Before rheuma

Hands quick

Hands dexterous

Skilled and sure, right-brain

for left hand, left-brain for right.

Hands grasp

Hands pull

Strong and stout, trusty

Confident, thoughtless

Heedless.

After rheuma

Hands dull

Hands ungraceful

Skill made moot, in pain

made cautious, hesitant touch

Hands ache

Hands grieve

Weak and thin, brittle

Unflexible, careful

Thoughtful.

The Republicans in Congress, even as they threaten to hold a read-a-thon to slow progress on the health care insurance reform bill, have accused Democrats of having bad manners .

Honestly. They’re trying to kill a bill that will help hundreds of thousands of Americans who, through no fault of their own, can’t afford and thus don’t have health insurance. These people — our friends and neighbors, brothers and sisters, parents and grandparents —  can’t get even basic care, let alone catastrophic care in the case of a severe illness or accident.

Bad manners?? Who in the hell do the Republicans think they’re kidding? They should be ashamed.

You know, it’s easy to complain.

I do it all the time, about all sorts of things. Who doesn’t? It is, I think, part of the human condition to never be quite happy with the status quo. But it occurred to me this morning, as I was warming and loosening up my creaky hands – opening and closing my fingers, assessing which ones hurt in particular and where they hurt, bending and rotating my wrists – that maybe, when it comes to my RA, I’m complaining too much.

While my hands and wrists DO hurt pretty much all the time, the pain is neither overwhelming nor intense. It’s like they have headaches, the dull, background kind with the occasional drill-bit-over-the-eye type headaches. There are moments when all I can do is stop whatever I’m about and just hold my hands to my chest, massaging gently, waiting for the blaring, pulsing pain to die down. But mostly, they’re just generally sore and I manage in spite of them.

Yet I frequently think about, and sometimes write about, how I don’t think the rheuma drugs I’m taking are working very well. I have that perception precisely because my hands have headaches day and night, sometimes a little better and sometimes worse. It’s frustrating, to say the least, because when I first started taking drugs specifically for rheumatoid arthritis, 18 months ago, my hands didn’t hurt as bad as they do now. So it’s not a surprise that the Arava, sulfasalazine and diclofenac tabs I take every day, along with Tramadol and Tylenol, don’t seem to be making any difference.

“Seem” is, however, the pivotal word.

My hands and wrists seem worse than before, but how would they feel if I wasn’t taking the medicines? Would they be the same, or three times as bad? Ten times as bad? So far, I don’t have any deformity in my hands or anywhere else in my body, even though I’ve had the disease for more than two decades, and during the first, the pain it caused in various joints was both disabling and devastating. I limped frequently. The bottoms of my feet throbbed and ached constantly, as if someone had been beating on them with canes during the night. One day my shoulder would flare so badly that I couldn’t get dressed on my own. Another day my right hand would be so intensely painful I couldn’t hold a pen, or type. I often needed a cane, and several times, crutches. And one dark, awful time the pain was so bad in my right hip, my doctor hospitalized me for two days so they could give me painkilling medication intravenously until the flare finally let go.

All of that was in spite of NSAIDs, oral gold, and frequent prescriptions for narcotic painkillers. After I returned to the U.S. I stopped taking all of them and stopped seeing a doctor for my RA. I was convinced they could do nothing for me but prescribe useless drugs that risked my health in other ways and made my stomach hurt all the time.

And amazingly, after a few years the disease went into remission. I was … glad. SO glad. But I also didn’t want to think about it too hard.

My rheuma returned in 2005, manifesting as synovial pannus – a great, hulking, sudden double lump of it over my right wrist. It was mostly painless, so I was pretty surprised. An orthopedic surgeon identified it for me, surgically removed it, and advised me to see my PCP for a referral to a rheumatologist, because even though I hadn’t felt it, the rheuma was still active in my body and still doing damage.

I did see my PCP for the referral, but in the end, I cancelled the appointment. I didn’t want to start that ridiculous, endless loop of useless drugs again. I didn’t want to worry about my liver, or have to have blood drawn every other week, like I had in the past. And once the surgical wound in my wrist healed, there was no pain. Why go through all that – and risk side-effects – if there was no pain?

