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Snow sounds like thunder cracking right on top of the roof as it breaks up and slides off the edge of the house. The first time I heard the sound of snow breaking up on the roof, I thought the house was under guerrilla attack. I remember when I used to fantasize about living someplace where it snowed, like really snowed, and where the snow actually stuck around for more than a day. Snow looks very idyllic in paintings and photographs, you know. I still love snow, but I’d love it more if I didn’t have to go anywhere. If you gotta go somewhere, it’s a real problem. For one thing, it’s cold. (I know, that is a breathtakingly insightful remark!) It’s really cold when you’re taking care of farm animals, and even colder when you’re trying to keep them in water (which keeps freezing).

I managed to not go anywhere for eight days, and even managed to get the kids off the farm, to civilization and education and work at McDonald’s and basketball. Then I started really missing them and yesterday was Morgan’s birthday. I was determined to get them back!
It’s hard to be determined and wussy at the same time, but I knew I could overcome with careful attention to detail.
Almost thwarted by losing my car keys (hey, if you don’t go anywhere for eight days, you don’t need no stinkin’ car keys! the cats took off with them! that’s my story and I’m sticking to it!), I finally managed to come up with my spare car key then promptly handed it to someone else (52). He took my car down the still-snowy driveway with the obnoxious ease with which men handle these sorts of death-defying tasks.
Resting assured that the biggest challenge was out of the way, I set about baking chocolate birthday cake in preparation for the great birthday event. Cake cooling on wire racks, I set off from the house. I was leaving the house! Quite momentous after eight days.

I was glad I didn’t have to drive down the driveway because there was still snow on it.
There was still snow on the road, too.
There are two ways off our farm–the two miles on our rock-based road that goes through three creeks and over the hill, or across the river. If you just want to run over to our little town, fording the river is the long way. So I headed out through the creeks.
This is what the first creek looked like as I drove through it.

Still, all was good! Except for the part where my gas gauge was sitting on E. Hmmm. Why didn’t I know about that?
Then I got to the hill and it looked like this.

See that dark area kinda off to the right just beyond the snow-covered road? That’s a steep dropoff. There are no guardrails, of course.
Then I started sliding.
And screaming and sobbing and shaking. And there was no way I was going to keep going. I would, in fact, at that moment, have been happy if I could have transported myself to Mars just to get out of that car and off that road.
So I backed up. Or slid or whatever. And somehow managed to get back home to our farm where I parked at the bottom of our driveway and declared then and there that I wasn’t going anywhere ever again or at least not until tomorrow.

And after I get some gas.
But! All was not lost yesterday! First, I did finally get all of my kids back home in time for the birthday dinner (with help from 52). And! I was thrilled to learn that I was a finalist in the Best-Kept Secret category of the 2009 Bloggies! THANK YOU to all of you who nominated Chickens in the Road! Thank you from Clover and Coco and the chickens and, most of all, from me!
I still need your help! Please vote for me now? Go here. Scroll to the right (not down). You can vote once per email address, so grab your family, your friends, your dog, your cat, your goat, and vote! And tell your friends! (If you don’t get your confirmation email, your vote won’t count. Email the Bloggies coordinator for assistance.)
Princess, in that final moment of anticipation just before blowing the candles out. The candles were a make-do affair dredged up from about the house. Since I didn’t get to the store, I didn’t have enough proper birthday cake candles.

Cake for everybody!
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"It was a cold wintry day when I brought my children to live in rural West Virginia. The farmhouse was one hundred years old, there was already snow on the ground, and the heat was sparse-—as was the insulation. The floors weren’t even, either. My then-twelve-year-old son walked in the door and said, “You’ve brought us to this slanted little house to die." Keep reading our story....
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