Snow was not special when we lived in Vermont or Rhode Island or New Jersey. But it was for the more than six years that we lived in San Francisco. (It was forecasted once but never happened.) Now that we live in southwestern Ohio, almost at the Kentucky border, it is neither novel nor ubiquitous. It is met with the understanding that it will appear and then melt away once or twice a year. For us, though, the four or so inches that fell during the last few days were positively exciting, especially because it was the only snow this year that has been wet enough for making Elinor’s first snowman.
Out in the poultry yard, the snow did not phase the ducks. They walked in it, rested in it, laid their large eggs in it. But the chickens avoided it like a pool of molten lava, either attempting to fly high above until their stamina gave way or camping out in the coop—at least until hearing the familiar tap, tap, tap on the food bucket. As for Buck, the poultry’s Great Pyrenees sentinel, he took shelter in the shade of his house despite the snow and single-digit temperatures.
By the way, hello again.
