A few years ago, we had an epic western Dakotastyle blizzard the day after Thanksgiving. We’d hustled through our feast, knowing the storm was predicted, so we could get all our chores done and the animals tucked safely in before the weather turned. We made it just in time, which gave us a little something extra to be thankful for in addition to great food, family, and the coziness of a warm hearth.
When the wind came up, it blew the snow sideways, so it was hard to tell what was falling from the sky and what was blowing up from the ground. The next day we would go out to find icicles formed perfectly sideways along the edge of our roof, but not the first day of the storm. Our “Black Friday” was perfectly white - we couldn’t see a thing.
In the midst of that Thanksgiving blizzard, I went to check on my little flock of fiber sheep and Pumpkin and Butternut, my jersey heifers, all of whom were penned in the big corral by the house. I found them munching hay stoically as the snow swirled. A few of the sheep came over to say hi, but most stayed where they were. They’d found their spots to weather the storm, and saw no reason to move. It’s a wisdom born of necessity. No sense in fighting what they can’t change, better to just endure.
Soon after I moved to western South Dakota from Minneapolis, our county achieved its 15 minutes of fame for being the geographic location that is farther from a McDonalds than anywhere else in the contiguous United States. My guess is our distance from a Walmart, or any other big box store for that matter, is similarly noteworthy. We are lucky to have a small grocery store, but the businesses on our Main Street mostly host services rather than goods - a rare thing indeed.
Our remoteness might seem daunting to some - it certainly did to me when I first moved here. But, when you can’t pick up last minute supplies (or gifts, or ingredients) you don’t. You plan ahead or you go without. You slow down, you make do, and, if you are lucky, you enjoy the bounty of a warm home, and the comfort of family. This fact, especially during the holidays, has turned out to be a luxury.
When the Thanksgiving storm hit, my mom, who was visiting from the Cities for the holiday weekend, remarked how calm and quiet everything felt, despite the howls of wind rushing through the eaves and hollows. Perhaps it was because, like the rest of the animals, we had nowhere to be, and no way to get there if we did. Simply traversing the mile of gravel road to get to the highway would have been nigh impossible. So, we stayed put and played cards and made snow candles while soup bubbled on the stovetop. The hustle of Black Friday passed us by, and we remained burrowed in cozy as a family of prairie dogs.
So, to those of you reading from cities and suburbs, or even ranches that are just a little closer to a big town, if you are already feeling the burnout of the holiday season, I say give yourself permission to think of the prairie, cold and quiet and biding her time through long nights and long shadows. What you can do, do, what you can not, leave undone. And enjoy the blessings of the season, bright twinkles in the sweet darkness of early winter.