In the breezeway between the house and the garage, I take a peek out into the world. The drift out the front door has reached half way up the plexiglass storm door, making it impossible to open. Our back door is a little better, but not by much. This door is openable, as the snow is only drifted up the door a few inches. But, the snow has snuck in through the cracks under this door and is creeping across the green braided rug like flour spilled by a two year old. Luckily, the wood is in the garage, no need to venture outside in my pajamas.
The snow has also snuck in around the garage doors, window jams and cracks in the siding. The first pile of kindling right by the door is dusted with whiteness, not good for starting a fire. The second pile has been slightly protected by the rummaging and tossing aside of an old sheet of plastic yesterday, (when I was looking for extra snow pants, as the originals have been left at school). The snow has tried to invade underneath the plastic as well. I dig deeper into the pile of wood scraps to find enough dry cut offs to begin the day.
Inside the house, the coffee is hot, the kids are awake and there is a slight glimmer of a single glowing coal underneath the ashes in the stove. With the kiln dried pine, the fire lights easily as I pour my first cup of coffee and fill cereal bowls to feed the hoards. Sitting almost on the fire, I can start to feel a little warmth. But the chickens out in their coop, are probably calling for fresh water. The pile of wood brought in has dwindled to only a few thin sticks. They will have to do for now, as I bundle up in my hot pink snowsuit for my outdoor adventure. The chicken water is still frozen solid, having been left in the breezeway. So glad for hot water to thaw it, as I finish this first cup of coffee and prepare for the coming expedition.
The snow, as I step out the door, pushes the leg of my snowsuit up, allowing a small bit of snow down my boots. How I wish I had the really tall muck boots today! Looking down the steps to the backyard, I see only snow, no bushes, no steps, no solar lights or not even the large rocks that mark the path. Taking the high road along the house, I walk carefully, so as not to misstep and find the slide that runs down the hill. My first step downward to the coop, results in more snow in my boot, a soft landing on my backside, and a bit of snow down my back. I rise, only to slip again, immediately, this time filling my work glove with the fresh white swirling powder.
The chicken coop stands at the bottom of the hill, surrounded by a two foot circle free of snow. The door opens easily to reveal that snow has drifted in from the eves, around the cracks of the door, and is traveling across the floor from the flap out to the pen. The drift in the pen is piled half way up the building, making up for the missing snow around the front of the coop. I scoop, dig, push and wrestle till the flap is back up, giving it a hard kick, before returning to the front door. As I plop the fresh warm water into the indentation of the frozen shavings, the bottom pops off, spilling water across the already frozen floor. I am sorry chickens, perhaps today you should stay on your roosts and in the nesting boxes.
I do my best to make them comfortable and turn to scale the slope back to my children, my coffee and my fire. It looks insurmountable, but I must return. The snow drifts come over my boots, as high as my knees, past my thighs, up to cover my waist. My foot slips back down the hill, my hands sink into the light, fluffy snow, once again filling my glove with snow. My fingers have chilled past the coldness, to the pain and now the numbness has started to overcome. Frozen chicken waterer in one hand, I pull myself along some buried logs to the top of the hill. Once at the top, I empty my gloves of the now, melting snow, and trudge through the mid-thigh fluff, back.
Before I fully disrobe myself of my snowsuit, I will need to replenish the wood supply. But my fingers were too cold to even turn the door knob to the house. I head, with my snow covered boots and frozen fingers, straight for the wood stove. The heat from those small sticks has radiated out about foot from the stove, I drip on the brick hearth. The children have finished their cereal and set up coloring books on the stove pad, along with piles of blankets.
Back in the garage again, I start to load my arms with pieces of heat for the day. Unfortunately, the snow has also snuck in from the corners of the woodshed. The ends of the pile are dusted with white, but the middle is not, it feels freezing, but dry. Choosing pieces carefully, so the ends won't collapse in on me, I fill my arms with wood. The beginning of my Saturday wood duty.
They say wood warms you twice, once when you split it and once when you burn it. I would argue it warms many times over at our house, from the wood crib, to the shed, to the house, and then finally in the fire. My cold fingers are soon overpowered with the need to bring in the week's wood. Arm load at a time, the pile next to the stove grows larger and I feel warmer, slowly. Each load, I think will be the last as I walk into the house. But as I dump it on the growing pile, I decide, just one more. The wood finally reaches the top of the upright supports. I can remove my layers of outside clothes, back down to my cozy pajamas.
The coffee is hot, the fire is going strong, the children are fed and occupied, and all the animals have been satisfied for the time being. Now I will relax and enjoy the warmth I have worked the past hour to enjoy. My cozy chair, by the hot wood stove, with a steaming cup of coffee. Saturday chores done, for now.