Yesterday I threw away my November to-do list. Yes, I’m aware the month is not yet over. However on Saturday our weather changed in a high wind as a cold front moved in with blowing snow. The temperature is not due to rise above freezing for the coming week. I just managed to get the snow markers set along the farm driveway before the ground hardened to rock.
I cannot shovel and spread the remaining dirt and chip piles. I cannot pound fence posts in the back pasture. It’s too late to pick up all the rocks and broken logs in the barn paddock, now fastened to the surface with ice. All the slopes and tangles that were awaiting Mike’s repair of my weedwhacker will not be cut back this year. I won’t be spreading the mulch hay windrows with a pitchfork or shaking out the last small squares of timothy. I can’t rock this year’s pig pen or sow it with winter rye. My seedling trees will not be transplanted. Too late, too late, too late.
What a relief!
Discussing this shared emotional reaction, my friend Alison said happily, “I love having four seasons!”
There is still plenty of work to do — my December list runs the usual two pages — but nothing beats tossing a dozen pinpricks of anxious guilt (When will I get that done?) in one swoop.
Meanwhile DH and Lucy, my cross-country skiers, are gleeful in the snow.