Hiding Out from the Blizzard in The Barn

It is 14F (–10C) this morning. Snow on the ground. Yesterday we were locked inside  with a blizzard hurling itself around outside. It was about 18F all day.  Snow flew in swirls through the fields past the buildings and straight out across the plains.  It seemed very certain of its path that  snow.  We were in the way and got smacked for the privilege.  The Farmy Animals were locked in the barn for the day as well.  So I wrapped my old camera in a plastic bag  against the nastiness, put all my clothes on at once and went to the barn, taking you guys with me. Did you know that your eyes live in an old camera.

The wind was gusting up to 40 miles an hour (a good Wellington kind of wind), TonTon, the Big Dog  and I literally forced our bodies into the wind to the barn. Bent.  I have heard of old fellas stretching a rope from their houses to their barns so they can pull themselves hand over hand  to see to their stock, this seemed like a good idea to me yesterday. Finally we got to the door, shovelled the snow away from it and stumbled our way into the barn, the wind howled at us, furious that we had made it  and we slammed the door in its face.    A curious thing happens in the barn when the wind is bombarding snow at the walls. The moment you close the door against the storm, the volume drops and the barn shifts right through time into a stillness that is layered with age somehow.  You see, the walls of the barn are full of cracks, shrunken old, old boards, holes, loose planks.  The huge space becomes fractured and hesitant. Old. The light itself is borrowed, flickering in Tinkerbell delight from an old movie reel.

Filtered, finely sifted, talcum snow drifts into the barn through the minutest of cracks. It is caught in the light like dustmotes. But not dusty. It gently falls through the tips of light like  a sunshower of the finest shards of  crystal champagne glasses. There is no sound though there should be a tinkle. Just this glisten in the air. These tiniest of rejected diamonds.  Like migraines flashing lights in your eyes but sweeter. The Storm is blindfolded in here.  Only its breath is allowed. This immense embracing sense of otherworldliness consumes us.

It is warm from the animals, alive and shuffly.  I take shots of the cows for you but it feels as though there should be more big heads turning and other tails switching.  The shuffling and chewing is ancient.  Timeless. Shadows are here in this light. Other doey eyes slowly blink. Other calves sigh.

Everyone stands or sleeps or chews quietly. No-one is bashing at the doors to get out today. Or bellowing for more feed.  History has come.  Old forgotton lullabies are being sung.

And now once again it is Morning on the Farmy.  The sky is still black so I have yet to see any  of the damage outside. I am concerned about the hives.  The storm smashed through here for most of the day and night. The snow has stopped but the wind is still ripping through. Mary’s Cat decided to sleep in the barn but was sat on his stool at the kitchen door by 4.30am as usual so he is OK.  Such a worry that tough little vandal of a cat.

OK, since I started to write it has dropped to 13F.  So I had better start putting on the layers and out I will go.

Good morning

c