Heather Lende's blog
"There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle." --Albert Einstein
I told my husband no one would be at the annual Lighting of the Library, and that we had better get there on time. The latest snow was shin deep and falling hard. Then again, since it was about the fifth storm, and not as big as two of the others, we are getting used to it. Sort of. As of Saturday morning we have officially had nine feet of snow this month. Nine feet in really about two weeks-- My friend Paul measures it for the weather service office in Juneau in his backyard on Union Street, next to the Salvation Army downtown.
I was sleeping in a bit, seeing as how this is a holiday, and it's a been a long snowy week, and my husband is finally home from deer hunting, and I don't have to leap up to let an old dog out or bring the hens water, when the the phone rang. My husband who had been awake, as he always is, since about 4:30, sorting and cleaning his hunting gear, answered it and then hollered up the stairs that it was for me. What the heck, I was sleeping. Turns out it was our son, the 22 year-old snowboarding anthropologist who just got hired to wash dishes in a cafe at a Washington ski area.
If losing my good old dog weren't enough, my beloved pet hens are now all dead. We had a break in and murder early Friday morning in their cozy coop. I can still hardly breathe it was so awful. They trusted me to keep them safe and I didn't. The trouble with living outloud is that I have to tell you this, even though I'd rather not. All eight of them were brutally killed by a marten. I loved those silly birds. They brought such joy to our lives.
Their silence can be one of their most endearing traits. Not muteness- absence of linguistic noise. There is no awkwardness in a shared silent moment with a dog- a gaze from the dog on the other side of the room- lying sleepily alongside each other. It is when language stops that we connect most fully. Alexandra Horowitz, Inside of a Dog
Er, eh, te, zed, id... I was "dinged to death" as my mother would have said at Scrabble last night. I walked out onto the road and across the way to the neighbors, taking the plowed driveway route rather than the usual garden path, since there is five feet of drifting snow. It was cold too, single digits, but the stars were out, and I had a head lamp, and thanks to all that shoveling, lugging a bag with a cast iron pot of soup, bread, a bottle of wine, and my slippers was not too difficult. My friend Tom had to hike out from his cabin, two miles into the frigid northerly.
It has been a busy morning digging out, but here's a few pictures from the last 48 hours.
Getting ready for the big snow, Tuesday afternoon