When the blizzard came to Maine on Tuesday, everything except the falling snow and the hungry birds seemed to come to a standstill. The schools, were closed, the state offices shut down, and even my dentist’s office wasn’t open.

“This is the first time ever our office has closed ahead of time,” Nancy,  my dental hygienist, told me on Monday when I was having my teeth cleaned.

And a good thing, too, because the snow came down, down, down all day Tuesday and well into Wednesday morning, when the storm finally wore itself out. Midafternoon on Tuesday, Clif and I went out to clear the driveway, the walkways, and the various paths in the backyard. We knew we’d have to do it again on Wednesday, but with so much snow, we felt it was best to keep up with it. The dog came out to jump, bark, and supervise. At one point, Liam’s black face was covered with snow, and it made him look like a panda bear.

We spent two hours outside and cleaned about a foot of snow. When we came in, the paths, steps, and driveway were already filling back in. We shed our dripping clothes, made some popcorn, and settled on the couch to read. The dog settled beside us, begging for popcorn. Outside, a blue-grey dusk settled over the landscape, and it was a color I had never seen before. But gradually the black of night replaced the blue-gray of dusk, and it was time to pull down the shades.

There is something sharply defining about a blizzard—the preparations, the shoveling, and the clearing of snow. We know what our duties are, and we tend to them. As much as we humans are shaping the planet, nature is still a force be reckoned with, and blizzards put us in our place.

On Wednesday, after breakfast, Clif and I were back outside. Again, the driveway, steps, walkways, and paths had to be cleared. The car, a great mound of snow, had to be uncovered. At the end of the driveway, there was a wall of snow—four feet high—left by the plow. But hardest of all was the roof, which had to be scraped so that ice dams, which lead to leaks, wouldn’t build up. The snow in the front yard was so deep that I had to shovel a path for Clif so that he could scrape the roof with a long device of connected poles and a large plastic blade on the end. In turn, the scraping of the snow brought an avalanche of hard-packed snow onto the two porches. This snow, of course, had to be removed.

“I’ll do it,” I said to Clif, whose arms were tired. He had done enough.

All told, we each spent six hours clearing snow after the storm, but by late Wednesday afternoon, the cleaning was done, and we both felt we had earned more popcorn. After our snack, Clif dozed on the couch, the dog slept in the chair by the window, and the orange cat lay on my lap, making it difficult for me to write in my notebook.

Another foot of snow is projected for Friday and Saturday. Clif and I will be ready, and so will Liam.

At any time of year, the weather in Maine is apt to be temperamental. The morning might start out bright and sunny, but by afternoon the sky is dark and either rain or snow comes, depending on the season.  In the summer, this variability can make biking a little tricksy. The sky is blue, and out you go on your bike, but midway through the ride the sky darkens, thunder rumbles in the background, and you pedal like crazy to get home before the storm comes your way. Sometimes you make it, and sometimes you don’t.

However, it seems to me that when it comes to temperamental months, January must be in the running for top honors. Over the weekend, Clif and I went for a walk on Sunday and Monday, and the two days couldn’t have been more different.

On Sunday, the sky was gray, and a storm was brewing—unfortunately it brought rain, which is most unwelcome in Maine in January. Accordingly, the woods were dim, the Lower Narrows was a dull white, and it seemed as though Clif and I were walking in a black and white world. Nevertheless, snowmobiles buzzed across the Narrows, and people were fishing by their shacks.

Not long after we got home from our walk, the rain came, and the roads became slick, so slick that I skidded the car into a snow bank at the end of our driveway after going to get the Sunday paper at Rite Aid. No harm was done, and I maneuvered the car into the driveway, where the car stayed until Tuesday, when Clif went to work.

By Monday, the sky had cleared, and the woods were bright with dappled sunlight.  On the Narrows, there was a layer of water on the ice, and the fishing shacks were gone. Hauled away, we hope, when it became clear that there would be a lashing rain all day on Sunday. No snowmobiles raced across the the Narrows, and Clif and I could hear the groaning and cracking of the ice.

Gone was the gray and the black and white palette. Now there was a blue tinge to the snow.

Two days in January, one right after another. The weather and the light make every walk visually unique, which is why I can go on the same path day after day and see something different, something of interest.

Nature, in all its variety, never fails to absorb me.

