March 1, 2011
As the snowpack melted, all manner of secrets became evident. The snow, which had remained in place since December, had concealed more than I’d ever imagined. For example, down by the road, one of my reflector spikes appeared in the ditch. I’d used it to mark the edge of my property for the snow plow, and that very same plow had taken it down and buried it on one of its runs past my house.
In the back yard, I found a lost rubber ball that my little nephew had lost in the snow. In the side yard, I found bits of stray garbage that had blown against the side of the house, then been covered by inches of the white stuff.
How fascinating that so many things had been buried during the winter, waiting till now, the first thaw, to turn up. Who knew we’d left the bones of our Christmas goose out there, side by side with our New Year’s noisemakers? And there was that strange salesman who’d come by, offering to sell us snake oil, snakeskin boots, and actual snakes. We’d wondered for months why the old devil hadn’t come back the next day with our order.
And did my eyes deceive me, or was that the molotov cocktail I’d pitched out the upstairs window when the Steelers lost the Superbowl? I’d wondered why there hadn’t been more of an explosion. And lo and behold, over there by the utility pole was that Vermeer painting I’d been looking for since the auction at Sotheby’s! Apparently, I’d left it out overnight, and Bob’s your uncle, it had been buried in a drift. I’m hoping a hairdryer might fix that nasty warping of the canvas and frame.
The most amazing thing I found when the snow went away, though, was my old kit bag, in which I’d packed my troubles last Fall. I’d looked everywhere for the damned thing, hoping to get rid of it for once and for all, and there it still was. Did I dare peek inside, possibly reminding myself of those all-but-forgotten troubles, or did I leave them out for this week’s trash pickup, hoping never to see their like again? As I considered the question, someone, somewhere, played a drumroll. Looking around, I realized it was the little drummer boy from our live nativity scene, who’d also been buried by the snow for months and miraculously survived on the warmth of his own loving heart. And tasty field mice who’d wandered into his makeshift igloo, looking for shelter.
