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Writer in the Garret

~ A writer living one word at a time

Writer in the Garret

Tag Archives: promise of snow

Everything’s swirling…leaves, opinions, my head…

22 Monday Oct 2012

Posted by Yvonne Montgomery in Metaphors, Random Thoughts, trees

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autumn, change, deep blue sky, land spring, promise of snow

…And the pace is picking up though we crunch through piles of gold toward the next part of the year.  (Have you ever noticed how much I like ellipses?  And parentheses! Where the hell would we be without them?)

My favorite color scheme is in effect now, yellow leaves bright against the deep blue sky, and black branches offering red and orange tributes to the sun.  Light shines  with force as the days shorten.  Desperation as the season ends?  A few last claims of “But I’m not tired!” before the fractious continent returns to real time?

We continue to batten down the hatches–wrapping the fountain, tucking in the plants, filling cracks against drafts–and the big project, the new roof, will begin before too long.  Wonder what kind of posts I’ll produce with all that activity just above my garret.

I’m looking forward to the peace of snowfall.  The quiet of decisions made.  So many activities abate in the cold, and surely this year the lessening of frenzy will result in new lucidity, to say nothing of rich, lurid plots.  One can hope.

For now I shake my head against the noisy, whirling air and let out a breath.  All will be well.  After winter scours the land spring will come again.

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Hush

19 Monday Dec 2011

Posted by Yvonne Montgomery in Uncategorized

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promise of snow

All day gray skies have been heavy with the promise of snow.  Now I look out the window and see a breeze blowing flakes horizontally across my little landscape.  It’s six days ’til Christmas, and the world is curling round and round before settling upon its cushion for a nap.

I intend to bake fruitcake, since I love it, unlike most of earth’s inhabitants.  Once upon a time my children’s godmother, Arie Taylor, made the most wonderful fruitcakes and would give us (me!) one every year, but since she died I’ve bought little ones to see me through the holidays.  Now I must bake my own gluten-free fruitcake.  I have what I need, but I’m watching the falling snow, and remembering other winters.

I think of snow in Boulder, one year so high and clumpy that my brother Mike and I built first a fort, finally adding a roof to make it an igloo.  My fingers tingle with remembered cold, and I can recall the cramped quarters of that tiny structure.  His cheeks were bright red, as I’m sure my own were, and we took turns peeking out the door at phantom attackers.  No snowballs were ever rounder or had better heft. We fought glorious battles until our ears were numb and our fingers and toes ached.  Finally going in the house felt like a defeat, but Mom made us cocoa and we changed into dry clothes and huddled beside the furnace vents until we were warm again.

One Christmas Eve years later my husband and I planned to take the kids up to Boulder to see the family, but by the time we were to set out, two feet of snow had fallen in Denver.  We weren’t going anywhere, except by foot.  A trip the the grocery store two blocks away allowed us to get a certain amount of festival food, and we all settled into the house to watch the white stuff continuing to fall.  By the time the storm was over, we had over three feet, and my children were out the next day, building a fort that later became an igloo.  I watched them jump and throw snowballs, their cheeks bright red, and then went to the kitchen to make cocoa for them.

The snow is coming down harder and the grandchildren are at Yellowstone Park looking at snow near Old Faithful.  It’s time for me to get serious about baking fruitcake or writing a few cards–something.  I’m grateful for the warmth coming from the furnace vents.  Maybe I’ll go make some cocoa for myself and lift a cup to memories of other snowstorms, other times.

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