A Winter's Tale

Comfort Me With Apples

Darkness

The dark nights have come sooner this year - or am I imagining that? We
change the clocks in October, and what has felt like lingering autumnal
days suddenly seem colder, look greyer. I huddle into my coat as I
trudge out to shut the chickens in to their house for the night,
knowing they will be safe then,protected from fox and weasel. They just
won't go to bed before it's dark though - they have principles these
chickens, and will not allow themselves the luxury of their nests until
night-time has come.I would happily sneak off to my bed if I could;
call a halt to another day; try to ignore the early nightfall all
around me, but mostly in my heart.

I don't mind the dark mornings nearly so much. I know that daylight is
coming and with it, new hope. Today I waited at the end of the garden
until the postman had gone past. I hid behind the old hedge, ashamed in
case he caught me waiting there like a young girl, cheeks flushed, eyes
expectant. He walked past without stopping, and although by then the
day was bright and clear, a darkness had settled on me.

Rain

Yesterday it rained: today it rained - and tomorrow it will probably
rain too. The air is not really cold, but the sky is leaden and feels
as if it has lowered to just above my head. This always seems like the
start of winter to me: not the dropping temperatures, but the endless
dropping of the rain.Overnight it becomes impossible to do any work in
the garden, and I look out sadly at the roses which hang their dull
brown heads: heads which only yesterday were a riot of pinks and
reds.
Cars splash by the end of the water-logged lane: I can hear the steady
thrumming of windscreen wipers. The stream that runs down the side of
the garden is swollen and muddy. It sounds angry as it hurries by, and
makes it quite clear it has no time for me.

When I went for a walk around the garden I slipped on wet leaves that
had not been raked up. I fell quite heavily, but although I was unhurt
I sat on the wet grass with tears coursing down my cheeks and mingling
with the rain.

The memories just will not leave me. Every year you raked the leaves in
to big amber piles, and then together, always together, we carried them
to the bonfire.

You always pretended to be cross when the wind whipped them off the
wheelbarrow and out of our arms - but a few lost leaves never really
mattered. The maple tree is the best for colour; every shade of red and
brown and yellow all dancing and tumbling together at the whim of the
wind. This year the leaves have lain unheeded; I can't do it all by
myself; I can't keep up with the work created by the changing seasons,
the work that used to fill happy days for me, but this winter feels
like a chore.

Cold

It grows colder each day, and I must be quick to gather in our crops
before wind or frost gets there first.Do you remember the apple room?
In one of our first winters at the cottage,just as the evenings were
shortening, and before we had filled our home with children, we carried
in a bumper harvest of apples and spread them out on newspapers in one
of the unused bedrooms. All through the winter in that part of the
house our nostrils were filled with sweet, heady scents. After dark, it
was one of the best places in the world to curl up and read, in the
company of a lamp, a blanket, a special book - and a ready supply of
sustenance nearby.

We were careful to keep the apples separate from each other, knowing
how they would bruise on contact - now I am separated from you, and the
seeping chill of loss makes my bones ache and I feel old.
This year most of the apples still lie in the orchard, and are turning
brown underfoot. The old horse is always happy to spot me in that part
of the garden, and he ambles over and dips his head gently and
gratefully as I search among the decay to find him a sweet
offering.

A frosty nip in the air, or the hint of a chill wind sends our cat
Thomas scurrying for the best seat in the house, the one nearest to a
source of warmth, the one with the softest cushions. There he sits in
sleek, lordly fashion, and can only be persuaded from his chosen throne
with promises and bribery, or the ringing of the milk bottle on his
dish. I am grateful for his company, happy to be needed. His purring
and the ticking of the old kitchen clock compete with one another to
fill the silences.

Frost &; Ice

For the last week it has been very cold, and each morning when I go
outside, the hose is frozen, and I have to break the ice on the
animals' water. The first day I do this I remove a complete circle of
clear, hard water, perfect in its symmetry. As the temperature falls
each day the ice gets harder to break, and I have to use a stone - but
the worst task is still to come. I plunge my hands into the buckets
again and again to remove the broken ice, and the intense cold shrieks
through my body. The animals welcome me, dipping into the buckets and
drinking deeply, then loving me with their eyes as I fill haynets and
scoop corn for them. I would sacrifice all this for one look from eyes
I no longer see each day. The animals jostle to get the tastiest food,
and stamp their feet, their breath making misty trumpets in the cold
air.