Well, in February of 2008, I started feeling RA pain again. Mostly in my hands, but occasionally in my hip, or my knee, or my shoulder. It wasn’t intense. But I knew I was in a corner. I was unemployed by then. I had no health insurance. I hadn’t been able to find a job. So, since I’m a veteran, I applied for health care through the Veterans Administration. To my great relief, I was accepted. And after my initial physical, my primary care doc referred me to the rheumatologist. He’s great.

Sure, I complain that the drugs don’t work very well. I’m an American. I want instant relief! I KNEW that all these newfangled drugs wouldn’t work any better than the old ones! And yet … and yet. The pain I have today is nothing like I had before.

I fear that sort of pain now. I have nightmares about it. My fear colors my view of the future – I know that RA will be a constant, unwanted companion that will cause me no end of trouble – but so far, I haven’t experienced it, even though my hands and wrists seem to be getting worse in tiny, steady increments. But even then, the pain is bearable. I’m so grateful for that, I hardly have words to describe it.

The only way to find out if the drugs I take aren’t working very well is to stop taking them. But unless I’m cut out of VA health care and can’t get other insurance, I won’t risk that. I’m afraid to stop taking them this time.

I’ll be seeing my rheumatologist again in about six weeks. I’ll tell him, then, that my hands are slowly getting worse. I imagine we’ll try something new at that point. But in the meantime, I’ve decided I’m not going to complain about the efficacy – or lack of it – of my rheumatoid arthritis meds anymore.

I really, really don’t want to tempt fate.

I’ve been dropping things lately. Not figuratively. Literally. Rheuma has affected my right pointer finger to the extent that I can no longer make it fit into a fist; that finger won’t curl up tight, so it sticks out. And I keep losing my grasp on things. Little things, mostly, but it always catches me by surprise. After more than a year of continuous flares of varying intensity in my hands, I’m grateful that the only noticeable consequences so far are this unexpected clumsiness and a pea-sized nodule on the back of my left hand. But I can’t help but wonder what’s next.

There’s just never a dull moment with rheumatoid arthritis.

 ~*~*~*~

 After talking with my neighbor Allison several days ago about possibly trying out snowshoeing this winter, I got online and searched for local resorts that have snowshoe lessons and trails. To my delight, Kirkwood (a ski resort near Lake Tahoe) offers both. They have an instructor who gives lessons twice each day for a very reasonable price. Snowshoe rentals are just $5 a day. And they have 88 miles of trails. This is definitely going to happen.

 ~*~*~*~

 I drove down the mountain to the VA medical center in Sacramento for a bone density scan this morning. Last time I had a blood test, they discovered that my Vitamin D levels were way down in the basement, so I’m taking some mega-supplements now. The bone density scan will tell us if I’ve got osteopenia or osteoporosis. I sort of doubt it, but I’m glad they’re being so thorough about my health care.

When I first checked in, the youngish receptionist checked my VA card and then asked for my birth date. I told her.

“1956? Wow, you look GREAT!” she exclaimed.

“Well, thanks!” Isn’t it wonderful to get a nice compliment like that out of the blue? So unexpected and sincere? It sure put a big smile on my face.

A few minutes later, I was called back for the scan. What a cool machine that is – it reminded me of something Dr. McCoy from Star Trek would use. You lay on this wide, padded platform and a box-like thingy moves over you and painlessly scans images of your bones. I turned my head to watch the tech’s computer screen and there – appearing bit by bit – were X-ray-like images of my pelvic and  hip bones in bright glowing green on a black field. She said that the radiologist will be looking at the scans today or tomorrow, and will send the results to my endocrinologist.

Stuff like this just fascinates me. I wonder if the person who invented this bone density scanner was inspired by Star Trek back in the late 60s?

 ~*~*~*~

 I was disappointed to discover that this year, for some reason, Sacramento didn’t hold a Jingle Bell Walk/Run to raise money for researching treatments and a cure for RA through the Arthritis Foundation. The Sacramento chapter is holding an Arthritis Walk/Run next May, however. I’ve signed up for it and hope to raise $500 (more, if I can). I probably can’t run the 3-mile course, but I sure can walk/trot. Please donate to the cause by clicking on my Arhtritis Walk Page, http://sacramentoarthritiswalk.kintera.org/wrenswalk 

I appreciate anything you can give toward rheumatoid arthritis research and a cure. But this isn’t for me. It’s for US – you, me and all the other Americans who have RA, JRA and other forms of arthritis.

