Nobody Owns a Snow Shovel Down Here

And don't miss an important piece of housekeeping.

FOR ALL MY bragging about living in the subtropics, we’ve been hit by a snowstorm. The media calls it “historic,” and it has been given a name, a practice I didn’t realize happened—this is Winter Storm Enzo.

I drove to our village last night to teach my current writing course, which happens on Tuesday evenings. Our wifi is better at home—we have fiber—but asking my family to stay quiet for 2 hours is uncool, so I run down to my little office in town.

Since last week forecasters predicted snow for Tuesday night. The chance of it actually happening rose and fell, and when the weather report called for snow, I assumed it meant the kind we get in south Georgia once a decade: a dusting. A puff of confectioner’s sugar falls from the sky and immediately starts melting into memory.

But to be safe last evening I drove the little pickup, which has wider tires than the Prius, let myself into my warm office, and cranked up the Zoom.

Loud Hissing

When I emerged two hours later I was met by loud hissing. Truth be told, my head was full of writing structures, and I was thinking about McPhee’s strange spirals and parallelograms. What was hissing?

Snow—real snow— covered the truck, the courthouse lawn, the parking lot. An inch or so had already fallen. More snow was falling, flinging toward the streetlights like crackles of insects, clouds of cold, white insects.

When a winter storm hits southern Georgia, one response is possible: Stay put. Most of us down here don’t own a snow shovel. Actually, I’d wager that you’d walk all day, stopping at every house you come to, and you’d never find a snow shovel. Nobody keeps sidewalk salt. Our towns don’t own snow plows. When a hurricane rips through our people turn into Rangers and Green Berets, but with a snowstorm we huddle inside, beside a roaring fire, peeking out the window. “No way I’m going out there.” You’d think tigers were on the loose.

For one thing, we don’t own the gear. We don’t have snow suits or mittens or fur hats or whatever else people need for living with snow and ice. We hate wool. We have all the tank tops and shorty-shorts a person needs for 100-degree heat. Never heard of long johns. And gaiters are not things a person would want to wear.

A Mad World

So we’re at the mercy of snowfall. It turns us to kittens. Therefore, it stays where it lands until 33 degrees washes it away.

As for me, I’ve lived in both Montana and Vermont. I’ve built a few snowpeople and thrown a few snowballs. I’ve cracked my head on ice a time or two. Still, last evening I drove home at 30 miles an hour—no shovel in the truck, no blanket, no extra food, no hand warmers—determined to stay out of all ditches. In the headlamps snowflakes flew toward me in agitated spirals. I bumped the heat up to “high,” until the cab started to smell scorched. I passed a house where some kids were in the dark yard throwing themselves about.

The farther from town I drove the more mad the world seemed. I passed places I pass a few times a week, now unrecognizable. Fields were vast expanses of white. Cows stood in clumps in the gathering snow. No cars were on the road—none—and that was spooky. Finally I reached a point where the road itself blended with the roadside.

Locked

When I got home I scurried inside. All night I kept waking up hearing the telltale hissing, and I’d think, “Still snowing. I’m glad the door is locked.”

The farm was beautiful in the blue light of dawn. I wrapped the baby up and took her out to see her first snow. To her, snow was unfathomable. “Don’t worry, Little Fawn,” I said. “It’s unfathomable to me too.”

Students and teachers got a Snow Day. I received an email from my librarian friend Charles Eames.

For the last 40 years I have been reading stories to children, mainly 4- and 5-year-olds, books such as Dream Snow by Eric Carle. Also Frosty the Snowman, Katy and the Big Snow (about a snowplow) by Virginia Lee Burton, and Snow Bears, etc., etc. To ALL those children for ALL those years—HAPPY SNOW DAY!!!!!!!

How We Sled

I made a pot of chili. I picked a head of broccoli out of the snowy garden and made a broccoli salad. I took a nap with the baby.

“This is like Vermont used to be,” said Raven.

