What time I wandered
where the dogwood grows
I felt white blossoms falling on my breast,
Forgetting easily how falls the snows
Upon the stripped tree winter has possessed.
Today I walk beneath the sterile sky,
Finding it difficult to fix my mind
On greening branches proudly lifting high
A silver freight unscarred by winter wind.
So short a season has
the memory,
So apt a pupil, lessened by the frost,
While yet the undefeated dogwood tree
Shelters the sap, nor counts the season lost.
Wherefore, my heart,
be not so poor a thing,
Believe in this, the dogwood blooms next spring!
When I was a child, no one had
ever heard of organized winter sports. Ski trains and snow trains were undreamed of. The
trains that ran through our little town carried people who were going to Milwaukee to
shop, or even as far as Chicago, on business; but travelling was a serious thing, not to
be undertaken lightly. It involved so much packing and unpacking, and tucking washcloths
in rubber bags, and nightgowns in silk envelope affairs. But now people leap on trains
with a small slide-fastened bag, and go anywhere. Girls tie their hair up in a scarf, put
on slacks, and sit happily waxing skis as the train slides over the winter countryside.
However, we did enjoy winter. There was a horse named Grace who alternately acted as what
we called "the hearse horse" and as a puller of a long, homemade bobsled. The
sled belonged to a boy named Eugene, and as soon as snow began to pile up along the fences
everyone began to do favors for Eugene. It was a little odd, but I never "got mad
with" Eugene in sleighing time. In midsummer I might become involved in those strange
adolescent sufferings, but not in January. We would bundle up in galoshes and Mackinaws
and woolen hoods and fur mittens and pile on the bobsled and Grace would move slowly down
the snowy streets, earning her twenty-five cents an hour the easy way.
The air was always like a clean, quick knife blade, and the sun frozen gold, and the
shadows of the snow ruts fell blue behind us. We sang "Long, Long Trail," and I
was almost in tune, but not quite. The boys fell off and scuffled in the snow and threw
snowballs, and if a boy was really wild about you, he showed his ardor by putting snow
down your neck. And at the end of the afternoon, we went home for Oyster stew and hot
buttered crackers, cocoa and cake.
Here is a strange thing. In summer I always make plans for those long winter nights. I say
blithely, "Well, in the long winter evenings I am really going to learn to knit
socks. There will be time, then, to reread all of Shakespeare and the Elizabethan
poets." A thousand small, niggling jobs we can dash off, I think, in winter.
Every single year I go through this happy reasoning and every year, in surprise, I face
the fact in January, that those long winter evenings are pure fiction. Possibly the
pioneers had them, but I doubt it. I imagine that after a rugged bout with cooking and
weaving and scrubbing, my pioneer housekeeper simply heated the soapstone for her rope bed
and climbed in and pulled the feather bed around her ears and went to sleep!
Sometimes my city friends ask me, with sympathy, if the long winter evenings aren't
dreary. No theater, no concert, no ballet. What do we do with ourselves?
What does become of those evenings? I often wonder. Because I find myself, in January,
saying cheerfully, and with hope, "Now when the summer evenings come, and it stays
light so long, I can really catch up with those odd jobs. I'll just wait for summer."
I suspect it is just a human weakness to look forward to a season with plenty of leisure,
a tranquil space between regular jobs. Much the way we used to anticipate nice restful
vacations. And then actually we wore ourselves out on those nice restful vacations.
It is only now and then that people actually speak to each
other from the curious secret depths in us all. I wonder whether it is Anglo-Saxon
reticence, or just a human inability to communicate. Or a fear of being thought queer.
However it may be, there is a wall around most people most of the time We all go on living
on the surface like water bugs, and most of our lives seem just about as aimless as their
courses. now and then, in a crisis, we cry from the secret place, "Oh, be close to
me!" Perhaps the loneliness is eased a moment, but the next time the loved one says
brightly, "What are you thinking about?" you will answer, "Oh, just about
making a devil's food cake."
I remember once meeting
my most adored uncle after a long absence. My heart was full of things I wished to discuss
with him; I needed his wisdom, his steadiness. He was, of all men, the one who "saw
life steadily and saw it whole." He also wished to communicate with me. We sat
together a long time.
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"What did you talk about?" I was asked afterward.
"Oh, we just sat there not telling each other things," I answered.
And yet, really, we did communicate after all.
"You are getting to look like your mother," he said. Then he took off his
glasses and polished them on his immaculate handkerchief. "There seems to be a mist
on my glasses," he said. A mist on his glasses! I never saw him again. But I have a
dear memory of that moment that I shall always keep.
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As Christmas and the
New Year come and go again, I feel as if I should like to break down the walls, and to
urge everyone else to break them down, and actually speak from the heart to one another. I
wish I could gather all the people who are dear to me in front of the fire, not in a mass,
but one at a time, and give them my own holiday message.
Like this: "I want you to know on this New Year's Eve how much I admire and love you.
I love you for your clear swift thinking, your indomitable will, your vitality in a rather
tired world, your keen, creative spirit. It is impossible to be intimate with you because
of the impersonality which is part of you; nevertheless, I respect your integrity."
