Snow, By Any Other Name

It's been said that the Inuit have over 50 words for snow. Some are listed here. Many people I know have just one word for snow, a multi-purpose, not-nice word that doesn't at all reflect the vast variety of wondrous textures and colours displayed by snow.  

The first story I ever wrote featured snow. 

It certainly wouldn't earn me an Editors Choice at FaithWriters, but Mrs. S, my Grade One teacher,  rewarded me with an awesome lion sticker.

Obviously, I didn't know very much about winter yet, living in the Fraser Valley in southern B.C. In 1968, we experienced record cold temperatures and snowfall. As I walked to school in my slip-on galoshes, I pondered what it would be like to live where there was LOTS of snow and VERY cold temperatures. It would be amazing, I thought. What did I know?

The arrival of snow seems like a magical and even mystical phenomenon, a harbinger of glad tidings and jolly, cozy days to come, of fuzzy, plaid blankets and baked apples. It has been memorialized in our best loved childhood literature, and perhaps that is why many of us have such sweet and nostalgic sentiments about snow.

“Anne came dancing home in the purple winter twilight across the snowy places.” 
― L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

 “One winter morning Peter woke up and looked out the window. Snow had fallen during the night. It covered everything as far as he could see.” ― Ezra Jack Keats, The Snowy Day

We had a few half-hearted flurries a few weeks ago, but last Friday, the snow came in earnest, and it has been snowing ever since. On Saturday evening, a truck careened off the road, taking out at least 100 feet of our fence, along with several posts. 500 cows and their calves live in that particular field, so we went out in the dark and waded through knee to thigh-deep snow, finding, matching, and patching the broken wires.

Most of our work on the ranch is outdoors, so the cold, long, snowy winter is not as romantic as it once was, and the older we get, the longer winter seems to be. And the more inconvenient. It's desperately hard on equipment, livestock, and six-decades old knees and shoulders. Trips to town revolve around "how bad the roads are."

My happy place, our porch swing and garden. 

No mowing for at least seven months. Two weeks ago, the petunias were overflowing the planters and the sunflowers were blazing like miniature suns.

Even though I have no more illusions about snow, I still love the first days of snowfall, the inspiration to bake, sew, read, and play carols. It's still magical, still makes me feel wistful, but these days, I would like snow to come in smaller doses, arriving politely in time for Christmas, and like a yuletide ornament, gleaming brightly for a few lustrous days, and then quietly melting away. I'd like to retire my boots (guaranteed to 40 below) and settle someplace where we don't need heated seats in the truck. 

Until then, "See it come down." 

Building and Mending

The Cowboy has better than a hundred western shirts. That's not an exaggeration, says me, who gets to iron many of them every other week or so, along with a goodly amount of my own shirts. Fortunately, after dozens of washings the shirts no longer need ironing. They become soft and comfy. But sadly, they are also wearing out.

Dust, sweat, sun, "neck whiskers," multiple washings, and the aforementioned ironings do a number on shirt collars. 

I asked the ladies at my quilting group if they could teach me how to "turn" these worn out collars. They got the "deer caught in the headlights" look. Actually, it was more than that. They had a collective look of terror. I said I know it can be done, because my mom used to fix the collars on my dad's work shirts, getting a few more months of wear out of them.

One of the ladies said she'd rather sew a whole shirt from scratch.

Well, so would I. Honestly. Even if the worn out shirts are The Cowboy's favourites.

It reminds me of a motto we'd recite at church years and years ago.

It is better to build than to mend.

Not that a spanking, new shirt won't eventually succumb to worn cuffs and collars. It will. But mending is Just. Not. Fun. Whether it's patching up a pair of snagged-on-barbed-wire jeans or restoring a broken relationship, setting things right is often unpleasant.

Everyday activity at the ranch -- Mending fences.  Livestock, wildlife, and Men Driving Equipment have a way of taking down fences.

And somehow, things are never quite the same after things are pieced together and patched up. That fence is weakened. The turned and mended collar is still thin and worn on the backside. The broken relationship may still be vulnerable, all because of something said foolishly or in haste.

What breaks in a moment may take years to mend. -- Swedish Proverb

Wearing out and breaking down may be inevitable. But we can still take care to build well in the first place. Use good wire and posts. Good quality shirts last longer in the long run. Build relationships based on trust and respect.

As for the shirts with the worn collars, there will be no "after" photos.
The Cowboy said, "Cut 'em up into grease rags."
Somehow, that seems like a dismal requiem for those faithful, old shirts.
The ladies said, "Cut them up and make a quilt."

Maybe building something completely new is the best way to mend.