A favourite place for us on a frosty night was at the top of the hill
behind the cottage. From there the sky seemed so big and the stars so
close, and when we turned for home, the first sight was the welcoming
lights of our windows. Back down then to light and warmth and a roaring
stove - it's funny but I find it so hard to keep warm this
winter.

Yesterday the frozen outside tap thawed again in the fitful winter
sunshine, and I left it dripping, in the hope that today I would not
have to carry water from the cottage. This morning something even
better than that had happened; the dripping water had frozen into an
exquisite icy filigree, and the evening cobwebs, suspended on the
garden hedge, had frozen too; so I walked out into a fairytale. I could
not resist breaking off a small piece of this beauty for a closer look,
but before I could even appreciate the delicacy of the work, it had
melted in my hands, and I felt sad that I had spoiled something so
beautiful.

Snow

Winter is holding us fast, and yesterday the first of the snow came
down. It surprised me - we don't often see much snow before the turn of
the year. I looked up from my book thinking the day was growing late,
but found instead that the sky was full and heavy, and there was
already a good covering on the trees and garden. The first snow is
always so beautiful; magical. How many times have we looked out on the
Christmas card that is our garden? It has all the right ingredients:
pure, fresh snow, animal tracks, holly bushes, even the robin, and
possibly - if you looked for him - Mr Snowman himself, complete with
winter wear.

Do you remember when we played our foolish game in the snow? Goodness
knows what our 'nosy neighbour' would have said if she had seen us. It
only worked properly when there was a good deep covering on the ground,
and it was dark, and still snowing. We lay on our backs looking up at
the heavy cotton drift in our faces. Two minutes of gazing up into the
sky took us to a different place, and we felt as if we were floating
upwards into the heavens. The feeling was sensational, and I always
held on to your hand when we did this: if you were going to heaven I
wanted to be there with you.

New Year

Another year. I have always found this a very exciting time in the
calendar. Just like fresh snow, a new chance, time to make good, start
again - but I don't want to start again, and with February still ahead,
I find it hard to look forward to better things. I did, I know, look
forward to the days when, after the long happy task of raising our
children we would find some time for each other - but you're not here,
and life seems slow and pointless.
"This too shall pass" - I repeat my mantra as I battle with raw January
winds.

I decide to make an effort for a new year, and fill some time with an
early spring clean. Soon spiders scuttle before my cloth, and sleepy
butterflies move their wings in gentle protest. I don't disturb them
too much; I don't want them to go away, don't want to sweep away
memories. I didn't want you to go away either.

Mist and Fog

Misty winter days have a special eerie feel to them. I wake up in the
morning, instantly aware of the silence. The air is damp and deadens
all sound, and the cars seem muffled and far away. Outside, hazy wisps
of mist trail ghost-like around the barn, making the animals enlarged
and monstrous. Strange shapes loom out of the mist, and turn into
familiar faces, welcome voices. When they leave I feel cut off, alone,
and I can't reach you.

************************************************

Winter is over. You have it on good authority - mine.
There are not one, but two reasons why I know this. First, when I went
round to the barn this morning to let out the chickens, I chanced upon
a very special spring present - an egg.

Chickens lay their eggs according to the length of daylight hours, so
their message is clear: the days are drawing out. I may be stuck in the
mire of my dark thoughts and my winter days, but they know
better.

Secondly, when I walked down to the mail box I made another discovery.
No, not a letter from you - not yet. Down in the long grass I saw a
blink of yellow. When I bent to examine my find, there, defiant of a
chill February breeze, danced a cluster of golden winter aconite. I
wanted to dance with them - in fact I did, all the way back up to the
cottage. My 'nosy neighbour' leaned over the gate and said, "You want
to go a bit steadier at your age."

Cheek!