SPENDING DAYS SNOWBOUND TAPS SIMPLICITY

Snow fell softly and silently in the night. All day long I heard it was coming, but, well, it wasn't here yet. Maybe, methinks, it will be just a light dusting, a Spanish lady powdering her nose.

Nevertheless, I checked supplies. I even cleaned the regigerator to get a more accurate account of milk, eggs, butter, bread, assorted leftovers. Total cold assessment? Maybe a week or ten days, according to how much powder the Spanish lady used and the expiration date on the milk carton.

Now, where's the battery radio, the extra fuses, the candles? The little kerosene stove? Kerosene stove!

Inventory made, I went to bed with a meaure of foreseeable independence, bulwarked by the knowledge that next door there is a neighbor's daughter who shows up rather regularly in a four-wheel drive conveyance. From past experience the services of that conveyance is available if the Spanish lady uses too much powder.

In the night I awoke only long enough to notice the muted light inside the house which should have been dark,and I knew, sleepily, that what I'd heen hearing all day had come about.

Next morning there was the new world, all sparkling white and beautiful. Beautiful, since I didn't have to go anywhere. The bird houses, feeders and bath had put on tall tam-o-shanters. Even the rooster on the weathervane, not to be outdone, sported a tiny top hat.

The long driveway disappeared beneath the white blanket. Except for the distant garage opening, no one from the street would know where to turn in, or whether the driveway was straight or curved. My fanciful "tam-o-shanter" attitude dimmed a little at the prospect of getting this driveway drift demolished. There used to be several boys in the neighborhood, eager to do this, but we've become a sort of retired, laid-back community with only a few boys left.

Oh well,there's always that nearby four-wheel drive vehicle, a peck of potatoes and a kerosene stovette--almost as good as a loaf of bread, a jug of wine and thou. Thou being Emerson's "Self Reliance," Whittier's "Snowbound," Grayson's "The Scotch Preacher." I don't have Auden's grumbling piece about snow disfiguring the statues, but that's all right. It would only further diminish my delight in the rooster's roguish chapeau.

The snowbound days dragged on. The umbilical cords transmitting electricity and contact with the outside world stayed intact. The world news was fed in moment by moment Earthquakebobbitwhitewaterinman all ran together. Daily calls from Sikeston's self-proclaimed half-wit came cheerily through. Neighbor Jack trudged through the snow to pick up my daily paper and put it within handy reach. Bless him. Neighbors Bob and Doris announced they were getting out, did I need anything? Bless them too.

As always, during such weather, a creature, most probably a bird, finds the same little hole where roof and brick wall meet and scratches in. I hear the little flurry of action and, somehow, it makes me feel good. Something is out of the freezing rain, sleet and snow.

Was your interest arrested by my ownership of a kerosene stove? It was a gift about twenty years ago when it was an artistic fad to decorate these utilitarian pieces and use them as flower stands. The older they were, the better. Mine was new. Never used. I took a prolonged look at it and, fireplaceless, thought what a handy thing it could be for short term emergency. No paint went on. Only decals.

But where is the kerosene, you might ask. That's covered too. Lamps! I keep four of them filled. For light? Not exactly. Storage tanks? Maybe.

But look! Here comes the sun. Here comes the melting rain. Soon the voice of the turtle dove will be heard in all the land and the kerosene stove, probably doomed to an unfulfilled life, will remain a flower stand, yet, always a little more than that, a symbol of simplicity and make-do.

REJOICE!