It typically comes in the last two weeks of the month and is announced
in the platinum of the predawn by mild profanity and the growling of a
diesel engine. It's an inauspicious occasion by most favorite-day
standards but cherished nonetheless. For me, it is snow stake day and
it arrived on Monday.
At 6:43 that morning the town's old Ford rolled to a stop at the top of
my road. Three men wearing orange safety vests and camouflaged ball
caps poured from the truck, shuffled to the back of the pickup, and
each hoisted out a bundle of wooden stakes. They then walked the length
of the street, hammering the stakes into the frosted earth at varying
intervals. In the coming days and weeks, the stakes will act as guides
for the plow trucks that work to keep the road from being buried by the
abundant snowfall.
This is the eighth snow stake day I have celebrated since moving to
Vermont and I relish the occasion every year because of what it means:
that winter, and all of its fun, is just around the corner. But
Monday's was different. As I drove down my road, I noticed the tops of
the stakes were painted fluorescent green. For better viewing at night
maybe, I thought. And something else was off. When I got out of my car
to take a closer look at one of the rough-hewn pickets, I noticed it
came up to the level of my chest; in previous years, the posts only
reached my waist.
When I came to the end of the street, the crew was just finishing their
task. I rolled down my window and one of the guys turned to face me.
"Taller stakes this year, huh. You guys expecting a big winter?" I joked.
He looked at me matter-of-factly and just said, "You haven't heard? Biggest winter ever."
It's on its way, Valley fans. Get ready.
Toland lives in Morrisville and works in Warren.
