Snow continues to fly here in the north woods. You think snow drifts downward, don’t you? You think snow drops from clouds to earth. Sounds logical, right?
I’ve learned that snow, in actuality, flies every-which-way. It’s most intriguing when it flies upward. You’re looking out your window and snow rises. It’s aimed for the clouds. Go figure.
Later, you’ll realize it’s the wind. Snow does drift down from clouds. The wind sometimes tosses it back up. It’s like a game of catch. Who’s gonna catch the snowflakes, wind or cloud? Grandfather Winter likes to amuse himself.
We started re-filling the wood room again last night. Oh, so frigid. We topped off the back row and half filled the second row. Tonight we’ll haul logs again. Actually, I haul logs and hand them to the chief stacker, Mr. Barry. I wear my grandmother’s old 1969 snowmobile suit. (It’s famous, you know. Someone said so on Facebook.)
After our wood-hauling episode with snowflakes flying upward toward the almost-full moon, I tramped around toward the front of the house. A shadow scurried beneath the oak tree. You couldn’t tell what it might be. I’m guessing a fox. Or perhaps a fisher. It scuttled away, hiding behind spruce trees.
I sometimes ponder what we don’t reveal in blogs. We reveal interesting facts like snow flying upward, and the sighting of foxes, but we remain silent about many intriguing happenings. You’d be surprised what I don’t tell you. I keep very mum about many family and personal matters.
It always surprises me when friends or family say they “keep up with you” on Facebook. Perhaps they do, on the surface. Yet so much lies beneath and between our words. So much fleshes out in what we choose not to say. A world exists in our silence, in our reluctance to articulate, in what we shelter in our heart.
Now I must drive to work at our two-room school built in 1911. A small silver electric heater blows warm air at me in my upper story office. I must revise the budget, pondering categories, adding numbers, playing that jigsaw puzzle game of finances.
Children shall laugh, way downstairs. They shall sing, preparing for their Christmas concert. I shall watch the snow blow upward, downward and sideways out the upper story school window and think of you reading this blog, and the secrets you hold close, the secrets you don’t tell.