January 15, 2022.
Hello You,
It’s mid-morning, mid-January, and I’m looking out the window at the sparkling aftermath of a nasty winter storm - the second nor-easter in less than a week.
Last night the wind brought gusts so strong, the windows and rafters of my dear old house shuddered and creaked. Smoke howled back down the wood stove’s chimney and filled the place. I swear my hair smells like the morning after a bonfire on the beach. Could be worse.
The dirt road is drifted and the plow hasn’t come by, but I’ve got no where to be except inside this cozy cottage where it feels as if I’m living in a snow-globe each time a squall comes in off the Bay. But we have power this time, which we didn’t when we got hit earlier this week. Yesterday was spent cooking, and filling jugs and the bathtub with water, and getting iron skillets of grandmothers ready for whatever might come next.
In the winter of 1978, a blizzard dumped nearly three feet of snow on my hometown in Indiana. My dad was stuck in Buffalo, NY on business. My older brothers were away at university. It was just my mom, my big sister and me. My sister and I used an old Flexible Flyer sled to haul logs from the woodshed to the house. Mom cooked over the fire in the fireplace. When the power came back, we baked bread and took turns looking through a pair of binoculars usually reserved for birdwatching - staring past the feeders and trees in the backyard and across the neighbour’s stubbly cornfield to the highway. We spotted nothing for hours, except a single army tank, rolling down the interstate. It was the storm by which all other storms would be measured, for life. I was nine; my sister, sixteen; my mom, forty-four.
I can’t remember how long I was out of school (a week, maybe more) but when I went back, a couple of older kids had t-shirts they’d gotten at a local gas station that read, “I survived the BLIZZARD of ‘78!” When I told my mom about it, (thinking it was kind of clever) she explained that it wasn’t the least bit funny, “because some people didn’t…survive.” Mom never pulled any punches.
When Dad finally got back from Buffalo, Mom bragged about how resourceful “her girls” had been and how we’d all “gotten through it, together.” In my mind, it was such a Little Women moment, a real “Marmie” thing to say. I think it might’ve been the first time in my life that I felt my mother had truly leaned on me.
I know right now we’re all exhausted from being stormstayed by the pandemic - our plans, our lives, our dreams delayed (and sometimes crushed) along the way - but it’s my hope that wherever and whenever you come across this message, that you’ll be comforted by the thought that we will get through this, together.
Ami
Next time…
This has been the first post from The Cure for Longing, a weekly newsletter that I hope will bring a bit of curious, glimmering magic into your life during these difficult times. Next week’s post will feature an enhanced reading from my Tidewrack Divinations Project, an artistic exploration of the shore near my home that I started during the first lockdown of the pandemic. You can learn more about the project here: Tidewrack Divinations.
Thank you.
Thank you for taking the time to read my words. What things are bringing you hope these days? Feel free to leave a comment and keep the conversation going. Until next time, may you find magic along your way.
The Birth House and Little Women remain two of my most beloved books. That their literary spirit co-mingles within your writing here is a delight beyond measure. Magic for a weary heart. Tidewrack Divination a selkie song reminding all the lost Mermaids how to find their way home to the sea. Looking forward to more.
Nice, cozy post for yet another blustery day here in Wolfville. Seems we always had weather like this when I was in school in the 1960s/70s, but, strangely, I don't think school was ever cancelled. Probably an insurance thing with bussing these days:)