Today I was unable to get into work. Overnight we enjoyed a balmy freezing rain and a refreshing heavy wet sludge that fell from the sky. I got the truck stuck last night. The Jeep was also buried, a good 150 feet from the nearest plowed surface. Both vehicles were not in a ditch. They were not off the road. They were not involved in a collision. They were simply overwhelmed by too much of the white stuff.
It would be well after dark tonight before both rigs were free. As I type this I can barely move and I am reconsidering my aversion to enrolling in a Montessori Pilate's Class.
As if that wasn't enough...last night, ice froze against the back door, inching higher and higher up the door frame while it was also constantly melting and refreezing. Eventually it found an opening and I awoke to water seeping around the hinges and creating puddles in the entryway. Thank God I was home to catch this and remedy it before it became a true disaster. The only damage? A few wet socks.
I sometimes feel as if I am back up in Alaska. The extremes of Pend Oreille County are legendary. I've seen the temps vary in the same year from -36 to 106. We have fire storms and white outs, tornado's and Chinooks. We have no shortage of eccentric people, of which I am sure my neighbors would consider me among their numbers.
At times, I take for granted all the beauty. I forget that in many places folks don't know their neighbors, and if they do, it's only because of a crime report. I forget that here time seems suspended and that in walking around Newport one can see every fashion statement and hair style from the last 50 years. Often in the same line at the post office. I forget that there are trade offs to beauty, and that often what is most captivating also carries the greatest risk.
Tonight, after I finished freeing the Jeep, I leaned against the snow shovel and watched the sun set. I listened to a rare weekend train on the Pend Oreille Valley Railroad clank onward, down river and bound for Usk. The trains whistle echoed off Cooks, then Saddle Mountain. I listened to the coyotes answer back, announcing their dominion over the sounds of night. I watched as the light faded and the wind kicked up small bits of the last snow shedding off the bull pines. I felt the cold and every muscle in my back. I felt alive and glad to be witness to the moment...
I quit my cussing of the weather. I took a cue from my friend and fellow student Meghan who wrote on her Facebook Page to quit bitching at (and about) the Northwest's sudden extra helpings of winter weather. I took her advise and just listened to the silence.
It was indeed---deafening. And it was just what I needed to hear.
So far, during all the mess we've endured, I'd made it into work every day. I commute nearly a 140 miles a day, and some days recently, I've faced seven hour commutes, zero visibility, and gelling diesel as the temps dropped to near 20 below but---somehow, I always made it. Maybe late-but that was better than many of the folks I work with.
Spokane has already blasted past all-time record December snowfall totals, going back as far as they keep records for such things. We still have three days left in the year, and we are, as I write this, under another winter storm warning. Last year we just missed breaking the all-time season snowfall record of 94 inches--- by less than an inch. This year, we already have 51 inches toward that 94 inch total. Up in Pend Oreille County, whatever Spokane gets, we usually double down on such totals.
In light of this, I'd been very proud that I'd made it into work no matter what I encountered. But today, I guess the Lord had other plans for me. It was time to listen to the season-and to reflect on the miracle of End Time's-like snow.
It was time for me to consider just how amazing creation can be. How just when I think I've seen it all, something else comes along to amaze me.
Such as the inspirational silence of snow. And the chorus that one can hear accompanying it.
