Enough of a Cold Thing

Sunday morning awoke to around 4 inches of snow, and temperature of around zero, with a windchill of minus 11. Ordinarily I would wait until around 10 a.m. and get out the snow blower, once I'm sure that the layabeds are awake and the church people are out or on the way. I don't want the whine and grumble and growl of the two-cylinder motor waking anyone.

But this day I decided to go old school and got out the shovel. The snow was light and fluffy, and the wind not that bad. And with the insulated coveralls and hooded sweatshirt, and winter gloves, all seemed manageable. Plus, I've started exercising, so this seemed like a bit of good cardio. The result was I was outside as the sun rose, feeling the burn and enjoying the dim stillness of a cold morning. I walked around back and shoveled a path to the bird feeders and stocked them, as a chickadee or two scolded me from the nearby branches, I presume for being late. Talk about ingratitude, scolding the hands that feed you. But then, what is an indulgence for me is a matter of life-and-death to them.

I had actually forgotten how beautiful a quiet winter morning can be, presuming one is adequately dressed. Or, for the sake of the birds, with adequate down and feathers. I at least have a warm house to retreat to, with hot coffee waiting.

Later that day the snow started up again, another couple inches. Time to clear the drive again. But this time I got out the snow blower. Shoveling is rewarding, but there can be too much of a good thing. And I wanted to watch the birds from my kitchen table, looking out into the cold stark sunshine, without shivering.