No No No NO

sNOw

No. No. No. No. No thank you.

Day one: hand shoveled.

Enough already. STOP. It started to snow and forgot to stop...so much snow, in the worst of all possible locations: my driveway. It all started, as it often does, with just a little bit of light, easily shoveled snow. Snow that is all pristine and picturesque. It started to snow, and I started to shovel. I shoveled far, and wide, opening up lots of room so that when the bigger accumulations came I wouldn’t be hemmed in by snowbanks that were too high to throw the new snow over.

I got out candles, stockpiled water and batteries. Because this is not my first SnowRodeo. I’ve got this. I know what I’m doing. That was Day One. 

Sue-Gyver, the better to read by.

On Day Two, I re-shoveled in front of my garage...and the trickiest, curvy-hilly part of my driveway—the part I always slide off of, the part where I am often pulled out of after getting stuck-- and shoveled the opening at the end of the drive that the snowplow always closes. And then I shoveled out the mailboxes. Then I shoveled out the opening of a couple of neighbors’ driveways. And the door to my pump house.

The snow on Day Two was not as light. It was also significantly deeper than Day One. It continued to snow as I shoveled. The remaining length of my driveway seemed to grow longer. I ceased shoveling. I went inside and googled “snow-blowers for sale near you.” Alas, there were none in my zip-code.

Branch down!

On Day Three I decided that it was high time I introduced myself to my newest neighbors---neighbors that had the good sense to move into the ‘hood with a beautiful tractor equipped both scoop and blade. As luck would have it, John and Linda are lovely people and agreed to come dig me out. They helped me remove the tree limbs also blocking my driveway. And we commiserated our mutual lack of electricity—BECAUSE OH YES, THE POWER HAS BEEN OUT FOR OVER 24 HOURS, WHAT DO YOU MEAN I SHOULD CALM DOWN, NOW I HAVE NO CELL SIGNAL, WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE.

Spoiler alert: We didn’t die, the power came back on at 4 a.m. the following morning. Every day since, I have chipped away at the remaining snow, trying to clear it back to the original, Day One width. 

Because the forecast? It has sNOw in it...

sNOw

Where I DO NOT like snow.

Snow. I am not amused.

Where I like snow. In the mountains.

We managed to escape January unscathed, only to fall for the cruelest of all groundhog tricks: just when I thought it was safe to fully embrace my early spring fantasies, lovely weather turns in the four-letter S-word. Snow? I vote NO.

(The better to see you with)

In related news, my sweet little grandson turned six *months* old on groundhog’s day—and since he saw his shadow, I’m told we get 6 more months of baby. That’s a happy thing. Snow, on the other hand? Not so much.

This week’s column will be extra short, because for the last four hours I’ve been trying to look on the bright side of this whole S-WORD situation and have been treating today like, well, a snow day. I’m still in my PJ’s at 10 a.m., on my none-of-your-business-number of cup of tea, eating a giant shortbread cookie and celebrating my amazing ability to roll so good-naturedly with the variables of life/weather. (Spoiler alert: enough caffeine and sugar will do that for you.) 





Then I realized that my deadline for this column was an hour ago.

S-word, S-word, S-word.

I’m blaming the snow.

Chicken Poop

I woke up this morning one of my first thoughts---after I liberally imbibed sufficient amounts of caffeine—speaking of caffeine, have I mentioned my newest caffeinated obsession? Mad (the Hatter is implied) Breakfast Black Tea Blend. It is delicious.  I finally got around to stopping by Packwood’s newest “sipping” shop and procuring some. And then some more. I’m on my third package. It’s almost worth getting out of bed for. Although, if you could convince somebody to serve it to your bedside, I bet it would taste even better. Room service...caffeine...match made in heaven.

Where was this going? Oh, right—one of my first thoughts this morning was “chicken poop.” No, I’m not having one of those days—see above, delicious caffeine, etc.—I mean real, literal, actual, chicken poop. From chickens. If you’re a gardener, now is a good time to procure some.

First, get some chickens.

I’m kidding. You don’t have to have “homemade” chicken poop, there are plenty of “store-bought” options, from having a dump truck load delivered—which is my preference—to hauling it yourself; by the pickup full or the bag full.

This is the perfect time of year to apply chicken poo to your flowerbeds. You don’t have to worry if the poop in question has been properly aged, because it doesn’t matter. It’s not like anything—besides primroses and snowdrops-- is green and growing and in danger of being burned by fertilizer that is too “hot.” You can apply liberal amounts without fear. And—not to be indelicate—but the cold weather helps keep the “aroma” to a minimum. Applying chicken poop mid-May with open windows...well, let’s just say that the timing could be better.

Why chicken poop, you ask? 

Here is a list of my Top Five Reasons Why Chicken Poo is the Poo to Do:

1.       It’s all natural.

2.       Comes with free feathers. At least the bulk stuff does.

3.       It’s “cheep.”

4.       Things grow better.

5.       Elk hate the taste.

 I’ll often sprinkle a little poo around the garden during the growing season—just a pinch here and there, avoiding the two worst side effects: burned plants and offended neighbors. Offending the elk, on the other hand—well, that’s the point. I know I’d stop frequenting a salad bar that was sprinkled with poo.