Snow

My farmer and I have this fun game we like to play where I tell him that living in Missouri is basically the same as living in Mississippi and then he tells me that living in Iowa is the same as living in the tundra, and then we both laugh like we really didn't mean it but we actually do. 

I'm pretty sure I'm right on this one. Case in point: They have sweet tea in this state. That means it's the deep South. 

Common knowledge.

What Missouri doesn't seem to have much of is good old-fashioned snowstorms.  The first winter I lived in St. Louis it snowed several inches. I headed out to church on Sunday morning only to find there was legit no one else on the road, which made me wonder if I was the crazy one or if it was just that everyone else was. 

Don't answer that. 

Growing up in Iowa meant learning to play and work and drive and live in and with a lot of snow. Snow days were the best -- although somewhat rare because snowplow drivers in Iowa don't mess around -- and I distinctly remember one day where the school bus stopped to pick me up, headed to the next house, and then got the call that school was cancelled, turned right around and dropped me back off again. 

It was like Christmas! Except that it was probably, you know, like October or maybe May.

There was also the Halloween blizzard of 1991 (now I sound like an old timer) where trick-or-treating was basically cancelled because feet, not inches, of snow were piling up. (Those of us hardcore enough to go out were rewarded handsomely because we were the few, the proud, the . . . ok, too far.)

But still, some candy AND snow days? Do you see now why Iowa is a child's paradise?

Then there's the infamous story of my sister who, in a rush to get to the bus, lost one of her snow boots in a snow drift on our lane, but didn't want to take the time to go back for it, and ran ahead to the bus anyway in one sock and one boot. I've never asked if she found the other boot. Maybe when the snow finally melted and the ice eventually thawed . . . so basically mid-July. 

My sisters and I spent our childhood winters playing in massive piles of snow, pushed up in mounds by our dad's tractor; sledding down those mountains after diving into a precariously perched sled and shooting out across the driveway; tromping through our grove where the snow was covered in rabbit and raccoon and deer tracks. 

I'm hopeful my kids can have the same experience here in Missouri at least once every ten years, even if the one-year-old is currently at a stage where he can barely move when bundled up and basically just wants to sit in the snow and cry. It'll come. 

Or we'll just have to visit Iowa in the winter more. 

Either way. 

bucking up, undersharing and cocoa

Cold schmold.

In MY day . . .

Wait. Am I not old enough to use that line yet?

No, I think I am.

Living in Missouri has made me soft, and it's not just from all the Christmas cookies. When the weather dips below 25, I start talking about summer and heat and how the perfect temperature involves me sitting on black asphalt at noon in the middle of August.

It also reminds me of my college days when I drove from my home in Iowa back to school in Wisconsin following Christmas break. One winter, the wind chill dipped into the -30s on my drive back. So while my dear little Camry tried its hardest to keep up with the heat, I wore a coat . . . while wrapped in a blanket.

And my 19-year-old self made it back to college just fine.

I didn't even have to tweet about my struggles or write a Facebook post.

BECAUSE THERE WAS NO FACEBOOK. Or maybe there was . . . but Concordia University Wisconsin didn't have it yet, so . . . basically there was no Facebook.

Then there was the trip back to Wisconsin when it was so cold that my mom let me take her flip phone back with me and then mail it back to her.

Are you getting this? This means I had no cell phone and was driving nine hours to school all by myself.

AND I SURVIVED.

Or the time that the Wisconsin thermometer read -25 with a windchill of -50. I bundled up and went outside to warm my car up, and that little Toyota started up just fine . . . and proceeded to run for a good half hour before she even started to feel remotely warm.

I'm just saying . . . just because we're calling thing "bomb cyclones" and posting pictures of our patio furniture covered in snow and loading up on bread and peanut butter, we're not going to die.

Our ancestors dealt with cold just this bad and in far chillier living conditions.

Like, you know, soddies.

Log cabins.

Around fires.

And they very likely had no one to share it with other than those in their immediate family or party. No texting. No tweeting. No blogging. They just did it.

So here's to bucking up, undersharing, and more cocoa in 2018. 

Harvest Time

I looked out my window today, saw this and collapsed in a pile of tears. 

Not actually. 

But it did cross my mind. 

Harvest basically equals early onset winter. Winter equals snow and, worse still, darkness starting at about 3:30 in the afternoon and not letting up until about 10:00 a.m. the next day. 

I don't love winter. And harvest means winter is coming. So really, if I'm needed, look for me in a pile of fur coats, mourning the warmth of June sunshine. 

My husband graciously reminds me that winter here isn't like winter in Iowa, which starts in October and lets up in about June. But it doesn't matter. I don't like dark. And I don't like cold. So there. 

To help with my denial that snow boots and black ice are on the horizon, I'm keeping myself busy with baking pies, which I've never done, 

Canning corn relish with corn from our garden, which was one of the few plants that didn't end up overtaken by weeds, 

Trying new recipes and then forgetting where I found them so that when my farmer asks me to make them again, I get a look of panic and mild confusion,

And enjoying the sunsets, even if they are moving earlier and basically starting at 5:00 p.m. in the afternoon. 

So here's to you, Harvest, even if your arrival does mean that soon the cold northern winds will be whistling through the trees and howling outside while Jack Frost traces designs on the windows and the dogs grow thick wooly coats. 

It's a good thing you're beautiful. 

It's a darn.good.thing.