Over the years I’ve lost a good many things in the months called winter. But I hardly blame him, he never said he would bring anything but death and chill. He has made no promises, nothing was expected.
In spite of losses suffered, winter has become one of my favorite times so I thought that today I would make sure that I said a proper good-bye before he was all gone.
Good-bye winter, I know you cannot stay for much longer now and I must let my heart give way and cheating spring will come.
It is a sad time for me Dear Friend, when I must say my good-byes to dear winter. I will miss being cozy and warm inside, snuggled beneath my knittings, sipping hot things, surrounded by my winter clutter: catalogs and magazines, puzzles, books and games, old recipes and bits of holiday leftovers.
Good-bye to the few smatterings of snow we can count on make it all so bright inside. So bright were some of those splendid days that I could forego many of my yards and yards of twinky lights permanently strung about the house to fight against the nine months of clouded gloom, tradition of the Pacific Northwest’s Puget Sound region.
Sad to let go of a given, a season that holds no promise.
No promise save that of dark and death. Winter says nothing it does not deliver on. Cold, freezing cold, wet and dark. Only a fool would jump into an unfurnished car, (no flashlight, chains, or flares in the trunk) nor without at the very least tossing an overcoat onto the vacant seat. Bright sunny days are no trick, for those are the coldest of winter and should he decide to warm himself a bit he first pulls a heavy blanket of damp and dark round ’bout it all.
Any brightness and light and life, winter warns, is up to us. Humans, bring on the holidays that will get you through the darkest days! Put up lights and color, bits of holly and evergreen. Extend it a little while with a few more added, celebrating great country men and heart filled times with chocolates, all to make it on farther into the deep cold and bleak of winter, for he, winter, promises nothing but dark and death.
If the holidays are not enough to keep you bright, craft a toboggan, buy a pair of skis and turn his heavy blank white blanket into a playground. Strap on a pair of skates to make an enjoyment from the ice that must be broken everywhere but the skating pond. But afterwards, when you are cold through and through and frozen ‘cicles replace digits and toes, come in and sit by a roaring fire, sipping a toddy and wile away the promised long dark hours catching up on old movies, books or puzzles.
And if he forgets himself for a few days, which ’round here he does often, don on your gear and grab a screwdriver, the quick work you make of winter weeds, the ones that gained ground during the busy months of harvest, will be well worth it. For the bed that is weeded in winter will stay weeded far into spring when her ficklish mildness gives way for other beds to be well covered with all sorts of rank growth, soon more difficult and deeper rooted than a small hand tool can deal with in that lying season.
Work and play, finding ways to enjoy this season of winter that bears a decided lack of promise. But enjoy I do, for I desire winter’s honesty over that of the many hollow promises of cheating spring.
She begs for me to run from my beloved winter, she waves promises of renewal and life, light and warm, everyone clattering after her, but I’ve learned. I’ve learned her cruel joke.
Because of her my neck and back are under constant attack from drizzle and chill as I try to claim my garden from her fickle soggy fingers that grow enormous weeds in moments but hinder and lay waste to my favorite plantings from the year or years before. Working diligently, never breaking long in her soggy hours, no wiling the day away at book or puzzle or knitting. Working in the constant grey drizzle so as not to lose the small bit of ground I hold.
Her brew of tepid damp boils slugs to the surface. How delightful this promise of renewal for him, how sad for me, as I see the lone survivor or two turn green and swell for a day, then gone the next, with only a silvery band for a funeral swag.
Renewal? Only some things and never the things I long for the most. Oh yes, trees and leaves and blossoms eventual abound in the height of her season, in spite of her constant drizzle and grey. Pretty little things that lighten the heart a bit and take the sting out of many losses long given up on. Other parts and other players on this swirling orb may have a better chance in spring, but here, spring is barely an extension of winter yet she promises far more. She is a liar and a cheat and not to be trusted.
Clinging to finding solace in the late winter born furry creatures now dancing in the pasture brings a determined slog through her endless and deepening mud, losing a boot on the way to her cruel joke of bidding to come hither. A small patch of blue hanging for hours off on the horizon struggling for room, then caves against the layer upon layer of heavy grey spring born clouds.
The warble of returning birds hovers above my head, yes, I know, it’s spring, everyone is chattering but I must keep my head down and work. My fingers are frozen but there is no more bright snow or play upon the pond for their trouble and pain, only work, a fight against fleeting time as we race toward summer growth and harvest.
Twinky lights do over time, nearly ineffectual to bring me back from despair, for I cannot spare much time inside, this cruel lying mistress demands that I work long outside hours or she begins her chant high up in the swaying limbs that I will never make it to summer, and if I do, what should be lake time will be given up to working.
She clangs the bell of failure, like so many of her report cards of past. The failure that is too late to recover from. No chance for turn around, left to despair of a dismal half baked future harvest in a soggy tree fort break, only to return to the toil of the lying season so as to deter a sound and complete defeating beating for the year.
Spring’s promises? I don’t believe them any more. I survive her like others survive the promise-less time of winter. Merely awaiting the carefree, sweaty days of summer.
In fact most of our tates are very versatile, maybe with the exception of the Atlantic, you can do just about anything to these fellas on the left. And really you could as well to the ones on the right. But I would be less inclined to bake them because they are so much better at other things, like tater salad, roasting, hanging around in a stew or soup. Because they will do just that, hang in there and not fall to pieces. So not all our potatoes are as all purpose as the ones in the middle.
