It’s January: The savory delights of a mostly vegetarian Thanksgiving in Buffalo with our daughter Libby and her family are by now ancient history. Memories of a Vermont Christmas — good food, Christmas Eve at a country church, walks, puzzles, a traditional gift exchange among children and grandchildren — are also fading fast. So is the understated but celebratory New Year’s Eve dinner we hosted for a few friends in the neighborhood. Tree decorations, returned to their well-worn boxes, are back on the shelf till next year. With thank you notes in the mail, I turn to what’s ahead.
It’s January: Early in the month, the most we saw of snow was a slight dusting that covered the rustling brown leaves on our morning walks in the woods. “Where is it?” Jasper-the-Westie seemed to ask as he bounded along on the packed dirt of frozen trails? More snow did come eventually, on a Sunday. It accumulated quickly as I looked out of the windows on the south side of our cottage. By late afternoon, the deep green branches of nearby cedar trees were layered with the bright white of new beauty, inch upon inch. We reveled in being outdoors, shoveling and sweeping, breaking trails for a walk. And then, a few days ago, wind and rain muddied the landscape, melted the snow, darkened the splendor. January.
It’s January: Snow or no snow, the sun is elusive. The wind can be chilly and worse. The invitation is here to take advantage of these quieter days that can offer nowhere-to-go, nothing-that-has-to-be-done. Possibilities abound.
On a January day with temperatures in the teens and the gas fire aglow, the chance to stay inside is welcome. Much of what I look forward to is already a familiar part of my life. By the time I sat down at my table to write this morning, I had assembled the ingredients for “Zuni Indian Bread” and added them to my trusty bread machine. A freshly baked loaf will be a good addition to lunch. More important, though, this marks the first step of my new year’s commitment to again make all of our bread, in the machine if I need to, but by hand when I plan ahead.
I had also filled the bird feeders and stuffed a new chunk of suet into the wire container hanging on the shepherd’s crook. In short order, I was rewarded by a visit from the red-bellied woodpecker who lives in the neighborhood, along with the regulars — finches, nuthatches, and titmice. The cardinals, who feed mostly on the ground, are grateful for the many seeds that fall their way. And, for better or worse, so are the squirrels.
Of any plans for the new year, reading is and has always been the most urgent and the most important. I am engaged at the moment with Geraldine Brooks’ novel “Horse,” the compelling story of Lexington, a famous 19th century racehorse, and his remarkable groom, who lived his life as a slave. Several books I received as Christmas gifts beckon. “The Heaven and Earth Grocery Store,” a new novel by James McBride is in the stack, as is “Gather,” the Vermont-based young adult book by our Norwich friend Ken Cadow. My list gets longer and richer after every conversation I have with a literary neighbor, every meeting I attend of our local library’s book selection committee, and every visit I have with my recent college-graduate granddaughter. How lucky I am.
But there are new pursuits on my horizon too. The most unexpected, at least for me, is cribbage, a card game said to date back to 17th century England. Cribbage has been in my world for a long time. It was a regular part of my dad’s social life with the men of our small Iowa town and was a routine for my husband’s family dating back to summers at a Minnesota lake. Over years, it has become a common competition among our family members when we are together, including the grandchildren. In fact, it was a grandson who coached me in my first-ever game during the holidays. Now, my husband is my teacher, and we play nearly nightly after dinner, using my dad’s old cribbage board. The fun has increased since I have started winning occasionally.
New also is watercolor painting. I had never taken a painting lesson in my life. Yes, I grew up coloring — within the lines of the pictures handed out to me in elementary school — and I have for years enjoyed the basics of sketching with a nice set of colored pencils. But beginning a class in watercolor has been eye-opening. With the encouragement of a sensitive instructor, I caught on to how to mix colors and put them on paper in ways that please me. More surprisingly, I have begun to notice the nuances and subtleties of my outdoor world and to see shapes and shades of color differently. I even wonder, as I look at sunset after sunset, if I could learn to paint them in ways that would communicate to someone else how stunning they are.
It’s January: Contemplating these and other possibilities brings joy, as the ever-lengthening days of winter begin to fly by. Such musings are the essential daydreams of reimagining myself.
Mary Otto is a former longtime Norwich resident. She now lives in Shelburne, Vt.