chimes
97
Victoria
January/February 2013
of the time. I am aware that life is fleeting. Our days
may pass slowly, but then a week is over and soon a
month. Living in the moment is difficult and, at times,
seems impossible. It requires constant discipline.
When my children stop by for a visit, I focus on
the time at hand. I listen to them and enjoy their
company. Cleaning up the kitchen after a meal can
wait, even if it means washing dishes first thing in
the morning.
Winter gives us all a respite and allows us to
slow down a bit. We may have a Sunday afternoon
to dig out a stained recipe card and put on a pot of
soup. A loaf of crusty bread, a crock of chunky apple-
sauce, chocolate-chip cookies—the menu is simple
but comforting. Emily brings a bottle of wine. There
is good conversation, sweet camaraderie, and lots of
speculation about the snow that has already begun to
fall. Phillip sweeps the back porch, which has a light
dusting of white.
My kids notice the sheets I have draped over the
living-room doors to finish drying. They laugh and
tease me as they hug me on their way out. We blow
kisses while they make their way down the driveway.
The snow has given the night sky a distinct bright-
ness. The temperature has risen. I will go to bed con-
tent and happy.
photograph kate sears.
text
BETSY L. HAASE
Winter Comes
inter brings cozy corners to our
days. For many people, January is
a time to look ahead—a time to make
lists and resolutions. But in its frozen stillness,
the month also brings quiet contemplation.
In the new year, we take stock not only of the
staples in our cupboards but of our memories,
accomplishments, and decisions, both good and
bad. The winter weather helps us see much of
our pasts with crystal clarity.
When I put on my old rabbit-fur earmuffs,
zip up my jacket, and head outdoors, I am for-
ever 12 years old. I trudge through the crunch-
ing snow, listening to my footsteps fall and
watching my breath through the icy air. I am
reminded of sledding down hills and building
snow forts.
My own children, Phillip and Emily, cre-
ated snowmen when they were young. There
were plenty of carrots in the refrigerator for a nose
and an array of scarves and hats to cover a snowy
head. The coal-burning stove supplied sooty nuggets
for the eyes, mouth, and buttons. It was a toasty spot
to dry mittens and boots and to watch icicles form on
the overhang of the porch roof.
I think of my children now as my boots crack
through the frozen backyard in late morning. I have
a pocketful of wooden clothespins for fastening my
sheets to the cotton line. Steam rises in the winter
air. The line sags like a sigh. My son and daughter
wondered why I always ignored the dryer. It may
have been a moment to myself that I craved on those
housebound days when the weather was bitter and
the children had sniffles and coughs.
I yearn for those seemingly endless days. I have
no doubt forgotten the bickering, the boredom, and
the lack of adult conversation. The disorder in the
living room—cushions tossed off the couch to make a
house or a car, playthings underfoot, cracker crumbs
ground into the rug—seems so very insignificant as I
reflect on it.
My home is still and quiet now. I have plenty of
tea bags and cinnamon sticks, a scented candle, and
a stack of reading material. I may sit by the kitchen
window—the one where the birds come close to the
house, foraging for bits of stale bread. Amagazinemay
be open on my lap, but I find myself gazing out much