And this: "I know you are thinking of me as just another finger wave, as you go about
your long day of hairdressing. But I am not just another customer, because I appreciate
your personality. I have gleaned a good deal of information about you, while I sat under
the drier, or had the ends turned up. You have worked hard; you have had a difficult life;
your family situation is almost unbearable; you haven't much money, and the future is not
going to bring you any great gifts. But you have a homely philosophy that carries you
along without any complaining. You are both sensible and cheerful. You are a great person.
I know a number of wealthy and intellectual and important people who could well be humble
in your presence."
Of course, I shall never say these things. I shall say instead, "Let me give you
another cup of coffee." And, "Have you read the new serial in the Post?"
And, "Yes, I guess I will have a rinse today."
It would be rather nice, though, to make the holidays a time of gifts, not wrapped in
tissue paper, but gifts of the heart.
The Book of
Stillmeadow
It is time to put up new calendars, and as the old
ones come down I wonder where the past year went. some of it is now what Emily Dickinson
would call "an amethyst remembrance." Perhaps some of it is better forgotten,
but there is so much to remember and treasure. And as I open the calendar to January, I
think that soon lilacs will be in bloom (just four pages away), and then the Spartan roses
(two more pages): I remember that the children will be coming for visits, and the
grandchildren be celebrating their birthdays.
But
right now, winter at Stillmeadow walks down the low hills and brims the meadows with her
tides of snow. Some years, winter does more than arrive; she invades the valley. Then snow
tops the picket fence; drifts are five feet deep. The whole landscape changes as the
dune-shaped wind-rippled snow lies under a dark sky. There is a coldness, a purity, such
as I seldom see, and landmarks vanish.
With
waves of snow cresting around the old house, Jonquil and Teddy. the cockers, and Holly,
the Irish setter, and I feel like mariners. But we are fortunate, for we do not have to
stand outside and mark a course. Instead, we sit by the open fire and have tea and
cookies. I like to look out and see the pre-Revolutionary houses, anchored steadfastly.
Summertime lights are not so lovely as winter lights on snow. If the road is deep with
snow, I think how fortunate it is the house is snug. It is possible, if the furnace goes
off, to keep the downstairs warm at Stillmeadow, but the upstairs is colder than outdoors.
And the heat isn't what you would ever call even. Near the hearth it is tropical, but
three feet away you begin to shiver. always, when the weather is bitter, I wonder how the
early settlers managed in drafty cabins heated only by fireplaces.
In my
memory, 30 degrees below zero was the coldest we have had, but I am sure some old-timer
can correct me. But there is this about winter: the big drops do not last long, and then
it seems quite balmy when the temperature is 38 degrees.
The new
year comes accompanied by steeply falling temperatures and spitting snowstorms. In the
city there is a lot of what Mama used to call "carrying-on." When the children
were away at school or working in the city, Jill and I had a number of New Year's Eves by
ourselves. We had a strong feeling of wanting to see the old year out beside our own fire,
so we avoided the customary parties. We sometimes read aloud, we played our favorite
records, and we talked about the year to come. I think of those New Year's Eves and am
thankful we did not waste them while she was alive.
New
Year's at Stillmeadow is a family occasion. Jill's daughter Dorothy and her husband Val
and their two wonderful children come and fill the house with love and laughter. After
dinner, the children toast marshmallows and pop corn over the open fire. The cockers like
marshmallows and popcorn too, and Holly hangs around the kitchen waiting for more turkey.
After the children climb the ladder stairs and go to bed, the three of us settle down for
a warm and comfortable talk. Jill used to say, "There is one thing about us, we are a
verbal family." So we are!
Midnight comes all to soon, and we bring in a tray with freshly baked sourdough bread with
cheese and salami and thin slices of ham and pickles. When the chimes ring out (over
television to be sure), we hold hands and say our private prayers for the year to come. I
couldn't wish for a better way to begin than this.
There is, I have found, at least
one good or lovely thing in every single day. Everyone has sorrow, endures difficult
times, but loveliness abides if we look for it. I almost forgot this this the time I
wrenched my knee and was flat for two weeks. I picked the worst time, too, for Erma Vanek,
my mainstay, was down with a virus. Joe, her husband, had to take on all their chores,
beside his regular job. The weather was terrible. It does seem as if things pile up
sometimes. I helped matters by getting bursitis in both shoulders from trying to make my
way to the kitchen (despite that wrenched knee), clinging to furniture tops for support.
After that bout, I found I could not even turn over in bed.
Of
course, this wasn't a major disaster, but when you live alone, walking assumes extra
importance, and I felt very low after my unsuccessful attempt. And then, just at the worst
moment, in walked my neighbor, Wilma Phillips, bringing my mail. She let the dogs out, let
them in, fixed me a tray, and lugged my books over near my bed so that I could reach them.
And at six that night my bedroom door opened: there was Steve Nies-from up the hill-with a
hot dinner wrapped in foil. His mother had dished mine up with theirs, and the sugar-sweet
ham, fluffy potatoes, and fresh peas were flanked by an artistic salad. Desert was in a
foil cup. I had seldom had a happier time. Long after I forgot the misery of the pain, I
felt the warm glow of friendship. By the time I could hobble, I felt like a queen.
Stillmeadow Calendar
On to January,
Part Two
Gladys Taber Page
One / Gladys Taber Page Two
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