Hunkering Down

Deb Marshall photo

The snow has already started.

It’s been lowering all day, not a sparkle of sun through the grey cloudy sky, and the birds and turkeys and squirrels spent a lot of time gobbling the extra seed I put out because the next two days are going to be hard on them. Extra sunflower seeds, extra nuts, plenty of suet balls and cracked corn: the wart was busy all morning and afternoon, like any good diner.

I couldn’t seem to wake up today, and spent most of it lying on the couch, bundled in afghans, with a book propped on my chest that miraculously stayed upright and didn’t fall and bop me on the nose every time I fell asleep, which was often – I think I read the same paragraph 15 times.

And then suddenly, it seemed, it was almost dark out; on the radio, dire warnings about inches of snow – feet, that is – to expect , and the Husband was hauling  in extra loads of wood hoping to bring in enough to feed the woodstove for tonight and two more days. I rousted myself, and began the things we do before a big storm that is likely to knock out electricity for awhile: make sure the teapot and pan on the woodstove are topped up with water, fill all the pitchers and water bottles in the house so there will be plenty of drinking water, fill buckets with water to leave in the tub for toilet flushing, make sure all the dishes are washed. Plug in cell phones so batteries are at peak, check the batteries in lanterns, bring out the candles that got put away after the last storm.  Decide what we’re going to eat for the next few days, make a little extra for supper so there are leftovers, and boil the chicken that’s producing this week’s soup stock tonight, rather than waiting until tomorrow. That giant pot’s out on the wart cooling off before I stick it in the frig overnight, and so far the snow isn’t building up on its hot surface. 

And then – turn on some lights and memorize which ones are on, so that if the electricity does go out we can shut them off before heading to bed, so they don’t burn all night if the electricity comes back on. Should we take showers tonight while we can? Does anyone in the family need to come here to sleep, just in case? 

We have a fine house for over-wintering a storm: we heat with a woodstove, and there’s a big futon in the room that the woodstove lives in, and a chair that converts into a bed in the next room. We have plenty of food in the freezers and on shelves in cellar and pantry, and this early in the winter the basket under the dining table still has several squashes and pumpkins waiting to be eaten, and there are baskets of onions and potatoes and garlic in the pantry. Like all canny New Englanders, we keep baggies of ice cubes in the freezers to prove that the food hasn’t thawed out during a power outage (if the cubes melted and refroze flat, toss the food); there are always extra candles stored away, and extra batteries, and a couple of lanterns and a radio that run on crank power.  We can even light our gas stove burners with a match, so we can cook; and the woodstove heats soup beautifully.

So we’re hunkered down. With any luck, this storm will turn into a big piffle and life will go on as usual, the Sunday paper will arrive, the computers will be able to access the internet, the cats and I will still have cabin fever and be cranky, hard to please, and napping a lot. The Buddha on the front porch is up to his chin in snow, which is a couple of inches higher than earlier today; the deck is all white.  The snow shovels are within reaching distance of the doors. It’ll be interesting to see what the world looks like tomorrow morning. 

But in the meantime, hunkering down isn’t all bad. The lights seem to shine a little brighter when we aren’t sure how long they’ll be on; the water in my glass tastes a little fresher, more satisfying. After I fill it, I stand for a few moments on the tiles that surround the woodstove, letting the heat from the tiles soak through my socks, warming my feet. 

It could be worse.