The warmth of a cold winter
As 2024 disappeared and the winter winds were blowing into the Green Mountain State, many of my friends packed their bags with swimsuits, shorts, t-shirts, and SPF 15, to spend the winter under a perpetually shining sun.
But not me.
I am staying, like I always do, right here in the north country. Do I envy those who find respite from the northeastern weather that can cut through you like a cold knife through hot pecan pie? Not one bit!
I honor their decision, but for me there is nothing like a winter in Vermont. Winter up north is a time for reflection, transformation, introspection and quiet to process one’s life. Nothing rocks me to my core more than walking out of my warm cozy home where the never-ending wood fire burns into a frosty sub-zero degree morning covered in ice and snow… nothing!
The first breath of frigid air is a reminder that I am alive and the second confirms I am beholden to the beauty that the sparkling and illuminating simplicity has gifted me. The oaks, maples, birch and beech are my family, and they are stark, dark, with reaching wood weavings resembling inhaling lungs. They are black and white masterpieces of nature.
The birds of winter: chickadees, blue jays and woodpeckers, chirp at me as a reminder to fill up their suet baskets and bird feeders. The paw and hoof prints in the snow confirm we have a rabbit living in our barn and the deer tracks indicate they are living in there, too.
After fifty years greeting winter with a familiar intensity, it never amazes me how great a cup of cocoa, a warm piece of apple pie, a bowl of hot chicken soup or anything with pumpkin soothes my soul. All the annual plants I brought in from the flower gardens this fall are thriving and blooming showing their gratitude and awaiting to be placed outside when the blue birds return.
On many a day, I snap on my cross-country skis and venture out into the woods and around the meadows. On downhill ski days I greet friends and neighbors at our local ski area, and we dance on the snow-capped mountains of Vermont.
My father-in-law Dick Moulton left Vermont with his wife, Ginny, when they were in their early fifties. They settled in Florida where they lived out their lives. On his deathbed Dick asked to be buried on our Vermont meadow and on his head stone he asked it to say, “Keep Your Heart in The Highlands.”
He understood what he left behind when he flew south and in the end, he chose to return to the north country to live out his eternity, which is right where I will be when my time comes.
