out here in the sticks

Yesterday I headed out to work and it was snowing again, but to just say that it was snowing doesn't come close to capturing the moment. The snow was coming softly but steadily out of the gray sky, straight down, like feathers, no wind, no sound. This is a beautiful photo, but, again, doesn't come close to capturing the muffled, silent majesty of just snowing.
I drove into Rutland filled with wonder and gratitude. It was snowing in Rutland as well, but it was no where near as compelling as those ineffable moments here on the other side of the creek. Ira is not a happening place. There's nothing going on here except the turning of the days, of the seasons, one after another. I'm so grateful to live here. Thornton Wilder puts it so well...

Artistic Lady in a Box. Mr. Webb!

Mr. Webb. Yes Ma'am

Mr. Webb, is there any culture or love of beauty in Grover's Corners?

Well ma'am, there ain't much, not in the sense you mean. Come to think of it, there's some girls that play the piano over at High School Commencement; but they ain't happy about it. No ma'am there isn't much culture; but maybe this is the place to tell you that we've got a lot of pleasures of a kind here: we like the sun comin' up over the mountain in the morning, and we all notice a good deal about the birds. We pay a lot of attention to them. And we watch the change of the seasons: yes, everybody knows about them. But those other things-you're right ma'am-there ain't much-Robinson Crusoe and the Bible; and Handel's Largo, we all know that, and Whistler's Mother-those are just about as far as we go.
Our Town
Thornton Wilder