On another note, the local AF chapter offers arthritis swim and exercise classes, but they’re in Folsom – about 35 miles downhill. Mountain folks  like me don’t like to hitch up ol’ Dobbin for a long trip like that unless we can cluster several errands in the area on the same day. Honestly, I was hoping to find something closer to home. I’m also interested in self-help classes, and I’d even join a support group. But those last two aren’t offered at all, even in Sacramento. I’d have to go to Southern California.

Kicking and screaming, maybe.

It’s really frustrating. Surely hundreds of people who have RA live in the Sacramento area. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were that many right up here in El Dorado County, and yet the AF offers us nothing.

So I decided to call the county health nurse and offer my services. I figure I can teach a class, given some training. I can lead a support group, too. And I can push the county (and the Arthritis Foundation) to find a way to offer arthritis exercise classes, swimming classes, or even tai chi and yoga classes adapted for people with RA right here in our little part of the world.

The nurse was delighted. Said that they’d had classes several years ago, and that they were really popular, but they’d lost their instructors and ultimately, their funding. Mainly what’s needed, she said, is someone with interest and enthusiasm to get in there and lobby for it.

Well, I can do that, too.

She gave me the phone number and name of the Sacramento foundation’s program director. I called. She wasn’t available, naturally. I got a recording. Haven’t heard back yet.

Hmmm. Maybe I need some SuperBitch lessons … I know JUST who to talk to!

 ~*~*~*~

 Late update: My endocrinologist called a little while ago. My bone scan shows some bone thinning. Not osteoporosis – yet. Osteopenia. Blood test came back good except that the potassium level was pretty high. He wanted to know if I’ve been eating a lot of bananas lately. Or cabbage.

No, I haven’t. So he wants me to go back again next week and have more blood drawn.  Goody.

As I write about rheuma, there are words and phrases I’ve decided, without really thinking too hard about it, not to use.

One of the words I shy away from is “suffer.” A phrase I dislike is “my RA/rheuma/rheumatoid arthritis.”

It’s probably just a personal quirk. I love playing with words. Done right, words can sing in the reader’s mind, even as they inform and entertain. Done with care, they can paint imagination-pictures of stunning simplicity and beauty. Words create worlds.

I’m also hyper-aware of semantics and rhetoric. And, while it’s an ongoing personal struggle for me, I’m a fascinated student of the power of positive thinking. How I think about myself has a profound effect on how I am.

My hands and wrists ache and twinge this morning. It’s nothing new. As I settled down to write, I acknowledged the pain with a sigh and gave each of them a gentle, encouraging rub and squeeze. A caress. A few minutes later, I started to type the word “suffer”  — and automatically censored myself, using “cope” instead. I don’t “suffer” with rheumatoid arthritis; I “cope” with it. A little further into the post, as I wrote about my personal experience with the disease, I consciously steered myself away from writing “my rheuma” or “my RA.” And then I stopped. Why isn’t it “my” rheuma? Why don’t I “suffer?”

For  me, the word “suffer” evokes heart-wrenching images of starving third-world children or a bed-bound, terribly weak, terminally ill person. Rheumatoid arthritis can be breathtakingly painful and it can absolutely force changes in plans and lifestyles, but to compare my situation with that of a skeletal, balloon-bellied infant or to someone dying, agonized, from cancer seems just a wee bit overwrought. Weak. Even spoiled. And yet the headaches in my hands are real. The rheuma-dragon rarely lets me forget it.

I looked up “suffer” with Dictionary.com. (It never fails to delight me that I can click into an online dictionary rather than pull the thick, heavy, hard-bound version off my bookshelf. I harbor a definite nostalgia for books, but my hands are so very grateful for the alternative.) Here’s what I found:

Suffer: A verb, used without object, to suffer is to 1) undergo or feel pain or distress: The patient is still suffering. 2) sustain injury, disadvantage, or loss: One’s health suffers from overwork. The business suffers from lack of capital. 3) undergo a penalty, as of death: The traitor was made to suffer on the gallows. 4) endure pain, disability, death, etc., patiently or willingly.

