A White Blanket Over Holmes County
November 28, 2025 | By Eli Schwartzentruber
It is usually the cold that wakes me first, before the rooster has even thought about crowing. This morning, however, it was the silence.
There is a heavy, thick quiet that settles over Shreve when the snow falls. It dampens the sound of the buggies on the road and hushes the wind in the bare maple trees. I struck a match to light the coal oil lamp on the bedside table, the small flame flickering until it steadied, casting long shadows against the plaster walls.
I looked out the window, wiping away a bit of condensation on the glass. Sure enough, the world had changed while we slept. The mud and the gray fields of yesterday are gone, covered under a fresh, clean blanket of white. It looks to be about three inches, just enough to cover the tops of the fence posts and cap the mailbox.
The Warmth of the Kitchen
Downstairs, the house was chill. My wife, Elvira, was already up—she is always stronger than the morning cold. I heard the familiar clank of the cast iron door on the woodstove. By the time I came down, she had the fire roaring and the kettle sitting on top.
“Winter is here, Eli,” she said, nodding toward the window as she rolled out dough for the morning biscuits.
We don’t have a thermostat to turn up. We have hickory and oak wood, cut and split by hand last summer. There is a satisfaction in that heat that I cannot quite explain to my English friends. It warms you twice, as they say—once when you chop it, and once when you burn it.
The Morning Chores
I put on my heavy coat, the black felt hat, and my rubber boots. The air outside stole the breath right out of me. It was crisp and smelled of snow and woodsmoke from the neighbor’s chimney.
Walking to the barn is different in the snow. The lantern light reflects off the ground, making the path brighter than usual. The snow crunched loudly under my boots.
Inside the barn, the animals were restless but warm. The cows create their own heat, and the smell of dry hay and livestock is a comfort. I greeted the draft horses, Big Ben and Sarah. They blew steam from their nostrils when they saw me, expecting their grain. They will have harder work pulling the buggy through the drifts today, so I gave them an extra measure of oats.
A Season of Rest and Work
Looking out the barn door as the sun began to turn the eastern sky a pale gray, I felt a deep gratitude. The harvest is done. The corn is shocked, the canning cellar is full of jars, and the hayloft is stacked high.
The snow makes the chores harder—fingers get stiff, and water buckets freeze over—but it also signals a time of slowing down. The land rests, and so we rest a little more, too.
Tonight, after the milking is done, Elvira and I will sit by the stove. I might mend some harness leather, and she will likely be quilting. We will watch the snow fall on the fields of Shreve, thankful for the warmth of our home and the beauty of God’s creation.
Stay warm, friends.
