As I type this, a month and a half after the fact, it's hot out--an 80 degree day, to be precise. Sierra, when she learns of the day's temperature says, "Well, we got one day of Spring, at least." Hard to believe that just a handful of weeks ago, I took these photos clomping around our land in Wolfman's Doc Martins with the neon orange laces. Whenever it snows down here, I think of my pen pal, Kath, in Alberta. She lives with snow for months out of the year, but she still always expresses a sense of awe at the first snow of the season. Nearly every snow we get is the first, because it is so often the last. This year was a bit different--we had a handful of days of ice as precursor to snow. The tinkling of ice on our roof and back deck was particularly foreboding this past February, as Sierra and I listened to it, alone with our babies, worrying over our men who were out on the road, trying to make it home to us. This year's snow happened over night, luckily, and in the morning Wolfman and The Kid elected to stay at home and enjoy it [and give their wives some peace of mind]. We huddled in the living room together where the menfolk got out guitars and the babies shrieked and wiggled. It was nice, just that--to be with family, to be warm, to watch the snow pile up around us.