by Mitch Lee
The air was extremely cold that morning in 1978 as I went out to the woodpile to fill the wheelbarrow with wood to feed our Ben Franklin stove.
I could see my breath pouring out in front of me as I wheeled across the driveway.
The fall leaves were peaking out from the half-inch of new fallen snow that had frozen solid overnight.
The old canvas cover that draped over the woodpile was stiff and unyielding as I pried and kicked at the butt ends of the wood.
This was just the beginning of the daily ritual I would be facing for the winter.
I placed wood in the wheelbarrow until it was almost too heavy to lift and push. I paused for a moment to rearrange my mittens and give a quick wipe to my nose.
It was just a week before Halloween yet my woods around Limekiln Lake were already in a long dormant five months of sleep.
Normally at this time of day I could hear a few birds chirping, but the woods were were now silent. There was a hollowed hush to every part of the forest.
I clenched my teeth together, lifted the wheelbarrow and made my way to the house avoiding the many crusted over puddles in the driveway.
I took a short break that was signaled by the scrape of the rusty steel support struts screeching in a graveled chorus.
I adjusted my grip and made the last short hop to the large flagstone steps.
I balanced the almost quarter face-cord of wood as best as a 12-year-old boy could.
My red cheeks stung a bit from the warmth of the exercise and the chill of 20-degree air.
I finished filling the wood ring and returned the wheelbarrow to its parking spot under the eaves of the garage.
Since I was outside I thought I’d see what the snow felt like underfoot.
As I strolled over the lawn behind our house the frosty, stiff leaves crunched much like the sound of breaking crackers over soup.
I started and stopped several times trying to create a rhythmic song under my own feet. I had done this before with cheese puffs that I smacked between my teeth.
The shiver of the cold and the crunch of the ground below was a great and magical wonder.
This first sticking snow and the booming noise of each of my footsteps interrupting the silence of the day somehow made me feel warmer inside.
—
Mitch Lee, Adirondack native & storyteller,
lives at Inlet. ltmitch3rdny@aol.com