“Yep,” I said. “I thought we left all that behind.”

Mid-afternoon I took Little Fawn for a walk on the dirt road. We crunched down to the pond. On the way back we met our neighbors driving home in their side-by-side. Abe and Donna wore winter clothes that I never imagined them owning. Donna’s hat looked as if it came straight from Mongolia.

“The grandkids have been having a ball,” said Abe. “I built them a sled.”

I tried to think where a hill might be for using such a sled. There is not one. Then it hit me. “You’ve been pulling them with the side-by-side?” I asked.

Abe smiled. “Around the pasture,” he said. “They’ve been having a big time.”

We sled like we waterski.

Frozen

My grown son Silas was due to arrive by plane today. He went to the airport in Hartford, was told he had a 6-hour delay, and then waited 6 hours only to have his flight cancelled. I tried to tell him. I doubt the Savannah Airport was prepared for Enzo. The airline put him on a flight for Saturday.

Nothing is going to melt tonight. Our low is down to 16 degrees Fahrenheit or so. Today’s high was 38, and I think tomorrow will be a few degrees warmer. Maybe by Saturday the runway will be clear.

Tomorrow I’m going to huddle inside like I huddled today, admitting defeat.

The End

This does not look right, does it?

Winter Storm Enzo was not messing around.

Empty clothesline, empty martin gourds.

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Praise Be to President Biden

Last night I heard the news that in one of his last acts in office, President Biden commuted the sentence of Leonard Peltier, activist with the American Indian Movement, to house arrest. Enormous pressure kept Peltier imprisoned for more than five decades, although the evidence that he killed two FBI agents was weak and popular support for Peltier’s release was strong. My old friend Peter Matthiessen begged President Clinton in his last days in office to do this, but Clinton caved to pressure from the FBI.

Finally it is done. Welcome home, Mr. Peltier, at last. Blessings on your days.

Difference

By Leonard Peltier

Let us love not only our sameness
but our unsameness

In our difference is our strength

Let us be not for ourselves alone
but also for that Other

who is our deepest Self

Snow angel.

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A Very Important Piece of Housekeeping

At the beginning of January I lowered the subscription rate of Trackless Wild to $33 annually or $5 monthly. The rate had been $99 year, which covered the tuition for the Journey in Place course during 2024.

As you know, Substack auto-renews. That means it charges you a subscription fee every year until you tell it to quit. Recently I have learned that, if you subscribed last year at the $99 rate, Substack will auto-renew you all at the $99 rate rather than the $33 rate. Be aware of that.

If you want to pay $99, please do. I have a baby to raise.

But if you’re wanting to do $33, you may need to cancel your subscription and then resubscribe.

Also, you can turn off the auto-renew. You’ll need to go into “Settings” and toggle it to “off.”

Thank you to all who were with me last year as paying subscribers and all of you who have subscribed for 2025. Many thanks.

Thank you to all who are here at any rate. I’m so grateful for your presence, your attention, your feedback, your love.

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Broccoli Salad

• 8 cups broccoli, cut into bite-sized pieces

• 1/2 cup red onion, diced

• 1/2 cup dried cranberries

• 1/4 cup pumpkin seeds, toasted

Dressing

• 3 Tbsp apple cider or red wine vinegar

• 1/3 cup mayonnaise

• 1/3 cup plain yogurt (healthier)

• salt & pepper

• I also add lemon juice & olive oil to cut the flavor of mayo.

Honestly, I never measure anything and I never stick to these ingredients. Other items to add—diced apple, diced orange, crumbled bacon, sunflower seeds, shredded carrot, shredded sharp cheddar cheese, or almost anything in the cruciferous family, chopped.

Today I added radicchio that was a delicious gift from Joe & Judith at Love Is Love Farm.

Helpful Hint

If you pour boiling water over the red onion then drain, it’s somewhat less pungent. Sometimes I dip the broccoli into boiling water to tenderize it slightly; sometimes I use raw broccoli.