fir treeAnd now that the daffodils are blooming and the birds are so happy, we can reflect back to just two weeks ago. Our persimmon seeds told us so, remember. A snowy winter.

Then, when the leaves were crisp under my feet and the sky was so so blue, I thought fondly of the possibility of a snowy winter. Snow is magical.snowpic2jack

Thursdays have brought the snowy winter here, for several weeks. Strange how that was. And so just two weeks ago we had 10 inches of beautiful snow across our mountain here in Alabama.

Jack was like a puppy. the walkbirdhousebirdhouse

So years from now we will relate back to 2015. That was the year of the big snow. Like our first white Christmas in 2010 and 17 inches in March 1993 (snow baby boom in December 9 months later), and even 1985 (11 inches of ice). Same as the tornado’s in 2010. I am sure it’s always been that way for many generations. Probably with record-breaking crops, or droughts or pestilence or diseases.

An old log cabin in Brentwood, TN has scratched in the logs, the dates of heavy rains, storms, snow, tornadoes and fires. Record keeping at it’s best. snowpictures

But not much happened with this big snow because it was short-lived but we watched it, stomped in it and took in its beauty. We missed the boys being here enjoying it too. No snowmen were built and no snowballs thrown.

Just quiet walks and a drive in the four-wheeler.four wheelerall in a line

Snow holds the power to make everything beautiful. Even a little stem or a coil of abandoned fence becomes interesting. The brown of a long winter disappears. fencingjack


By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Out of the bosom of the Air,
      Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
      Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
            Silent, and soft, and slow
            Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take
      Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
      In the white countenance confession,
            The troubled sky reveals
            The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air,
      Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
      Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
            Now whispered and revealed
            To wood and field.
It’s much easier to appreciate its beauty looking back, when today it’s 70 and sunny.