Like everyone else in Winchendon, I just spent several days preparing for a big winter storm for the second time in less than two weeks. I put gas in the car, brought in firewood, got buckets of sand at the DPW yard, hauled in salt for the water filter system, replaced the windshield wipers on my car, went around my yards collecting downed wood from the last storm which is great for starting the woodstove, and watched the changing forecast just a bit obsessively.

You know, the usual. Both snowplow services and a snowblower being outside of my budget (especially with COVID cancelling some of my sources of income), I just shovel my own snow. Today I spent two hours shoveling the driveway, mailboxes, woodpile and various steps and paths. Oh, it's good for me. I won't have a single twinge. My body loves hard work much more than I do.

But all this has made me reflect on the difference between city folk and those of us who live out here in the country. Stampeding to the store for milk, eggs and bread before a snowstorm simply isn't a thing out here. We're too close to the realities of life for that. (Besides, a lot of us have our own chickens, and I bake all my own bread.)

I love the way I live here, but it's cured me of taking anything at all for granted--like running water, for instance. I have a well, and in four years I've had enough ups and downs with my well that turning on the tap every day, and having water come out, and it's not orange--that's a blessing, and I'm grateful every single day for it. Because there have been enough days when I didn't have that, when I was cooking with water out of bottles I filled up at my sister's house until my well settled down. If I have hot water, I'm grateful, too, because that hasn't always been a certainty.

I drink water that comes of out the earth beneath my feet, and it goes right back into the earth because I have a septic system, not town sewer. My house, which started life as a summer camp, is rustic and built of natural wood and stone (although it's extremely well insulated, another thing I appreciate every day). I sleep in a loft, with the roof just a few feet above me, and the sky above that. There's so little separating me from the earth and sky, wind and water--especially when I'm down in the crawl space where the well pump is.

City people don't get this. They're so separated from the cycles of the seasons, and the rhythms of life that they depend on. Some earnest sociologist types think everyone should live in tightly compacted, very dense urban environments. It's more "efficient" they say, and people can be more social. But animals forced to live in environments that are overcrowded quickly lose their minds. And these idealistic urban utopians, like all city-dwellers, have completely forgotten just how vast, complex, and costly--in energy, resources, time and person-power--the infrastructure is that cities require to survive.

In the 1800s most of Massachusetts was cut clear of trees--very few forests existed. Almost all the woods in our state have grown up since 1900. A lot of land was cleared for farming, it's true; but the real reason most of the woods were cut down was to provide the city of Boston and other urban centers with firewood. Four towns were evacuated and submerged to create the Quabbin reservoir--again, to provide the city of Boston with water. Cities are anything but efficient. Their residents think all their needs can be met by flipping a switch or turning a faucet, oblivious to everything that has to happen to get power, water and food to them.

This happy denial on the part of city dwellers falters in the face of major disasters like regional power outages--or pandemics, like the one we're in now. Suddenly people in cities realize just how helpless, even trapped, they are when even a portion of the infrastructure they depend on stumbles. But as soon as systems are restored, they forget their doubts.

I could never live in a city. Maybe it's a control thing, but I prefer to think of it as a heightened sense of responsibility. I know where my food and water come from, and I don't kid myself about how vulnerable I am before the might of Nature. I may find wild things getting closer to me than I'd prefer--but that's a privilege, too.

We are so fortunate to live here, in this feisty little town with Mount Monadnock on the horizon, and we should remember that. If life is hard sometimes, that makes us strong. There's beauty here, everywhere we look. As we observe the winter holidays--Solstice, Hanukkah, Christmas, Kwanzaa--we're reminded to feel grateful for our blessings. It's all a matter of perspective, after all.

But if you need something to raise your spirits, here's a whisper from my lips to your ears: "Just 14 more days and 2020 is over!"

Inanna Arthen