The Day after the Storm

I love big, ferocious snow storms, and I live in just the right place to encounter them. My old farmhouse on a cliff, overlooking the Bay of Fundy, is just the place to be. It has been weathering storms for over a hundred years and will likely weather a few more. I look forward to the new tunes my old house will play, when it becomes a wind instrument.

For the most part, things are generally easy to get storm ready. Flashlights have fresh batteries, tub is filled with water, tea bags are out on the counter and the radio is all set to go, on CBC. Enough wood sits by the wood stove and the cupboards are full.

When it appears a storm is really on the way, I set out for town to pick up a few last things. The town in the valley is unusually busy. My friends and neighbours are the sort that will always want to be well prepared.

My mission is often a trip to pick up milk and dog food. I hate canned milk in my tea. By the look of the liquor store parking lot, many have other priorities. Although toilet paper is always on preparation lists, the crush in the grocery store generally centres around the potato chips.

In town all is abuzz. Here comes the storm. Here comes the storm.

I drive up the Oxbow, on the North Mountain and set off down toward the shore. In the distance, the sky is slowly filling with the foreboding, but beautiful, dark, grey clouds. The sea isn't unusually wild. My old dog, Moses, is now calm when storms are approaching. In his younger days, he would usually get restless, many hours or even days, before a big weather event. Now, I think he looks forward to some good, one on one time, on the couch with me

One of my traits, that I am most comfortable with, is that I am a patient waiter. In a long line, in the bank, I can space out and be one with the universe, as a teller kindly peruses a customer's pictures of a relative's recent wedding. However, when a big storm is on the way, I get a little antsy. "Let the grand show begin."

The holly bush taps on the living room window to let me know it is time to take my seat. I plunk down on the couch, to watch the fire in the wood stove rise with the wind. Before long the sea is roaring and crashing, the windows rattle, the outer door thunks, the barn door slams ( This is not a good thing.), and Moses snores. I am enclosed in a no person band.

When the lights flicker and the frig begins to make odd noises, it is time to light some candles. Candlelight never fails to add a special hush to the music.

In time, I rouse the dog and send him out into what is becoming a blizzard. I let his snowy self in and
we climb the stairs, and plop ourselves down on the woollen blanket laden bed. I crawl under the covers and go to sleep listening to the dulcet tones of the weatherman waxing eloquent about cold and warm fronts, possible sea surges and now the ever elusive vortexes. The house continues humming a lullaby.

In the morning we waken to the sounds of  a snow muffled world. I slide into the reality of the post storm world. The driveway is filled with high drifts, some dishes need washing and my usual morning warm bath is an impossibility.

The sea still roars but there are the mundane tasks to attend to.

The electricity eventually returns and a more normal routine begins.

But what was that I just heard on the radio. "A significant snow storm will be arriving tomorrow."