Now in our New England valley we begin the year with the big snow. We have an appointment with winter, and we are ready. The woodshed is stacked with seasoned applewood and maple, the snow shovel leans at the back door, the shelves are jammed with supplies. when the first innocent flakes drift down, we put out more suet and fill the bird feeders. (The grocer says he can’t keep enough suet for everyone simply snatches it.)
When the snow begins to come in all directions at once and the wind takes on a peculiar lonely cry, we pile more wood on the fire, and hang the old iron soup kettle over it, browning the pot roast in diced salt pork and onions. As the blizzard increases, the old house seems to steady herself like a ship against a gale wind. she has weathered too many winter storms to bother about a new one! Snow piles up against the windowpanes, sifts in under the ancient sills, makes heaps of powdered pear; on the ancient oak floors. But the house is snug in the twilight of the snow and we sit by the fire and toast our toes feeling there is much to be said for winter after all.
The Stillmeadow Road