I was trying to write a serious post. One describing the night I spent lying awake in my bed, with no power, listening to the ominously violent sounds of tree snapping under the weight of ice and snow. I love winter. But that night was awful. I didn't even have my beloved furbob Ari to protect me. He would climb up onto the bed but every time an artillery blast of sundering tree broke the night stillness, he'd bolt off into my art room. Then he'd creep back to the doorway and cry under his breath. The sleet rasping across all my windows didn't help.
Despite all this, I can't write a serious post. Not a really serious one. The fact is, once morning came, it just didn't seem so bad. Somehow, it never does seem so bad, after the fact. Funny how that works. And it WAS beautiful! I put up a few pictures here just to prove how thoughtful Lord Winter was in his decorating. It isn't his fault that some things break under his artwork, or that he gets a bit carried away now and then. Like Lord Death, Lord Winter can't help his own Making, or how us humans are sometimes frightened, disturbed, or just plain inconvenienced by him.
And we aren't the only ones. The horses are really bored by now. All but Saida, anyway. She doesn't have the brains, frankly, to have any idea of how bad snow can be. She never bothers to test footing, and she spent two hours playing with the neighbors frozen pine trees the other day. Never mind that the branches could splatter that empty noggin of hers if she broke them in their frozen state. I think the Patron Saint of Dysfunctional and Formerly Abused Herbivores must have a soft spot for her because she has thus far come through such moronic behavior unscathed. Sierra and Dixie don't bother, although they've nominated Saida (for reasons I can't fathom) as Clan leader and they follow her around at a fair distance. J.D. the donkey hasn't come out of the barn in three days. I abuse donkeys, you know. J.D. can tell you. He's sure that I brought all the snow just to inconvenience him personally. He informs me of how unamused he is every time I go out to throw hay. Which, J.D. feels, is also a form of punishment. He's ready to have all the grass back now, thank you very much. And, of course, I'M the one keeping it hidden from him. So the donkey says. Tonight, I threw hay and he went to each pile, checked it, and then proceeded to stand and cry. Donkey-style. Which means that he brayed. Which is a sound that could peel lead paint at a hundred paces. So if anyone needs help scraping old buildings for restoration, let me know, I'll send J.D. right over.
My Demon Chickens aren't so pleased either. That night I spent huddled in bed, waiting for a tree to renovate the house, free of charge, my Demon chickies were huddled in their pens waiting for the chicken wire above them to collapse because without power, their heat lamps were kaput. I went out the next day as soon as it was light enough to see and found them sitting quietly, still waiting for the snowmageddon to hit. It took four hours, a ridiculous amount of sweat and countless explicatives to free them from their iceboxes. Towanda celebrated my eventual success by giving me an egg. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my mother was doing the same thing with our outdoor cat pen. Yes, animals are also inconvenienced by Lord Winter.
We lost several large branches in our white pine, the top of one section of the spruce and a few branches of my dad's magnolia. But the trees will grow back, and Lord Winter only reigns for so long. Let him enjoy himself I say. As long as the people, furred and pink skinned, are alright, let Lord Winter play. It'll be spring soon enough. Then winter won't seem to have been all that bad. Just like the bright morning after a long night.