Today, our dog, Liam, is ten years old. Right now he is snoozing by my desk, but soon we will be going for a nice long walk in the woods. And luck is with us today. The weather has lost its bite—the frost is even mostly gone from the windows—and it won’t be painful to bundle up and go outside.

I remember bringing Liam home ten years ago, when he hid under the table because he was so scared; when his little head moved back and forth as he watched the pendulum on the kitchen clock; when he raced madly around the house after I gave him his first bath. And after he lost his fear, what a Tasmanian devil Liam was. Lord, just thinking about his seemingly boundless energy makes me tired. Somehow, though, I kept up with him.

At ten, Liam is no longer a Tasmanian devil, but he is still an energetic dog who would like to be out from dawn until dusk. Winter is hard on him, and December, January, February, and March are restless months, even though he gets a nice long walk on all but the coldest days.

But spring is coming, and I do believe it’s his favorite time of year. The winter confinement is over, and Liam can do what he loves best—supervise as I do spring chores. He’d love it, I know, if we had forty acres and he could be out all day with someone working the land.

Instead, Liam has to make do with his fenced-in half acre and a person who likes to putter. Still—and I know it’s dangerous to judge—he seems like a happy dog.

Anyway, happy, happy birthday to Liam. May he leap and run and bark for many more years.

Later—We did indeed get out for a nice long walk in the woods. I took my camera with me, as I always do. Both Liam and the woods are so photogenic.

Today, the temperature made it all the way to twenty degrees, and it was time for a walk in the woods. Somehow, I especially enjoy taking pictures of small things, and I came across this lichen,

this pine cone that looks a little like a sea creature,

and deer tracks.

Lately, there have been strong, cold winds, and the woods was littered with twigs, branches, and other things that had fallen from the trees. Somehow, though, tree litter doesn’t look as bad as human litter.

We made our way to the water’s edge, where I had to stop Liam from going down the bank. It’s only been very cold for a short time, and I didn’t want my dog buddy taking an expected dip in the Upper Narrows.

After looking at the water for a while, we went back up the hill that was stamped with snow shoe tracks, dog prints, deer prints, and, of course, my own boot prints. By the time we got home, my face was cold, and I was ready for a cup of tea, but it certainly felt good to be outside in the winter woods.

Like a most unwanted guest, snow came to Maine yesterday. At the little house in the big woods, the snow fell on the patio tables and chairs, the unraked leaves, temple dog in the back garden, and my collection of toads and frogs in the front gardens as well as many other ornaments.

Clif and I were out before breakfast, before the snow really got started, and we hauled in the tables and chairs. How lonely the empty patio looks, and there will be no more nights in the backyard until next summer.

As we hustled to get the furniture in, I thought about this early snow and how common it has become for the East Coast to get funky weather the end of October and the beginning of November. A few years back, when Clif and I visited Dee in New York, there was a raging blizzard where the snow flew sideways as it pelted us. Folks in Connecticut lost their power for a week or more. A year or two later came Hurricane Sandy, which was even worse.  Now this.

As we inched our way with the heavy table down the bulkhead steps, I said to Clif, “We better make plans to visit Dee the middle of October. That way, we can avoid the end of October “treat” that we seem to be getting. After all, once is a fluke. Twice is suspicious. Three times is a trend.”

“Good idea,” Clif agreed.

In the afternoon, I went back out to collect my frogs, the temple dog, the citronella torches, and various other garden ornaments. I threw snowballs for the dog, who loves the snow and would stay out with me as long as I wanted. By the time we came in, my hair was plastered to my head—no hats for me until I absolutely have to wear one—and the dog’s fur was wet, but not all the way through. His thick coat gives him ample protections from the cold and wet, which makes him a perfect northern dog.

When we came in, I made popcorn. Clif and I settled on the couch in the living room. The dog was between us, all the better to beg for popcorn, and the yellow cat was on my lamp. All was cozy, but the dark came so soon and with it the long night. We’ll adapt, of course, to the short, short days, but it always takes us at least a week to do so, to stop feeling so closed in.

This morning when I woke up, the sun was shining, and the meteorologist on MPBN promised that in most places the snow would melt by tomorrow. I am holding him to his word. There are leaves to rake, perennials to cut back, and a few more things to bring in. I can only hope that the true winter snow has enough sense to wait until the end of November or the first of December, the way it did in the old days, when I was young.

Snowy Day Pictures

And finally, Liam, dog of the north.