After a delightfully mild autumn, winter arrived with flair the day after Thanksgiving. My phone’s weather app went from reporting the daily high as 20 degrees above average to 20 degrees below it.
Winter storm warnings, interstate closures, ice creeping up the inside of north-facing windows and suiting up in quadruple layers to do chores are abruptly our new normal.
My daughter is delighted. Decorating for holidays is her favorite thing — she wanted to put up the Christmas tree the day after Halloween.
Last week, sick with a puking bug, she lay in her bed feeling miserable and told me, “The only thing that makes me feel better is pretending it is Christmas Eve.”
Now she’s feeling better, AND it finally looks like Christmas? Joy abounds.
I am very pleased with myself as well. I managed to get all the outdoor Christmas lights up before the cold arrived, which is a first, and it is no doubt because the weather stayed mild for so long.
I have also spent the last month savoring every moment outside, actively practicing gratitude that my face wasn’t freezing off yet.
Every blushing dawn, every star-studded night and all the hours in between, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed being unencumbered by the aforementioned quadruple layers, thinking how nice it is to be outside and still move freely.
That gratitude practice came to a screeching halt when last night’s temperatures were predicted to teeter into the negative double digits.
Earlier in the day, I’d been out forking hay in coveralls, a winter coat, thick work gloves and a wool hat, and I’d been cold.
So, for evening chores, I added a thick wool sweater and wrapped a long scarf around my face and neck, but one step outside told me it still wasn’t enough. Crunching into the snow, my boots made the squeaks that only happen when it’s below zero, and the cold felt like it was reaching right through my coat.
Then the sheep caught sight of me, and the chorus of bellowed “baaaaaaas” began. The flock is always happy to see me, mainly because my presence represents the possibility of treats, but in the deep cold, I am even more welcome. I abandoned the idea of going back to add more layers and hustled toward the corral. Their “baaaaaaaas” grew muffled as their many mouths reached for the hay I flung over the fence. Soon, the only sound was crunching.
Beside me, my English Shepherd Luna pranced merrily and then lay down to roll in the snow. Apparently, her fur coat is warmer than mine. She jumped to catch a few sparkling flakes while I finished with the hay and then grabbed the water bucket.
Hefting hay over the fence has its physical challenges, but the actual weight-lifting component is brief. Hauling water across the yard, on the other hand, is not a brief endeavor, especially when you are trying not to splash any out onto yourself.
If I hadn’t already heard the snow squeaking, I would have known it was deep cold then. Usually, I’m warm from the exercise by the time I haul water, but my hands were still freezing as I twisted the faucet and watched my bucket fill.
Two more trips across the yard with buckets, a quick check on goats and chickens and my outdoor work was done. Way back when it was still warm — aka two days ago — my final chore would have been a perimeter walk of the pasture for one last check.
With everyone tucked in the barn by the corral now, there is no need. Instead, I crunched back across the yard, my breath making puffy, white clouds through the fabric of my scarf, my good dog bounding beside me, my body finally almost warm.
And suddenly, I felt just as thankful to be right where I was, encumbered by my millions of layers, as I had previously felt to be free. Why? I don’t know. But I’ll take it.
We’ve got a lot more cold ahead, and if I can still feel joyful to be outside, then I consider myself to be very lucky indeed.
