Dear Jack Blizzard - is that all you've got?!?

You can’t live in South Dakota and not talk about the weather, especially this time of year. Jack Blizzard stomped across the state in the first week of the year, dumping about 15” of snow on us. Happy fecking New Year! 

We got that just about cleaned up when Jack threw another hissy fit, and this one was a real doozey. Another foot of snow at least, real temps that got down into the -20s, and wind chills that got as low as -48 here (colder in other parts of the state). There are little mountains of snow all around town and down the middles of streets – nowhere to put it all. It’s a balmy -3 right now, heading for a high of 13, which will feel like summer. We’re finally going to venture out for groceries today, wrapped up for our polar expedition in multiple layers of wool, fur, wicking nylon, Thinsulate, and more wool.

I’ve heard a number of people wonder aloud lately (including us), why do we live here? The honest answer is “because we’ve always lived here, and humans don’t really like change.” But another answer, for me, has to do with something I learned early on about poetry: Good poems play with contrast. Think about it. My favorite poems show me the contrast between dark/light, life/death, day/night, out there/in here. Similarly, one of the things I love best about winters here is that when spring comes (or even on bright sunny days like today, with temps above 0), the contrast is absolutely stunning.

Spring isn’t just the next season here, like I imagine it is in warm southern states. It’s a goll dern miracle. The sense of relief SoDakians feel on a suddenly-warm winter day or with the first signs of spring beats any mood-altering drug on the market. We’re positively giddy. We peel off layers and go right outside. We invent chores to stay out as long as we can stand it. We scrape gunk off birdfeeders. We stack empty flower pots in order of circumference. We make a new garage hanger for our 17 pairs of garden gloves. Did I go outside this morning and brush a foot of snow off my clamshell lawn chairs? Why, yes. Yes I did.

And I know I’ve said it before, but SoDakians, like the stalwart prairie stock from which many of us spring, are uniquely prepared to deal with Jack’s little tantrums. Here at the row, we’re dipping into our larder for those wonderful jars of canned summer – stewed tomatoes. Tomato soup, chili, spaghetti. We could probably live a month on tomatoes alone. There’s always a couple whole chickens and roasts in the freezer, along with bags of frozen veg, and plenty of noodles, beans, and grains in the pantry, so we could live another month on soups. We have wine, a good supply of coffee beans in the freezer (I order coffee in 5-pound bags), and we refilled all our old-people prescriptions before Jack rolled into town.

Winterfolk learn early to self-entertain, which retirement makes infinitely easier: I have a new poetry book, Hysterian, coming out this year, and I’m already well into the next. Then there are jigsaw puzzles, guitars & ukuleles, crossword puzzles, TV documentaries (I now know more about cephalopods, fungi communication, and the Branch Davidians and Heaven’s Gate than any human should), knitting, journals, and books books books. I unpacked my new set of Fluent Pet language buttons yesterday, because I’m pretty sure Pretzel has something to say about winter, too. (Check out What About Bunny for a dog who’s mastered the buttons.)

So bring it, Jack. You don’t scare us. In the time it’s taken me to write this post, the temp has already gone up to +2, and the wind chill’s only -16. I’m pretty sure the students at Little Town University are wearing shorts. And if we get a few groceries today, we’ll be good till mid-April.

FOOTNOTE: Here’s a link to the poem that gave Jack his name, at least for me. It’s from Australian poet S.K. Kelen, who spent some time here as a visiting professor, so he knows whereof he speaks:"Jack Blizzard"