Almost two weeks of fog and soft wet weather; not a ray of sunshine in all that time. And then, when every one was consistently complaining about the weather and maintaining that anything would be better, up sweeps a snowstorm from the northwest, and once more "the gray day darkens unto night, unwarmed by any sunset light." We have a change in the weather, but such a change that we almost wish we hadn't complained about the fog. Now we have a little more cold and a lot more wind, but the murky grayness is only altered by being in motion instead of being still.
Two days and two nights of blinding snow and scolding wind; no milk-trucks, no mail-cars, no school. Roads bare in spots and level-full in others. Where are those oldtimers that tell us we don't have the winters we used to have? We are re-living "Snowbound" in all its glory, almost on its anniversary. By a humorous trick of fate we have a transient marooned with us who is far more of a blessing than a burden. The bread-man with his truck of pastries, cookies and bread got this far, homeward-bound, the day the storm descended, and fortunately (for our neighborhood) slipped into a ditch. So we have a stock of provisions, as well as the mild adventure of contact with a new personality, to help us while away the hours of imprisonment. The men of the neighborhood, bundled and booted, one by one make the arduous trip across fields or along fence-rows to our house to get a loaf of bread. The bread truck was easily pushed out of the ditch and brought under shelter, but not until the drifts had piled so high that further progress was impossible.
Then in the third night the wind subsided and the snow lay down to rest. In the morning the sun shone out with amazing brilliance, and heartened by the sight, all available men set cheerfully to work to shovel the community out. First the shovels, then horses plunging, then a grader working through and at last a track is opened, and we are back to normalcy. First the milk man goes through, in bobsled instead of truck. Soon the bread man will say good-buy and eventually the mail-man will come along. And the sun is shining, and every one is well, no one has suffered, the roadmen are ruddy and hungry, and we gather around a hearty dinner to talk over another those episodes that brighten up a placid life and make milestones along the path of life. --Hope
Memory Gem
On stormy days
When the wind is high,
Tall trees are brooms
Against the sky.
They swish their branches
In buckets of rain
And swash and sweep it
Blue again.-- Dorothy K. Aidis