Sometimes I have occasion to drive to Charlottetown, PEI’s capital, to do business. And sometimes I have to show up there for 8:30am. In the winter, an 8:30am appointment in Charlottetown sees my morning as follows. There’s no jaw-dropping twist to this story; the following is just a simple scene from my simple life.

Whimfield Farm

I am sleeping. The wind is howling and the snow is blowing outside, but inside our house the woodstove keeps us so toasty that we’re sleeping nothing save our pyjamas and a sheet.

My alarm goes off. I am jolted awake, and I scramble off the end of the bed (I’m jammed on the wall side and Cameron gets the aisle seat). I head to the windowsill to turn off the alarm. In utter darkness, I make my way out of the bedroom by feel and by sheer familiarity.

I immediately head downstairs, still groggy and half asleep. I head to the back hall. I fish around in the pile of coats and curling pants and scarves, looking for my snowpants. I find them, and I pull the snowpants on over top of my pyjamas. I look for my warmest down jacket and slip it on. A scarf, toque, and mittens are quickly added to my outfit, and I grab the flashlight from its very important home near the back door. I slip on some once-stylish-now-turned-farm-boots-due-to-salt-damage. I’m not wearing any socks.

I grab the snow shovel, and I slip out the backdoor. By this time it’s 5:20am, but it is still utterly pitch-black outside, the sun still asleep like Cameron upstairs. I survey our car in the beam of my flashlight. The windshield and side windows are covered in snow. I start scraping and clearing the windshield, still half asleep.

The car clean, I shine my beam down the long driveway. I can only see a few feet ahead of me, so I always walk the length of the whole driveway–about the length of a football field–checking how deep my sockless-boot-clad feet sink into the powdery snow. Too deep and I’ll have to wake up Cameron and get him to blow the driveway with the tractor. Not too deep and I’ll just clear the problem drifts with my shovel.

I bumble along shining the flashlight back and forth, poking snowdrifts with my salt-stained boots. Occasionally, I’ll stop to shovel an uncharacteristically deep spot where the snow has blown and settled. I get to the end of the driveway where it meets the road. Because of the lay of the land, this spot’s the worst. I spend most of my time shoveling this area. The wind blows my hood off, and I’m glad I took the time to wear my toque. My nose is starting to feel cold. I shovel some more.

Thanks to my shoveling, I deem the driveway now clear enough to be passed by our 4×4 vehicle. I head back to the house, looking forward to a hot shower.

I crank the “H” tap as far as it’ll go, and I’m thankful for our plumbing work. The shower could use a good scrubbing, but I dismiss that thought as soon as it enters my mind. In the shower, I start planning what I should wear. I’ve got a few clothes laying on the spare bedroom bed. Hopefully I won’t change my mind about my outfit and have to creep back into our dark bedroom and grovel around in the closet trying not to wake the still-sleeping Cam. Closet groveling in the dark always takes longer than you think it will and nothing is ever where you think it is.

Finally, dressed and ready for the day, I plan to make a smoothie for breakfast. A banana, an apple, some cranberries, some lettuce, and some mint. I load the blender, and I cringe as I crank the blender all the way to high. Poor Cameron, I can envision him with his head under the pillow gritting his teeth until our Vitamix blender–which sounds like a dentist’s drill being amplified by a megaphone–is quiet again.

I take my smoothie up to my computer, and I do “the rounds,” as I call them. I check my email, check Whimfield, check in at PEITalk, and read some of my favourite blogs. I may or may not also check my website statistics about seven times a minute.

I watch the clock. By now, it’s almost seven. Time to get going if I want to have a pleasant, slow drive into town to get to where I need to go for 8:30am. The drive can be done in less than an hour, but I give myself an extra half-hour of wiggle room. I hate to keep people waiting.

I grab my coat, purse, and briefcase. I throw my hood up, and I race in heels from the warm house to the cold car. It’s a 1982 Landcruiser–the same age as me. When I’ve got to be somewhere important, I always think a quick, “Come on car… Don’t fail me now” thought as I press the glow plugs and wait for the old beast to chug alive on the cold winter morning. Invariably, she starts fine. I then think, “Good girl. You never fail me.” and I give the dashboard a loving pat.

By this time, the sun is starting to rise. I can see a warm glow rising across our neighbours’ fields. I sit in the car, letting the engine warm up a little. I don’t even try to turn the heat on; the old car won’t actually generate any feelable heat for another twenty minutes or so. I reflect on my calm, plodding morning. Once past the groggy state, it’s nice to be awake before the sun rises. It makes me feel alive. (Shoveling snow at 5:30am will do that to you.)