As a verb, used with object, to suffer is to 5) undergo, be subjected to, or endure (pain, distress, injury, loss, or anything unpleasant): to suffer the pangs of conscience. 6) undergo or experience (any action, process, or condition): to suffer change. And 7) to tolerate or allow: I do not suffer fools gladly.

 Well. “To undergo or feel pain or distress.” I definitely do that almost every day. I also “endure”  and “tolerate” this disease as patiently as I can manage, if not exactly willingly. After all, having RA isn’t a choice.

 So to use the word “suffer” isn’t really being wimpy. The word doesn’t imply an appeal for sympathy or attention. It simply describes, in the most accurate and concise way, how someone with rheumatoid arthritis feels, physically and mentally. I suffer when my hands throb. I don’t suffer to the same degree as the starving baby and her mother, but the pain and angst I suffer is no less real.

Another definition:

Cope: A verb, used without object: 1) to struggle or deal, especially on fairly even terms or with some degree of success (usually fol. by with): I will try to cope with his rudeness. 2) to face and deal with responsibilities, problems, or difficulties, esp. successfully or in a calm or adequate manner: After his breakdown he couldn’t cope any longer.

A verb, used with object: British Informal. to cope with.

I suffer (feel pain) from rheumatoid arthritis; I cope (wrestle, strive, persevere) with the pain and disability it causes.

It will probably take me some time to shrug off guilt for referring to myself as “suffering.” But I’m going to work on it. There’s no reason to feel guilty about having RA, and certainly no reason to be guilty for using the best word to describe what it does to me.

As for “my rheumatoid arthritis:” For many years now I’ve understood the phrase to imply ownership of the object. It’s my house. My coat. My pencil. My dog. My RA. You get my drift, here. I’ve resisted using it because, hey, I don’t own RA. I didn’t ask for it. I never wanted it. If I’d been asked, I’d have said “No thanks! Keep it!” And even after all these years of suffering with it, I’d gladly trash rheuma in a heartbeat. I’d leave it, walk away from it, never think of it again. I don’t love it and I feel no attachment to it. It’s not mine!

(If you’re imagining a child throwing a screaming tantrum just about now, you’re spot on.)

But to be honest, rheumatoid arthritis is mine. Whether I like it or not, whether I want to admit it or not, RA is part of me. It’s mine, just like my hands and toes are mine. Like my heart is mine. Rheuma is a part of my body and how it works, which is unfortunately just a bit off.  

A bit cracked, like the rest of me.

As I’ve written about my individual, personal experience with the disease, I’ve done some pretty impressive mental contortions trying to avoid sentences that imply RA is mine. I’ll call it the rheumatoid arthritis, or just RA, no modifier, as if it’s a separate entity. I’m wrong, though. It’s not separate. Rheuma can only exist as a part of me and as a part of other people like me who suffer and cope with it. It’s a function of our confused autoimmune systems.

I’m going to quit fighting the semantics of rheumatoid arthritis. I’m facing up to it. I have RA. My RA often attacks my hands and wrists. It sometimes attacks other joints in my body. It frequently makes me extraordinarily tired, and it is sometimes exquisitely painful. I suffer from it, but I cope. And not only that – I battle it and fight it and persevere and push on through it and deal with it and hate it and abhor it.

And I strive for dignity and gentle, defiant grace in the face of my RA. In the end, I’m no different from any other suffering human being, regardless of degree or location or illness or status. Why waste my energy trying to pretend otherwise?

They have lovely bathtubs in Germany. They’re at least twice as deep as a standard American bathtub; the side of the one I had in my flat was as a bit higher than my knees when I stepped into it. After living there and experiencing the true, deep comfort of soaking in hot water literally up to my neck, I was spoiled. The old American bathtub, no deeper than mid-calf, just didn’t cut it.

And that’s why I had the bathtub in my main bathroom removed and replaced with a double-sized shower back in 2003. I hardly ever used that shallow, disappointing bathtub. The water always cooled off too fast (and our hot water heater only held enough water to fill the tub once), If that wasn’t bad enough, I could only submerge my entire body by laying flat on my back with knees bent because the tub was also too short. I’m only 5 feet and 4 inches tall. The submerged part of me would be nice and warm for two or three minutes, but my legs froze.

