parking pad then threw his arms open, his unvoiced ta-da.

“Are we done?” My feet, legs, torso, and arms felt toasty, but cold pressured my fingertips as if I’d run over them with the tractor. 

He adjusted the level of the tractor bucket. “I’m going to make tractor paths.” 

He meant compacting snow on the paths to his wood piles through the fields and around his gardens. More opportunities to slip and slide. 

My nose dripped, and my face burned. I pulled off the ear protectors. Tractor rumbles doubled in volume. I handed the protectors to Spence. “I’ll go inside.”

Inside, the wood stove clanked. Orange flames licked logs. Congratulating myself for not slipping into a ditch, I clutched a steaming mug of licorice tea. The mug warmed my hands, and the steam thawed my face. I gazed through the sliding glass door at wind swirling snow in a picture postcard scene. It didn’t tempt me. I could wait for my next adventure—on a calm, sunny day.

Ta-da!

Reflections - All the Creatures Were Stirring, Especially the Mouse 

Field Mouse under the Christmas Tree

On the deck after dark, the bottom loop of the Christmas tree’s garland wobbled. Branches bounced, and our three kittens dashed to the sliding glass door. A field mouse climbed through the Norway spruce’s needles and selected a sunflower seed birds had dropped from the feeder hanging above the tree. 

Gilbert stuttered. Mrr-mrr-mrah.

Rills pounced against the glass.

Ande shuffled his paws, threw a right cross, shuffled his paws, and threw another right cross—like a mini Muhammad Ali.

The field mouse climbed down to the tree skirt, a red and green plaid tablecloth I’d wrapped around the wash tub sitting on a creeper. The root ball of the three-and-a-half-foot Norway spruce nestled in pine straw mulch inside the tub. The mouse snatched another seed from the cloth. Eyeing the kittens behind the glass, the mouse munched as if eating a snack while watching animals at a zoo. 

Kitten ears stood at attention. Kitten tails whipped in synchronized swipes.

Chuckling at this nightly entertainment, I postponed taking decorations off the tree. 

Though the field mouse wouldn’t harm the spruce, the tree had a better chance to survive the winter the sooner my husband transplanted the tree.

Wednesday, clouds dumped snow. I checked Accuweather. Between the snow and forecasted rain, midday Thursday provided a several hour window of dry. Perfect. The time of day meant the field mouse would be asleep in the pine straw under the tree skirt—less risk of startling the mouse. One Christmas tree planting, Spence and had I lifted a tree from the porch table. That startled the resident mouse. It scampered out of the washtub and over my hand making my spine shimmy like a tower of jello. If I could, I would avoid the scampering-mice-feet tickle this year.

When I returned from lap swim Thursday morning, the kittens sat in a line by the sliding glass door rather than running to greet me. 

Maybe a chickadee perched on one of the spruce branches. I tiptoed behind the kittens.

Gilbert chittered. Rills pounced. Ande paced and threw a right cross.

Beady black eyes looked over kitten ears at me. The field mouse sat on its haunches and stuffed one seed after another into its cheeks. Wide awake. 

Gilbert, Rills, and the Field Mouse

Giving the mouse time to settle in for a nap, I rinsed the chlorine out of my bathing suit, slurped a bowl of homemade chicken soup, and bundled.

Boots crunching snow, I carried a tray to the deck and set it under the eaves in a trace of snow, not the four inches blanketing the rest of the deck. Standing a foot away from the tree, I reached for a sand dollar ornament near the top. Needles scratched the sun bleached skeleton loud enough for mouse ears to hear.

No mouse jumped.

I lay the sand dollar on the tray, reached for more ornaments, and kept a peripheral eye focused on the tree skirt. 

From the white pine stand, a chickadee protested—dee-dee-dee. Another chickadee buzzed over my head. Its beating wings swirling my stringy hair like wind swirled snow. Neither protesting bird nor winged assault nor threat of mouse stayed me from my duty. I untangled the glittering gold garland.

Tree branches bounced.

No mouse scampered out from the needles.

After detaching the white LED lights, I stomped stomped giving the mouse one last chance to run. I squatted and unfastened the safety pins holding the cloth around the bottom of the tree.Tugging, I freed the  the cloth exposing a mouse-nibbled hole in the center. Sheesh. I paused to let any attached mouse scamper then shook the tree skirt.

No mouse fell from the cloth.

Back in the log house, I set the tray of decorations on the kitchen table.

Before I toed out of my boots, three kittens jumped to the table and circled the tray. Chittering, they sniffed.

Uh-oh.

Kittens pawed the cloth. 

Not wanting them to break the fragile sand dollars, I lifted the cloth and tossed it onto the floor.

Plop, plop, plop. The kittens dropped from the table and pounced on the cloth. Rills dug his paw in and pulled the cloth toward him. He dug in again and pushed it away. All three sniffed. 

Maybe I hadn’t shaken the cloth enough. 

Nostrils sated on aroma of mouse pee, the kittens ambled from the cloth to the sofa and fell asleep.

I picked the cloth up. No mouse scurried away. 

I shook the cloth. No mouse fell. 

I folded the cloth. No mouse skittered across my hand.

Spence Digging a Hole for the Norway Spruce

That night, the kittens gathered at the sliding glass door. Tails twitching, they glared at the field mouse gathering seeds from branches.

If I let Spence pull the dolly with the washtub when we moved the tree to plant it between rain showers Friday, my hand would stay safe from a scurrying mouse this year.

Friday morning, Spence opened the front door and reached to the wood pile for a log.

The field mouse popped out between two logs then dove deeper into the wood pile.

Ande and Rills scurried to the door.

Spence lifted a booted foot in front of racing Rills. “No, no. You can’t come after the mousie.” He brought a log inside and closed the door. “I don’t like the mice being that close to the door.” 

I didn’t either. 

Spence sprinkled Tomcat Bait Chunx onto the log pile and waited for the rain to slow.

Under mid afternoon sprinkles, I photographed Spence pulling the creeper down the ramp, lifting the tree into his tractor bucket, and driving it to the end of the field. Angling to get his face in the photo, my boots squished the soggy soil. 

He shoveled, tamped dirt, and spread mulch. 

The field mouse ‘s face, tail, or any body part didn’t appear.

At night, the kittens still gather by the sliding glass door and stare out at deck, country dark without the Christmas tree lights. Chittering, they watch field mice scurry over the deck gathering dropped seeds. 

I chuckle and hope the field mice burrow into the deck flower pots. In case they don’t, my fingers and eyes remain on mouse alert each time I reach for a log from the porch wood pile.

Norway Spruce Planted