Notes from January & February — Snowfall, Stories, and Garden Preparation
We’re soon to say farewell to the first two months of 2026, and it has been an interesting beginning to the year. Our first major snowfall came nearly a month ago, and as if on cue, we now brace for another within the next few hours.
During the last storm, I tried the liner method — covering the front walk and driveway with tarps, anticipating the simple pleasure of pulling them back to watch the snow slide cleanly to the sides. I spent most of that morning with coffee in hand, watching the snow fall and enjoying the deep quiet that only snowfall brings. But, by the time I stepped outside, the snow was far too deep for the effortless reveal I had imagined. We shoveled and snow-blowed instead. Still, not having to scrape van windows or pry open frozen doors felt like a small win. I’ll take it.
The youngest boys made full use of it — hiking their way around the house, skating down snow drifts, building a snowman in crooked triumph — and my oldest daughter, of course, couldn’t resist scooping up fresh snow to eat. I grew up in New York City and knew blizzards that buried our porches and front walks so deeply we had to shovel our way out. My mother would set a large bowl on the back steps to collect clean snow, then drizzle it with honey once it was full. We’d stand there eating it, cold and sweet.
The quiet of the month also carried me back into books. I recently finished Mama Day by Gloria Naylor and have just begun Praisesong for the Widow by Paule Marshall. These stories return me to my early years in the Carolinas — where I was mostly afraid of strange insects and unfamiliar smells, sometimes begging my mother to let me wait in the car because I wanted to go “home” for bread. That's one memory she still chuckles about. I longed for stability then; summer journeys south did not feel like it.
And yet memory softens things. I can still recall the iron-thick scent of heat in the air, the winding roads that seemed to stretch without end, and my father motioning me to the steering wheel — seating me on his lap to “drive” while he guided it with his long legs. I feel now what I could not name then: the quiet pull of ancestral mothers, steady and patient, waiting for me to grow into understanding.
While the snow falls, the garden plans move forward. Pepper seeds were started mid-January, followed by collards, kale, chard, and tomatoes in recent weeks. Marigolds and sweet alyssum went in this weekend. Two blueberry bare roots are temporarily potted indoors, keeping company with our strawberry starts. There are still supplies to gather, spacing to map out, decisions to make — but planning is its own kind of cultivation. Even in winter, something is always underway.
Tree pruning season is approaching as well. The crape myrtles and two hibiscus shrubs will soon need shaping and thinning before spring presses forward. There is something deeply rewarding about this work — cutting back in order to strengthen what is coming. It feels like a fitting task for this threshold between months.
January and February have held snow, memory, books, seeds, and the steady rhythm of tending what is mine to care for. Winter is never only stillness; it is preparation, reflection, and quiet work beneath the surface. As we step into what comes next, I carry both the hush of snowfall and the promise of green things rising.
The year has begun in its own deliberate way — and so have we.
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