So phooey. Just get rid of the silly thing, I thought. You love a hot shower. And a nice, big shower stall with pretty ceramic tiles and a rain-shower type spray will be just fine. Add an on-demand, tankless water heater for an unlimited supply of hot water, and that shower would be perfect.

And so it was done.

It’s important at this point to note that, as of that year, I’d had almost no RA symptoms for roughly six years. I’d gotten used to living a normal life – meaning a life without chronic pain. I thought less and less often about the dreadful rheuma years, 1987 to 1997, until finally I just didn’t think about them any more at all.  See, I tucked my rheumatoid arthritis neatly into a box labeled “THE PAST,” strapped it up with duct tape and relegated it without ceremony or a backwards glance to a random, dusty attic closet in my mind.

Of course, the sneaky rheuma was still there, and it was busily chewing an escape hole in the box. But as far as I was concerned, it was “gone.” I was in “remission.” If I was lucky, I’d never have to face the disease again.

Fast forward to today.

Rheuma’s been out of the box for a couple of years now. Almost daily I remember that lovely deep bathtub in my German flat. I’d pour a couple of capfuls of Kniepp Rheumabad into the hot water, which mysteriously made the heat sink even deeper into my aching joints. There were times when getting into and out of the bath was dicey, but once in, ohhh my. It was worth it.

Now I have a shower.  It’s still spacious. I still love the earth-and-forest colored tiles. I absolutely love love love the on-demand hot water. But beyond all that, the drawbacks to a shower vs. a bath when I’m in the depths of a rheuma flare are obvious. Why didn’t I consider the return of the disease, the return of that deep, nerve jangling joint pain that a deep bathtub could sooth, if not actually relieve? I really, really wanted to believe that I’d never have to deal with it again. I was in denial.

So now I’m tentatively exploring the possibility of putting a tub back into that space. I should be able to keep my pretty tiles, I think. Any tub I get, though, can’t be one of those silly shallow American fiberglass things. It wouldn’t be worth the trouble. So I’ve been looking at those step-in tubs, the ones with doors on the sides and a built-in seat. They come with hydrotherapy jets and even thermostats to keep the water at an even temperature. And they’re deep. I could sit in water up to my neck again if I scrunched down just a wee bit.

That sounds absolutely heavenly. But the cost may be way out of my league. So even a plain old bathtub, as long as it’s deep, will do. I’m checking into both kinds. I really need a bath.

By now you know that I love winter and snow. I grew up here in Northern California, so the only explanation I can come up with for this aberrant behavior is that my maternal grandmother was a full-blooded Finn. Her parents immigrated to Saskatchewan, Canada from Finland in the late 1800s and she, once she was grown up, married a dapper American fellow and went to live with him in Idaho. The rest is history. Well, my family history, at least.

Finland is a cold country in the far north of the world. Snow and ice are part of the normal landscape, as are evergreen trees and frozen lakes. Think reindeer, fur parkas and mukluks.

It’s clear as a bell outside today. My immediate world has been transformed into a beautiful but alien landscape. It’s bitter cold – 15 degrees, according to the outside thermometer, and the forecast says we might reach 40 degrees for a high. But I’m inside, the fire is burning merrily in the wood stove, there’s plenty of firewood to hand, and I’m comfortable. Even my hands are giving me a break this morning.

But there are drawbacks to this cold, Finland-like weather. The county snowplows have not made it to our street yet. They’ve been extraordinarily busy – this storm dumped nearly a foot of snow eight miles down the mountain in Placerville, and even the valley had an inch or two of snow, which is rare as hen’s teeth. The plows have been kept occupied on the highway between Placerville and Lake Tahoe, and on the main thoroughfares around the county. Our little street is fairly low on their priority list.

And because they haven’t plowed, I can’t drive my car. Eighteen inches of snow is too much for a little sedan, even equipped with snow chains, assuming I could wrestle them onto the tires with my persnickety hands while on my persnickety knees in the snow.

But before I could even attempt that, I’d have to shovel the car out. At the moment, it’s up to its wheel wells in snow and totally covered over, a soft white lump along the side of the road. Once the snow around it is cleared from around it, I’d still have to scrape it off the rest of the car. All 18 inches.

 The very thought of this last task – inevitable if I truly need to go anywhere in the next day or two – makes me groan.

