Village Squire, 1980-02, Page 12Salute to
winter
BY YVONNE REYNOLDS
W -inter
l -s
N-ature
T-esting
E-veryone's
R-esources
Poets do not wax euphoric over winter, and neither do I. It is
not the most glamorous of seasons. My nose begins to run about
November the second, and doesn't stop until early May. I have
thought of buying it a little pair of Addidas and entering it in the
Olympics, but am afraid that would only encourage it to run all
year.
In recognition of advancing age and thinning blood, I did
purchase a toque and matching scarf. Thinking to emulate
elegant Geraldine Chaplin in a prerevolution scene from Doctor
Zhivago, I wrapped the eight -foot strand once around my neck,
jauntily tossed the ends over my shoulder, and stepped blithely
out of the house. Within two strides I came to an abrupt halt -two
feet of scarf were still firmly caught in the closed door.
In my opinion, weather f-otecasting is still more art than
science. Many of the predicted storms never materialize -we are
invariably caught unprepared by the ones that hit without
warning. One such sneak attack a few years ago stranded
children and teachers in schools, motorists at highway service
centers, or with hospitable strangers, and confined most of us
within our four walls for a few days.
More recently, we turned our calendars to April and breathed
a sigh of relief. The next day we awoke to a stage set from the
Nutcracker Suite. Everything was sheathed in ice. Trees
glistened, shrubs sparkled, the snow-covered ground winked
back at the sun. Hydro wires were crystal cables looping from
pole to frosted pole, or dangling decoratively like tinsel icicles on
a Christmas tree. The uncanny silence was broken only by the
snap of branches breaking under the extra load and rattling
across the crusted snow. The silence was uncanny -thousands of
people had no hydro. The weight of the ice nad downed the
power lines.
We may yet get a blinding snowstorm like the one that trapped
a friend on an unfamiliar highway. As the only objects he could
see were two red tail lights ahead of him, he followed the guiding
beacon. After half an hour of white -knuckle driving, the lights
made a left turn, and so did our friend. The lights ahead stopped
moving. Our friend applied his brakes, put his vehicle into
neutral, and waited. And waited. The car ahead remained
stationary. Our impatient friend jumped out into the storm and
approached the other driver, who was standing beside his car.
"What are we stopped for?" he demanded.
"I don't know about you", came the reply, "But I am in my
garage."
In the winter, nothing gets the adrenaline flowing like a good
chimney fire. The sudden blare of a smoke detector strikes into
my heart like a dagger. I go into my frenzied routine. First, make
a mad dash to the basement to smother the wood fire in the
furnace. Next, grab the fire extinguisher and squirt its contents
into the chimney clean-out. (This proves to be as effective as
trying to stop an enraged bull with a fly swatter.) Run upstairs,
remove the thimble from the chimney opening, start to pour in
PO. 10 VILLAGE SQUIRE/FEBRUARY 1980
warm water. Listen in horror as it immediately turns into sizzling
steam. Pour and pray. Pray and pour.
Two hours later, slouch white and limp at the kitchen table,
holding a cup of coffee in a still -shaking hand. There is a
horrendous crash from the second floor. Race upstairs, heart
thumping uncontrollably Discover that the cat has knocked
over the aluminum stepladder you had brought upstairs and
leaned against the wall in case of need.
There is a positive side -a chimney fire effectively cleans out
the creosote. The trick is to make sure it doesn't also clean away
the house.
Remember the dog days of summer, when the temperature is
exceeded only by the humidity, and you just want to sprawl
prostrate beneath a leafy tree and pant? Winter's canine
counterpart is the "dog night". The wind is besieging the house
like a malevolent enemy; with the thermostat at 58, the furnace
is running almost continuously; you're afraid the motor will
burn out before morning; you forgot to take your Geritol; the
electric blanket is at its highest setting; you are COLD. It's time
to order faithful Fido into bed with you. Dog thermostats run
doggy bodies a few degrees higher than the humans' 98.6 and,
unlike hot water bottles, dogs stay warm all night. (My husband
complains that I get our dog's soft furry back while he gets her
four scratchy feet.)
Winter does not seem to bother our goats. They can tolerate
quite low temperatures, provided there is no draft. On frigid
mornings when I walk into the barn, the nannies eye me warily;
no one wants to be first on the milking stand. I collar finkerbelle,
put feed in her bowl, lock her neck in the stanchion, and turn my
attention the udder way. As my ice-cold hands grasp her warm
teats she rises up on tiptoe, and I can hear her whistle a shocked
"wheeeeewwwww" through clenched teeth.
But if winter comes, spring can not be far behind.
Endure.
Visit
Bartllffs
Bakery and Restaurant
Enjoy - Breakfast
Lunch or Dinner
Served with our own home baked bread, rolls
and desserts. You'll love our bake counter with
fresh baked goods daily.
**********
Wedding Cakes our specialty.
**********
For your shower - cheese trays, meat trays,
fancy sandwiches, shower cakes.
**********
Stop at our cheese counter.
Cheddar and a variety of specialty cheeses.
**********
Remember...when you buy Bartliff's,
you buy the best! A tradition in Huron County
since 1902.
**********
WEEK DAYS 7 A.M. TO 7:30 P.M. SUNDAYS 12 NOON TO 7 P.M.
46 ALBERT ST., CLINTON
482-9727