us are gathered here in Bly, Kan., at the co-op, to talk about the
snow. It has been coming down in thumb-sized wet flakes,
but by afternoon the sky will be white with tiny dots, giving the
impression we have lost our horizons. The ground is still warm,
so the snow will melt into the pastures. If it gets thick enough—and
it will—it will fill the shallow wells we have for our livestock
and homes. Maybe even the creeks will run when spring comes.
“A million-dollar snow,” says one of the men. “If
you count snow as cash on which we'll earn interest next spring.”
“And a couple years beyond that,” says the second man,
“if we didn’t have a debt to the drought.”
It amuses us to think of snow as money.
We take our gloves off the propane stove, put on our coats and
head for the door. We are off to move hay, check stock tanks, get
wood in for the stoves, and before night park the pickups pointing
toward where we might go the next day. We don’t know it yet,
but by morning we won’t be going anyplace soon: Some of us
in the country will be a week digging out.
“ ‘It was snowing, and it was going to snow,’
” I say as we step outside.
* * *
A man on a farm just outside of Bly is
Steve Reuber. When the snow lets up, he gets into his 1962
John Deere 4010 with a front-end blade and heads toward Bly. The
county can’t get down here yet, but Steve can, so he does.
We are a four-dirt-street tic-tac-toe of a town. That plus the Oil
Road that leads to the U.S. highway. Steve has been plowing our
streets—and our driveways—for 20 years. Same tractor.
“He’s better than government,” is what we say.
This year he’ll take extra care to clear the streets all
the way to the mailboxes, because otherwise our mailman, Gene Wurm,
will have to get out of his car each time to make his delivery.
Mr. Wurm is past 80 and we don’t want him to take a fall.
Most of us out here are old, and we are mindful of each other that
way: Quick to hurt, slow to heal.
* * *
“It was snowing / And it was going to snow.”
It’s a line from the poet Wallace Stevens. When I am not
who I am in Bly, I am a teacher who knows about poets. The men here
understand that and don’t hold it against me.
“It’s not something we’d say,” says the
man who mentioned the million-dollar snow.
“I read ‘Snow-Bound,’ ” says the other.
“ ‘The sun that brief December day / Rose cheerless
over hills of gray, / And, darkly circled, gave at noon / A sadder
light than waning moon.’ ”
“If you say so.”
“And this is Robert Frost,” I say:
“ ‘Whose woods these are I think I know. / His house
is in the village though; / He will not see me stopping here / To
watch his woods fill up with snow.’ ”
By now we are at our trucks.
“Frost isn’t talking to us either,” says the
man who was taught Whittier. “We don’t have woods, and
nothing ‘fills up’ except roads and draws with drifts.”
Gene Wurm goes by on the Oil Road heading to Bly.
“It is money and it is going to be money,” I say, looking
We are quiet for a moment. We all know the sound of snow in the
wind, but you can’t name it.
“Better your other poetry for who we are,” says the
I am thinking of drifts, of Steve Reuber, of the hand-pump wells
we will be using the next few days because the power lines are down.
No phones. No television. Wood smoke in the gray mornings. Snow