And to that end I’ve had to make a call this morning, cancelling my appointment down at the VA medical center in Sacramento for a bone density scan. And, because I don’t know for sure that the county snowplows will make it today, I had to cancel my first physical therapy appointment, which was for tomorrow, as well. Now I need to reschedule both.

When it started snowing the other day, I didn’t believe we’d get more than three or four inches. We’ve rarely had more than that at any time in the 12 years we’ve lived here. With the forecast for the week predicting sun today and tomorrow, I figured the snow would be melting away by the time I needed to leave for the bone scan appointment, and that it would be gone by tomorrow. No problem going to the PT appointment either.

But with as cold as it is, and given the sheer amount of snow that needs to melt by 8 a.m. tomorrow, there’s just no possibility.

Oh, well. It’s still breathtakingly beautiful outside. Everything looks covered in soft mounds of sugar-sparkled whipped cream. The sky is gorgeous. Life is good.

I was thinking I’d need to shovel a path to the woodpile and the World myself, but Cary and Matt beat me to it. With my sore hands, the chore would have been pretty miserable. My daughter and her sweetie are my heroes.

Update: It’s dark out. Sky is clear, stars like sparkling pinpricks in the night sky. The final, official, inch-count from the National Weather Service: 18 inches of snow in Camino, CA. 

I ended up going out and shoveling snow anyway this afternoon. I wanted to be outside. I wanted to feel the sharp, cold air against my skin and use my muscles. So I shoveled the snow away from the woodpile and then along the front walk and around to the back patio. Took me about an hour and a half, and while my hands hurt while I worked, it was bearable. And tonight, they’re not half bad. Sore, sure. But they always are. I feel good.

I just gotta say that this is the very first time that the National Weather Service, which regularly issues Severe Weather Alerts over rain, was totally, completely, entirely accurate. To wit:

“MAIN IMPACT: STORM TOTAL SNOWFALL ACCUMULATION OF 6 TO 16 INCHES FOR THE FOOTHILLS WITH LOCALLY HIGHER AMOUNTS WITH 2 TO 3 FEET LIKELY ABOVE 3000 FEET FOR THE WEST SLOPES OF THE NORTHERN SIERRA.”

I just whipped out my handy-dandy 13-inch plastic 1980s-era U.S. Army ruler, turned the porch light on and stuck it into the snow on the cement walk in front of the house. It disappeared an inch or so beneath the surface.

And it’s still snowing.

My little house sits at roughly 3,200 feet on those West Slopes. And this is, in the 12 years I’ve lived here, the very first time we’ve had more than oh, five inches of snow accumulating during one single storm. In fact, it’s more than we’ve had accumulate here during several days of storms.

My family is still asleep. Given my enthusiasm yesterday over the prospect of an “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas” snowfall, they may well murder me when they arise and look out the windows.

The poor dog boinged out the door to take his morning  constitutional and sank into snow up to his shoulders. He stopped dead and looked back at me, standing in the doorway, turned around and slinked back inside.

His whole being communicated “I can wait.”

… a little later …

 My daughter got up. “Holy s**t, Mom,” she said, as if I’d had something to do with the whipped cream world outside the windows. As it was obvious she was not driving down to Placerville for work anytime soon, she texted her boss to let him know her ETA was uncertain at best. He texted back that their power was out at the newspaper building and that the whole town has a foot of snow, so he was pretty uncertain about the prospect of anyone getting there, at least until much later in the day.

In reality, Cary loves the snow as much as I do. She’s delighted. “I can’t wait to get a picture of my “ice Cube,” she said, referring to her new Nissan Cube, currently parked up at street level under 14 inches of snow and counting. “I sorta wonder how I’m going to get up there, though.”

“It’s powder, kiddo. You can just push through it.”

“I bet it’s slippery, though.” She was thinking of the steep slope of the driveway.

“Yeah, but if you fall down, it won’t hurt. You’ll just floof.”

She laughed. I laughed. The lights flickered.

We both went still. “Stay on,” I breathed.

They did.

I doubt she’ll be getting down to work today, even if it stops snowing in the next hour or so. There’s just about always traffic noise rising up the mountainside from Highway 50, a quarter-mile or so away. Not this morning. It’s as silent as a pristine, snowy alpine morning out there (which is what it is, of course). That means the snow plows have been overwhelmed. No traffic is going up or down the mountain. And until they get the highway cleared, they won’t bother with the surface roads. And until they get those cleared, they won’t bother with residential streets, like ours.

