Let There Be Light

Just Monday afternoon I was rhapsodizing about the loveliness of snow, the cozy cocoa and warm blanket and good book.  All of that romantic winter feeling lasted until 5:00 pm when the lights went out.

It is now 11:00 am on Wednesday.  It's 46 degrees in the house, even with a blazing fire in the wood stove.  There are two warm places in the house--one foot in front of the wood stove or in bed with the flannel sheets and two quilts on top of the fleece blanket pulled up over our heads.  It also feels good to wash dishes.  Thank heavens for a gas-powered water heater.

No television, no radio, lanterns after 4:30 and the fancy generator is refusing to generate.  We've been entertaining ourselves listening to police and fire calls on the battery operated scanner.  My husband keeps asking, "How could the pioneers STAND it??? What did they do when it got DARK???"  He's not buying it but we are so much better off than the "pioneers"--we have flashlights and 4-wheel drive vehicles to take us to a lighted place if we really want to go get warm.

It's Thanksgiving tomorrow.  I was supposed to make a pumpkin pie and cranberry sauce.  I was able to grate and squeeze the oranges and cook up the cranberries on the top of the gas stove, but the pie may or may not happen, depending on when the power is returned to us.  I put some Gran Marnier in the cranberries and admit to tippling a little as I cooked.  I figure the more alcohol, the better.  I know our hostess is also still without power and probably most of her guests will have tales of snow, cold and wind.  Our hostess is a psychologist who says the jollity factor will be higher because of the tension during the last few days.  I don't know about that--I just want my hands, feet and nose to warm up!

Let It Snow

I know there are probably a whole bunch of people out there gnashing their teeth today because it's snowing and they have to get somewhere.  They likely are not snow lovers.  But I am.  I love it.  Even when I worked I loved it, but I didn't love driving in it.  I was one of those wimps that called in "stuck" in my driveway when it snowed like this.  I was stuck alright, with fear of sliding off the road.


But now that I'm retired I can love snow as much as I want to.  Snow always makes me want steaming hot cocoa, a crackling fire in the wood stove, an exciting book, a warm fleece blanket....and a buttery cookie wouldn't hurt.

Do you remember when you were a kid, playing out in the snow, building a snowman, sledding, throwing snowballs and your hands would get so cold they hurt and your nose was dripping and your pants were wet and there was snow down inside your boots?  Remember how your hands ached when you tried to warm them in hot water?  Remember how good it felt to warm up at the kitchen table with a mug of sweet cocoa and graham crackers to dunk in it?  And remember how you wanted to go right back outside no matter how cold you were going to get?  Remember not caring?  Remember wet socks and coats and pants and mittens and knit hats hanging all over the kitchen making puddles of melted snow on the floor?  Remember the smell of wet wool?  I bet you do and I bet those are wonderful memories for you like they are for me.

I hope you can let yourself love the snow just a little bit because we're going to have lots of it this year and it would be a shame if it just make you unhappy.

Writing Essays

I've been writing since I was a teenager, in diaries, journals, letters, for publication and then in 2005, in this blog.  I went to a Writer's Retreat at Pilgrim Firs the weekend of November 5 and finally found out what I've been doing all these years.  I've been writing personal essays.  I was at our retreat teacher's website (Sheila Bender) just now and found this quote.

"At the core of the personal essay," Philip Lopate writes, "is the supposition that there is a certain unity to human experience." As essayists, in talking about ourselves, we are in some way talking about everyone. It is our experience that matters and our interest in sharing it that moves others. Orhan Pamuk, 2006 Nobel Prize in Literature, put it this way in his acceptance speech, "All true literature rises form this childish, hopeful certainty that we resemble one another".

I guess that's been my impulse--to write about my experience and/or thoughts and hope you can relate, or that something rings a bell with you, makes you remember or think.  According to some of the comments I've gotten through this blog, it appears to work sometimes.  

Queen of the Mountain

It’s called Afton Apple Orchard but my granddaughter, Ali, and I  are focused on the mountain made of tires. Ali has been here before with her kindergarten class, but it’s the first time for me.

The tire mountain seems to get bigger as we approach it, sand packed and monstrous. Ali scrambles over the old tractor tires to the top and thrusts her arms to the sky, grinning wildly. I think, “Queen of the Mountain”. Suddenly she disappears. I am startled, staring at where she was just a moment ago, a little afraid. Then I hear her calling me and I see her half-way down a giant black PVC pipe slide, on her way back to me.

As she emerges the fall sunlight shines in her long hair and the eager cries of dozens of kids running towards us almost drowns out her small but excited voice, “Did you see me, Grandma?” In the next moments the others ascend the tire mountain and she is no longer the Queen.