When I was a kid (in ever-sunny California) snow days were something
about which I got excited. We’d get a
quarter of an inch of snow and the entire state would shut down. We’d stay home from school, build the world’s
smallest snowman, and by 10am it would have melted and all the neighborhood
kids would be outside rollerblading in the sun. Snow days - how exhilarating!
Now that I’m an adult in never-sunny New York, snow days
only mean one thing to me: hard work…in the cold…and people getting stuck on my
driveway. Still, the one thing I can be
thankful for in winter is a roughly two-month break from riding while the
ground is frozen. And when one has four
horses to feed, clean, groom, tack, ride, untack, groom, feed and clean, a two month
break is a good thing. So maybe, as much
as I complain about the weather here, it’s a bit of a blessing in a big, messy
white disguise.
When the sun rose (technically) yesterday on a foot of new snow,
I tried to tell myself it was a good day to read and relax. I did my morning chores and retired to the
house for a bath and an apocalyptic book. My friend, Alia, regaled me with text
messages about her horrible day of plowing and shoveling snow and ice, and
getting her tractor stuck in a snowbank. I sat on the couch and felt sorry for
her. By the end of the day, my truck and
trailer were sitting under a foot of snow and an inch of ice, but what did I
care? I’m taking February off.
I crunched through the ice-capped snow while performing my
evening chores. I filled hay nets and
water buckets, and then cleaned stalls.
I dumped the wheelbarrow in my manure bin, and only then did it dawn on
me that at some point in the next two days the manure bin would need to be hauled
away, an empty one put in its place.
This meant that I needed to move my truck and trailer, and plow a path to
the dumpster so the delivery truck could access it.
Here’s the thing: I
don’t own a plow. I own a small
tractor. I also have a gravel drive
around my barn. Attempting to use the
front loader of a small tractor to plow gravel without making a massive mess is
like a brain teaser for rednecks. I had
dreams about it last night. I tossed and
turned and fretted and worried. I
strategized. My goal for today was to
get up early, get the donkeys fed and turned out, stalls cleaned, and proceed
with the task at hand.
The only unexpected holdup was Johnny deciding that he
didn’t know how to walk in ice covered snow.
I led The Twins to their turnout together per usual, but as much as they
look alike, they do not behave in the same manner. So while Richie was panicking as if the ice
was trying to swallow him legs first, Johnny was frozen in terror. I had Johnny at the other end of the rope that
I was pulling on with all my might, and Richie piaffing around me while I spanked
him and yelled at his brother.
By the way, yelling at horses is futile.
I finally had to leave Johnny in the middle of the driveway,
fairly certain he wasn’t going anywhere, and take each of The Twins to the
turnout individually. It took Johnny 20
minutes to walk from the barn to the paddock.
Twenty long minutes of pulling on Johnny while Hauns banged on his stall
door inside the barn, eagerly anticipating his turn to walk like an iguana
through the snow.
It then took me three hours to plow the gravel path to the barn and
liberate my truck from its igloo. Only
twice did I have to stop to help people that were stuck on my driveway – the
dry cleaning delivery guy followed by the plumber. By the
end my toes were frozen, my ponytail smelled strongly of diesel fumes, and my
horses had a somewhat less terrifying trek back to their stalls.
Somewhat.
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