It’s just as well. Cary has never driven in snow before. She only just bought chains (on my insistence) on Saturday. Of course, chains wouldn’t matter in snow like this. What we need is a snowmobile.

 … later still …

 It’s still snowing. Anybody have a St. Bernard handy?

The first snow of the season is falling here at Wren’s Nest, 53 miles west of Lake Tahoe in the Northern California Sierra mountains. It’s a little odd because it seems like just a few days ago it was sunny and the temps were in the low 60s. Sky was blue, not many clouds, the trees were looking glorious in their autumn raiment and I was starting to wonder, a little gloomily, if we were going to be “blessed” with yet another warmish, sunny California Christmas.

See, I like Christmas to look and feel like Christmas. I want to see snow outside my windows. I want to bundle up, go outside and build snow-people and throw snowballs for the dog (he loves leaping into the air, catching them and snapping his jaws, spraying snow out both sides of his mouth. It’s hilarious).

This is how much I love winter and snow: I was talking to my neighbor, Allison, last night about maybe going snowshoeing this winter. She’s never snow-shoed – neither have I – but we both want to try it. Even though we’re in our 50s and both of us have arthritis. I’ve done alpine and cross-country skiing. I loved the latter, though I only got to go once. It was on a brilliant, ice-cold, blue-skied day in the Harz Mountains of Germany, the year before the Wall came down. My friends and I were on a high, deserted back road, nothing but mountains and trees and sky for as far as the eye could see. And once I got the hang of the long, skinny skis and could stay upright, I shooshed along, hearing nothing but the wind in the trees and my own breath. It was extraordinary.

So after I got up this morning, I had a nice, hot bowl of oatmeal with applesauce and cinnamon mixed in and a cup of steamy hot coffee. A few minutes later, I looked outside. The wind was gusting; dead leaves were flying around and there was frost on the hedgerow. Allison called; she asked if I’d come over and spot her on the ladder while she climbed up onto her roof. She wanted to cover the vent that brings fresh air into her garage, where her dogs shelter from the weather. It was way too cold in there. So I put on my scarf, hat, coat and gloves and went over. As she was doing the chore, we were both exclaiming over how truly cold it was.

This is California. Yes, we’re up at 3,200 feet, but except for the deepest part of the winter, the cold season is fairly mild. It was around 10 a.m. and the thermometer had only just passed 30 degrees Fahrenheit. For us, this is cold.

When she was done, it was time to get my chores done. The firewood ring next to the wood stove needed replenished, so almost son-in-law Matt and I got busy on that. While we were out by the woodpile, it started graupeling.

Graupel is, for those of you who don’t know, tiny pellets of snow, like soft hail. I experienced it for the first time when I lived in Germany. It’s a pretty normal form of winter precipitation here; it usually precedes a snow storm. Matt opined that it might be smart to move the cars up to street level (our house sits at the bottom of a steep, sloped driveway).

I feel celebratory when it snows. I just put our Christmas tree up yesterday, so the holidays have arrived at Wren’s Nest. With the poor economy, and me still out of work, it will be a meager Christmas present year, but that’s not important. What is, is that we’re together, we’ve got a warm fire, a full pantry and plenty of warm clothes and blankets. We’re cozy. And we’ll be fine.

I decided that given how cold it was, I’d make a nice hot, rich soup. My daughter loves my Hungarian “goulash” soup, made with chunks of lamb and thick with vegetables and potatoes, so that’s what I made. Mr Wren helped with the chopping; after dealing with the fire wood, my hands were yelling at me.

And now, it’s done. It’s dusk. It’s been graupeling and snowing off and on all afternoon; the weather forecast is for lots of snow and wind tonight and overnight, into tomorrow. They’re saying we could get from 6 to 18 inches of snow. That’s just amazing for this early in the season, and since we’ve been under drought conditions for three years now, it would be wonderful, especially if this early storm dumps three or four feet higher up in the mountains. As long as that doesn’t melt and it keeps snowing frequently, perhaps our drought will be broken this season. I do hope so.

All that’s left to do now is put Bing Crosby’s Christmas album on the stereo and then duck as my family groans and start throwing things at me.