When I awoke, the promised snow had come and I could see it resting on the trees in the blue light of morning, in that stretch of time after dark but before light. I readied for work and a perilous drive to the mountains. Mom tucks sheets around my car's windshield and rear window so I won't have to scrape too much when we have blizzards. On days like this, I want to be indoors with a nice mug of chocolate and people I like. But my Subaru and I wound our way down the driveway and onto the main road. I was surprised at how untouched the thoroughfares seemed, and when I turned, with misgivings, onto the first steep bit of mountain road, I soon found myself (and vehicle) moving horizontally rather than vertically up the hill. I am admittedly a wimp when it comes to winter driving--having been party to too many accidents and incidents involving careful drivers bereft of any control over their wayward vehicle. In these conditions, I become intensely focused on the road and arrive at my destination to realize my hands are shaking. However, in my defense, I have already driven in several bad storms this year and left the house this morning thinking, "I can handle this." Or perhaps not. I turned around and came home. So here it is, my snow day, after all. Sheets of sugary powder drop from the evergreens around the house and a cardinal sits in the forsythia bush finishing his breakfast. Schemes of sewing dresses and writing dance in my head, along with the thought that I need to catch up on my correspondence and do laundry.
Christmas was spare this year, missing a few souls. But I can't help loving this season. The tree is rotund and loaded with homemade ornaments new and old. When I help decorate, I sort through the boxes and put aside any ornaments I deem too corny or too decrepit to grace our tree. This year, however, my family did the tree without me, and I have to say, it still looks amazing. There is a wonderful continuity in seeing the same decorations we used when we were small and Mom and Dad would hang the lights while my sisters and I hovered near, liberally offering our professional opinions. My Dad would disappear into the dark, snowy evening and reappear with the tree we'd cut earlier, dragging it onto the deck. He leaped in his rubber boots and clicked his heels to make us laugh. The whole house would smell like evergreens. This year, I found pieces of Dad's Christmas village and tried to reconstruct some of it. They're very tiny--z-scale probably, with delicate houses bought in England and teeny-weeny figures probably bought from Germany. Daniel found a few faux evergreens in Boston and I used a mirror to create a pond, so the villagers can skate by the windmill, surrounded by sheep and collies. Mom dug out the pine-cone carolers and fabric bells from before I was born, and these and other vintage decorations have found their place around the house.
In New England, I find there is something more primitive about this season than any other. In the summer we concern ourselves with dried-up wells, in the spring it's mud, autumn--flooding, but in the winter, we keep fire. We work harder during this season, our competition with nature, our daily task of survival, is more evident. Winter strikes and we shovel ourselves out, we cover our faces against frostbite, we drive carefully, we stock up at the grocer's, we grow a little winter fat, we put on the kettle, we chop, stack and bring in wood. Warmth is a regular struggle, and in the wood-stove we're cooking logs. It's a ritual I've come to appreciate, an art--this tending flame. Fire from fire, our own homemade inferno of newspapers, scrap-wood and logs fills the air with smoke and smells. Forest fires start at the drop of a match, but to get some wood to burn takes real effort. It's a harsh scene outside: the roads are slick and steep, the wind goes right through you, and the days are terribly short. We accept the darkness, we cannot fight it. We put candles on our tables and lights in our windows to guide the travelers, to tell our neighbors, here is the road and a little light, you're nearly home now.
