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GK: And that's where the Opry came from, from trying to sell life insurance to rural people who would have been suspicious of salesmen in suits but ones who wore coveralls and big boots (BANJO) and chuckled and guffawed (TR HEE HEE HEE) and carried a chicken (ROOSTER) ---- and this was upsetting to Nashville, in a way ---- it is, after all, the Athens of the South. They have the Parthenon here, you know. Vanderbilt University is here, a seat of learning that is second to none. These are not hicks or hayseeds. But here in the South, it is a virtue to be a good deal smarter than you appear to be. In the South, they love the stories where the redneck outsmarts the slicker. Love it to pieces. And if having a chicken on your shoulder helps you sell life insurance (CHICKEN), hey, gimme that chicken.

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Full moon hung high in the cold sky. Two a.m. The bright moonlight reflected from newly fallen snow. It was a golden, soft light that left mystery in dark shadows in the pine and fir forest surrounding the house and shop on the Girl Scout ranch we took care of in northern Colorado's Rocky Mountains. I ate, slipped into my insulated coveralls, shoveled the front walk clear, and then walked across the parking area and up a steep hill to the shop through 18 inches of new snow. Fifteen degrees. With the blanket of clouds having drifted away, the temperature would continue to fall.

Then I backed the truck out of the shop and left it running while I gathered tools. The engine had now warmed enough that the heater warmed the cab. I peeled off the coveralls and put them on the passenger's side. Bulky clothes make it harder to move, and I moved a lot while I plowed.

Then to the road past the house and down to the lodges and tent sites. Our roads are traffic-packed, decomposed red granite gravel and dirt. Last spring's work - when I'd pulled protruding rocks from the road and smoothed the road with the blade behind the tractor, then followed up with a rake and shovel - paid off when I began to plow. Most of the places that had jarred blade, truck, and me last winter because of protruding rocks were now smooth. I could drive the truck faster and throw snow farther from the road. In some places, I couldn't have pulled protruding rocks without uprooting the mountain, but I knew where those blade-catching rocks were and I worked slowly there.

I stopped, got out of the truck, and peeled off more clothing. I climbed back in, turned the heater down, turned the headlights back on, and drove through building shadows, tree shadows, pushing snow aside. I plowed the parking area beside the lodge, parked the truck and shut it off, climbed out, shoveled the outdoor stairs, sweeping off snow that the shovel had missed. Somewhere on the ridge above me, a great horned owl called, and from somewhere far off another owl answered.

Coyotes called from down the creek, probably near the trail to the homestead. The big, blue truck clicked metallic sounds, cooling down in 10-degree moonlight. Then I plowed the parking lot below the lodge - more-delicate work because the area has topsoil and grass, and it's easy to gouge the blade into that and move dirt with the snow.

The 10th time past our house, I put the truck back in the shop and closed the door behind it. I stood in the moonlight for a while, holding my coveralls, my sweater, and my water bottle. It was 4:30 a.m., and the roads were clear of snow beneath a clear sky. 041b061a72