Living in southeast Ohio, specifically in the Ohio River Valley, we tend to miss a lot of the bad winter weather that pummels the areas to the north and south of us. I am always amazed by the weather Doppler how Warren County seems to nicely sandwich itself in between bands of ferocious rain or record dumping snows. Usually I heave a sad sigh and go on with my day dreaming of those big snows of my childhood on the shores of Lake Michigan. The weatherman was calling for heavy snowfall last night in our county and I went to bed with a smirk. The weatherman is never correct in our case, I have had my hopes dashed too many times. The only thing I saw around midnight was a dangerous one inch layer of ice all over every surface imaginable. This is not my idea of good winter weather. When I awoke at five am I couldn't see out the windows for the snow was so thick- giant cotton ball sized puffs were coming down and it was eerily quiet. The children woke up a few hours later and immediately noticed the room ablaze in white light from the snow reflection outside. Dad would not be making the drive into work today, and no one would be making the drive in to our house either. This is what living a mile down a dirt road off a secluded paved county road does for your social life. It is bliss. How being snowed in came into my register of blissful things is no mystery to me whatsoever. I had read years ago that then in her early seventies Tasha Tudor walked a mile or so every day rain, snow, or shine to get her mail down her own dirt road. Her drive was too treacherous in any kind of weather for most large vehicles. This notion struck me as quaint back then when I had a mere twenty steps or so in basking Florida sunshine to retrieve my own mail. A few years later I was atop Gunnison Pass in the midst of a Park City winter when I saw a line of four wheel drive vehicles mingled with snowmobiles all along the roadside. "What's this?"I asked my friend who was familiar with the area. The answer would send me into a rapture that has lasted for years. "Oh, nothing much, just the locals who live off road and can't get in and out without the snowmobiles to ferry them back and forth." Wait...What? People live like this? There was something in me, deep seeded, that thrilled to the notion of being self-reliant. Even if it was only on a scale of that magnitude in which you must navigate wilderness to your front door. When we moved to Hawk's Run and were snowbound that first year right after my son was born, I was elated. Surprisingly, a lot of my friends were too. We made a few phone calls to check that everyone had what they needed (like we were going to be able to do something if they didn't...we were going no where fast) and once the niceties were done we barely breathed and exclaimed, "Isn't this great! See you after the thaw!" Or one or two of us would show up on a four wheeler or snowmobile at someone else's house "just to check in". The comradery of these snow-ins gives you a warm fuzzy feeling. And so it was today. No mail, no deliveries, no errands. We got our truck stuck straight off before we even got out of the driveway. Then we somehow managed to kill our old tractor trying to pull ourselves out. Fixing the tractor is on the to do list for tomorrow. As is somehow pulling out the truck. Babies down for a nap with dad, I pulled on my snowshoes and headed up for the mail and packages and checked in on my husband's parents. They had employees who had spent the night with them when the roads began to ice up yesterday. There's that comradery again. Sled full of items to haul back I started the mile or so trek to my own warm home. I ran into my closest neighbor unsuccessfully trying to plow us all out. Or more to the point, trying to plow his wife in who had been stuck in town after work. My guess is that she's sipping tea in town with her mom as I haven't seen anything with seat belts come and go in over 24 hours. Our other neighbor came on his four wheeler plow and made a few sweeps through our drive. We can see the drive now but it is still far from passable. We'll see what tomorrow brings. We may get out, we may not. We have a full pantry and a blaring wood stove. We have Bliss.