Whiteout

Whenever I hear the phrase "whiteout," my first thought is correction fluid (and the smell of carbon tetrachloride). After all, I craft a lot of reports, proposals, and agreements, and spend far more time rambling at my keyboard than gamboling in winter weather. 

So I'm prone to associating "whiteout" with office supplies ahead of blizzards (and, in turn, to associate "blizzards" with Dairy Queen ahead of Snow Queen, but now I'm free associating… ). To be sure, most of my office work these days is drafted on and disseminated from on my laptop, and paper (either liquid or solid) seldom enters the equation—such that even small 20 ml bottles of Wite-Out are more likely to dry up before they get used up.

Still, I've always had a fondness for office supplies (as an impulse shopper, a trip to Staples is every bit as dangerous for me as a stroll down the aisles of Lowes or Whole Foods) and I've been associating with them long enough that I can even recall the alluring waxy smell of the stencils I cut (on a typewriter with the ribbon removed) in preparation for mimeographing minutes 30 years ago. We've come a long way, baby.

But I digress. The reason "whiteout" popped into my consciousness is not because I've been huffing correction fluid; it's because northeast Missouri was just blanketed with our largest snowfall of the winter—somewhere in the vicinity of six-eight inches of white stuff, accompanied by artistically (if whimsically) placed drifts approaching two feet deep, that make it hard to tell where the road ends and the ditches begin. Although I was scheduled to make the shift from Dancing Rabbit back to Sandhill today (where I'm the scheduled cook), it appears my stay at Moon Lodge will be extended for another day because my Honda sedan can't navigate drifts that large and it takes a while to get the back roads graded. It's just good old country living.

Fortunately, the National Weather Service gave us plenty of warning and Ma'ikwe and I were able to restock seasoned firewood into the front porch, empty the compost and trash buckets, and reload on library books just ahead of the storm. There is something incredibly cozy about being snug in a warm house with the winter faeries dancing around outside, sculpting snowdrifts as a seasonal expression of ephemeral art. Last night, as the snowflakes swirled around us, we bravely trudged the 200 yards separating us from the Milkweed Mercantile to partake of Thursday pizza night (the enjoyment of which shall not be stayed by snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night).

I'm imagining that today the folks at home are digging out the cross country skis, scrambling to play in the fluffy abundance before the warmer temperatures expected Sunday turn it to slush. If you don't have to go anywhere, snow days can be a lot of fun. Even falling down isn't so bad, as you have a soft landing and freshly fallen snow hasn't yet had time to get dirty or icy.

I think of a late winter snowstorm like this as Nature's White Out, giving folks an unexpected chance to change their day entirely. Depending on what you had queued up and your temperament, you can either be frustrated or delighted. All things considered, delight is the better choice.

Oh the weather outside is frightful
But the fire is so delightful
And since we've no place to go
Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!
  
—lyrics by Sammy Cahn (1945)

Snow Job

About a week ago I started hearing from friends around the country who were reporting their first snow of the winter. While there have been a number of years at Sandhill where our first flurries appeared in October, that was not the case this year and it appeared that everyone was getting snow before we did.

I got emails reporting sightings from Virginia, Colorado, and even Louisiana of all places. Now, finally, it's northeast Missouri's turn, and it appears we will make up in quantity what we lacked in precociousness. We awoke to a dusting yesterday and today it's supposed to start in earnest, with four inches expected by nightfall, followed by an additional half foot in the night. That's a lot, and I have a mixed reaction to this forecast.

Mostly I have a positive association with snow and winter weather—unless I'm driving in it. It evokes cozy warmth by the wood stove with a cup of coffee and a good book; the exhilaration and gliding delight of cross country skiing; the all-over tingling sensation of rolling naked in downy crystals of cold as soft as fels naptha after a sauna; the sound-dampened hush of the barren woods; the unlimited potential of a slate wiped clean.

On the other side of the equation, I am dismayed at the prospect of the big dump because, in this instance, I do have to drive in it. Tomorrow night—after my weekly indulgence in duplicate bridge at the club in Kirksville—Ma'ikwe, Jibran, and I plan to journey straight through to Albuquerque for the start of a three-week vacation with friends and family. Ordinarily this drive takes about 18 hours. This time it might be more of an adventure, and I'm immediately reminded of the same trip the three of us undertook the last week of December two years ago, where we unexpectedly got the opportunity to spend New Year's in a motel room in Amarillo because I-40 was iced over the last 300 miles to Albuquerque. I'm fervently hoping not to replicate that experience.

On top of the precipitous forecast, temperatures Wed night are supposed to plunge into negative digits. How good can it get? Fortunately, the car we'll be taking is small and the heater works fine. My biggest concern is icy roads, but luckily, temperatures that cold are incompatible with snowy skies and it will have to clear off for the mercury to drop that low. By staying on major highways I'm reasonably certain that road conditions will be acceptable. Excepting outright blizzards and gale force winds, the most dreaded condition is freezing rain and that, at least, is not in the forecast.

I suppose the silver lining is that winter weather excitement might help keep Ma'ikwe and I awake through the all-night vigil, but I've found as I've gotten older that the adventurous aspect of marathon road trips palls, and I'd just as soon have a boring, clear road with temperatures a more seasonal 40 degrees.

While I gird my loins for the 900-mile road trip Wed night, I am simultaneously trying to buoy my spirits with the prospect of cross country skiing on fresh powder tomorrow afternoon. My dear friend Annie would refer to this as a chance to "burn some ash," which I believe is analogous to occasionally taking the car out for highway speed driving in order to burn off carbon deposits. Humans have been hard-wired for physical exertion and not good things happen when the extent of one's activity is stroking a keyboard and opening the mail. Because 18 hours in front of a steering wheel will not qualify as a physical change of pace (the modest benefit of a manual transmission is canceled out by power steering), I am looking forward to the elevated heart rate associated with 30 minutes or so of cross country skiing.

The goddess only knows what lies in store for us on our return journey from Las Vegas to Rutledge Dec 28-29, where the most direct route takes us through the heart of the Rockies. I can hardly wait.