Although I haven't actually heard the news, I'm guessing Punxsutawney Phil has seen his shadow, in spite of Linus' depredations. Though some may think it strange that anyone would put stock in the weather predictions of an oversized rodent, his track record isn't any worse than Uncle Sam's highly sophisticated satellite Doppler radar system. One of the nice things about retirement is that I don't have to plow the driveway in the early morning dark. By 7:00 am, there is enough light to see what I'm doing without worrying that I'll get tagged by a snowplow when I'm at the end of the driveway.
There was plenty of snow this morning. For no particular reason, I chose the snowblower instead of the tractor and plow; I don't think time-wise it matters much which I use. If the tractor had a wider blade and a bit more oomph, it might be faster, but as it is, I have to make multiple passes to get it all cleared out, especially where it widens out by the road. That old 8N is just a tad easier on my hands, though. By the time I've spent an hour and a half squeezing the grips on the snowblower, my hands feel like they're about to fall off. The steering wheel on the tractor is much more user friendly. Besides, I just like being behind the wheel of a real machine, even if it is an old, small one. Practicality would insist on trading it in on a newer 4 wheel drive unit with a bucket. They're more compact, and with modern electrics, they're not as temperamental as the old girl sitting in my garage. If it's real cold outside (which is what it usually is when I need to plow snow), she often doesn't like to wake up. The old six volt electrics don't spin the starter very fast, and if the choke and idle isn't set just right, she'll just groan.
But it was Gramps' tractor, and his final gift to Linda. So I doubt if we'll be trading it in anytime soon. You see, it's not just an old tractor. It's a depository of memories, going all the way back to when Linda was a little girl, riding with her dad, sitting on the fender as he mowed the hay, or driving it down the row of corn while he guided the cultivator behind. I remember Gramps digging out the basement behind the house with a drag scoop. He would drive it down into the hole, and come up the other side, front wheels hanging in the air as he poured the fog to the engine, all the while grinning from ear to ear. Years later, I can recall the rides Gramps gave the grandkids as he pulled the wagon through the woods, or how he and Gram piled the firewood onto that same wagon and dragged it home to be split for winter's warmth.
When Gramps died, it sat idle for a couple years till Gram told Linda to come and get it. She didn't need to be asked twice. With the help and trailer of our friend Eric, it came home to Nate's barn, where it again sat until Eric was able to work his mechanical magic to get it running again. I'll not forget the Mother's Day when Nate drove it out of his barn and presented it to Linda. It's hard to forget the bittersweet tears of remembrance. It took another two years before we moved back to Sinclairville and actually had a place to store it. It was but a short quarter mile drive from Nate's barn to our garage, but it was the finest quarter mile drive I think I've ever taken.
I don't mind the snow. It looks pretty, glistening pure white in the back yard. The chickadees, sparrows, finches and juncoes aren't particularly happy about it, but we feed them, so they make out all right. As do we. Once the driveway is plowed, if the weather is bad enough, we just stay in by the fire. Or go cross country skiing. Either way, it's a good day, and I am grateful to be drawing breath and seeing the beauty of the snow hanging low on the spruces. It is a very good day; Phil can go back to sleep if he wants, but I think I'll drink it all in and give thanks.
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