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“Snow!!” a few, of which I formerly considered friends, exclaimed upon hearing the latest forecast for what sounds to be blizzard like conditions arriving Sunday.

 

“I love snow!” chirped one. “I can’t wait to get to that stack of books I’ve been meaning to read.”

 

“I’m going to cuddle up on the couch with the dog and a cup of hot chocolate and just stare out the window at it,” sighed another, rapturously. 

 

“Are you nuts?” I replied. “At this point, this is looking like a pretty bad storm. With ice! Power outages, blocked roads…”

 

“Oh, poo, Debbie Downer,” she shot back. “Think of Robert Frost with your horses: ‘Whose woods are these I think I know, his house is in the village though, he will not see me standing here, to watch his woods fill up with snow…’ It’ll be gorgeous!!”

 

Funnily enough, she doesn’t look like a simpleton. 

 

These are people whom I love and these are also people who work comfortably indoors. For those of us caring for livestock, while trying to make sure that they don’t turn into deadstock, all of that is just a romantic fantasy. And so I shall offer up alternative, literary quotes which might be muttered this Sunday, as we trudge out into 20mph winds and sideways blowing snow (aka, a ‘winter wonderland’)  to feed our animals. For sure, I shall begin with a favorite:

 

“My beerdrunk soul is sadder than all the dead christmas trees of the world.” ― Charles Bukowski

 

As I struggle in vain with a full wheelbarrow of muck on the way to the tractor bucket, only to find the tractor won’t start:

 

“Oft hope is born when all is forlorn.” ― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

 

Upon encountering a frozen pipe, despite inches-thick layers of insulation and a ‘frost-free’ guarantee:

 

“I wish I could tell you how lonely I am. How cold and harsh it is here. Everywhere there is conflict and unkindness. I think God has forsaken this place. I believe I have seen hell and it’s white, it’s snow-white.” —Sandy Welch

 

And as I slip while trying to dump dirty buckets of water and slosh a nearly frozen gallon down into my muck boots…well, I’ll just be cussing.

 

A whole lotta cussing.