The Last of the Snow Stories

Determined to collect the mail after “the blizzard of ‘016”, I pulled on my fleece lined snow boots, donned my perky new purple wool hat and cloaked myself in an oversize full length fur coat. I was ready! I marched out the front door, ready to do battle with the elements, and promptly found myself calf deep in snow. "Oh!" Scott watched, indoors, warm, amused. Undaunted, unfazed, intrepid, my razor sharp memory recalled the answer to my dilemma. In the closet, still in the box, my brand new light weight solid aluminum LL Bean snow shoes were awaiting their maiden voyage. Victory was mine. I slipped them on over my boots and plodded out to the road. I smiled smugly, my cheeks cherry red against the white snow. I felt like an extra in Dr. Zhivago, even looked like one. Crunch, crunch, crunch, all the way to the post box. Only to find that no mail had been delivered the previous day. Apparently the mail does not go through in sleet, or hail, or foul weather. When I called the post office to inquire about delivery, I was told, somewhat sarcastically, I thought: “There was a blizzard, you know.”  

Later, in the peace of the white out aftermath, while driving through the snow laden driveway, I spotted a deer sitting on the lawn. The deer watched me run the car around the circular drive but made no effort to move. Kind creature that I am, I demanded that Scott shoot the damn thing, otherwise it would chew on what was left of my azaleas and roses. And Scott, card carrying NRA member that he is, marched outside, ready to do battle, not with a gun or rifle, but with two pot lids and banged them together for noise. He can happily shoot an intruder but, apparently, cannot harm a helpless animal. The deer looked at him, then hobbled itself up and attempted to wobble away.  While we both can shoo away a perfectly healthy deer, an animal in distress is another matter, and this deer appeared to be in terrible pain. Its back was broken. It was cruel to leave it in the woods. We couldn’t watch while Ken went out and shot the poor animal. He returned to tell us that the animal had died instantly. Darkness was falling when I called Joe, whose family and friends enjoy deer meat, to come and collect the carcass.  Since neither Scott nor I knew exactly where the deer’s body had fallen, we all donned our coats, called a few friends, turned on our flashlights and walked into the woods.  The wind had come up and whistled through the trees as evening approached. I felt a horror movie coming on. I tripped on a berm and knew it was a human body (it wasn't). I made out a fallen tree and knew it was the deer (it wasn’t). I heard a crackling noise in the woods and knew that an overly large wolf was sizing me up for a late night snack (it wasn't). The various disembodied flashlights casting eerie lights through the woods didn’t do much to alleviate my fears. Was Artemis, the god of all wild animals, ready to pounce on me for killing one of his own (he wasn't). A strong imagination may be a shame to waste, but mine had folded in on itself. I’ve seen enough Stephen King novels to anticipate how this would end (I didn't).  The deer carcass was retrieved, our friends went home, we went back to the house. The end.