It’s my second winter in Appalachia and this one is almost unbearable. A Wooly Bear I had met at Max Patch told me, with his longer brown middle, my winter would be mild. Oh how they fooled me. I think yesterday was our eight or ninth snow this season. It was seventeen degrees when I left the house this morning. Oh Wooly Bear, why?
Driving out there’s way more snow than I thought. Randy’s property is solid white, to my shock, and it’s snowing even as I drive out. Oh brother.
Having been raised in Florida, my hot blood can’t save me. The only scarf I own is a pashmina my estranged baby brother got me at an EDC concert. I wear it often enough now that I’ve admitted I’m more miserable without it and think of him every time I wrap it over my head, like we would when my dog was a puppy for laughs, or just around my neck for more casual wear. It keeps my ears and neck warm and protects me against the whipping winds that assault me every time I leave my house; to feed the chickens, to run to the car and back, to walk the compost down. I am a southerner through and through and this cold is something that could make a grown man weep. And sometimes I want to.
While driving in from town, I pass the weird gas station I’m not sure anyone uses on my right, then the small country store just past it. In suburbia we would call it the cornerstore, or the quik mart, but no, we’re in the country now. Dip and candies are the only thing inside, basically (do we still call it dip?). The brownness of the winter is comforting but damn do I miss the green. I still love the orangey browns and the bright terracotta it becomes after it rains. I pass the middle school, then the trailer on the left that always has tree stumps outside, carved with shapes I can never make out. Faces maybe? I think I saw a mushroom once. Then on my right is the adventure company I hate, with another one right across from it, until my partner pointed out they’re the only business in this town with a pride flag out front. He’s right as always. Then the volunteer fire department and my road. It takes me 30 minutes to get home from here, something I thought would affect me more than it does but it’s a welcomed drive each time. It’s like my little meditation. I pass the weird little house on my left that reeks of weed in the summer (I would guess it’s far too cold to sit outside for a toke these days), then I come to the bridge I take my left at. Randy’s brother’s house is on my right, parking lot full of logging trucks and split wood for the wood fire, and then my favorite house on this road to the left because the yard is always filled with kittens and chickens and dogs and cows. (My dream). Then the sharp left, then the sharp right, then the previous general store and post office, back when this one strip of road used to be a whole town. The general store is an airbnb now, I think. How I yearn to know what it was like before now. Before airbnbs. Was there such a world? Then our bridge, that during Hurricane Helene the river nearly crested. There’s a shipping container wrapped around one of the supports, even now, like it’s made of a simple, thin pliable material.
This drive heals me every time I drive over the frozen creek, or the houses across it that have been abandoned for decades, who knows how many. The big one before the one on our side of the creek is covered in kudzu in the summer. The kudzu’s dead now, but man you should see it. Just a house shaped thicket of kudzu. Then the house with the bear dogs outside year round, sad, then the turn, then another, then the little white chapel. I’m almost home now, thank god. Maybe I’ll check the package drop off — I’ll definitely check the mailbox, anxious for a piece of snail mail from my found family back in Florida. Then my 1+ mile unpaved forest road that I’ve learned the perfect speed to take. 21mph on a perfect day, 10 on an icey and snowy day like this. Then past the neighbors’ property and up up up the steepest stretch of road. The two green gnomes from the previous commune tenants greet me on my left, then my bee boxes on the right — then: home. If my dogs are on the deck I’ll usually hear them before I see them, barking with excitement but I’m still not sure if it’s because they know it’s me or because, ohmygod a car, that’s so fun, let’s freak out. Then I’m home — finally. I leave the filled car for later (or for my partner to unpack, to even the score of having to run all these errands myself) and rush up the stairs of the deck to greet my excited dogs and of course the chickens who run up and scream at me as soon as they can. Then inside, inside, come on girls, let’s go, you can say hi to mom inside, let’s go. Damn it’s cold.
Then off with my boots, and off with the pashmina my estranged baby brother got me. I think of him when I take it off and hang it on the hook. I wonder if he thinks of me even through his hate and disdain. Too bad the cold won’t let me think of the answer for too long. (Week 2: 1/9/25)
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On this car ride home, I decided I want to start writing again so I’m going to try to hold myself accountable here. My goal is to write something weekly. Maybe I’ll think something up to replace Week 1’s writing since I already goofed that. Whoops.
If you’re the one person reading this, hi :)
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