September is always a little bluesy for me. The soft air, fields of flowers, and summer ponds call to me— “Hey you on the porch with your book and those little brown dogs, come swim and hike and learn how to say the names of our flowers in Latin.” So, we do.
But, because there is no stopping it, November and the long dark comes. The last of the loons flies off to the Atlantic and the pond freezes. I start coughing as the villagers fire up their woodstoves and I close the house windows tightly. I will have an itchy throat till May.
The old bird feeders are hung from the trees— the feeders that still work despite being pierced with holes in the shape of bear’s teeth. Those years when winter had trouble committing, and the bears got tired of trying to sleep and came down from Grannyhand Hill to Strafford Village to stuff apples and seeds and sometimes chickens into their bellies (hyperphaging) before finally laying down again under downed trees and piles of leaves where their fattened bodies sleep for months, possibly birthing and nursing cubs.
Can you imagine giving birth and dealing with newborns when you are so tired? I hang the feeders up from the heavily pruned branches of fruit trees, the poor things that I over prune every year, just like my own wild head of hair.
Within minutes, the little brown dogs and I are standing still under the apple trees, arms outstretched- well, mine, anyway- wearing a halo of small black and white chickadees, feeling like St. Francis of Assisi. “Hey guys, how you doing? It’s been a minute since we’ve been together.”
It does seem like just yesterday that we were in the company of winter birds, so many doves and cardinals on the ground and chickadees in the trees, blue jays yelling at everyone, and titmice, and nuthatches hopping about, being cute.
The chickadees flit through the branches raspy-voiced and flap their wings to make a sound like bumble bees (aeroelastic fluttering), and it seems like they trust me, and I think winter might be okay this year.
I take the skis and poles out of the basement, and put them on the back porch, the same tradition for thirty years. I had guests from France for Thanksgiving who were surprised I did not keep the skis locked up inside. I laughed and told them nobody would steal my old skis, as most households have their own skis which are surely nicer than mine.
I am grateful to live in a place where I do not have to be afraid and where so many people embrace being outside in the snow. Now, December has come, and I start the day with rosy cheeks from bringing in wood for the stove.
We have been blessed with early snow, so the LBDs and I ski around the hayfields and up into the woods every morning and come home windblown and hungry for pancakes.
The darkest time of the year is when the music begins in earnest. I walk to the end of the village to the United Church of Strafford with a headlamp on my hat. In the dark, the houses glow orange and pink through their windows. I sit in the third row for a concert of piano, accordion, violin, and voice, a concert that could be playing in a hall in New York City. It is that good.
The music vibrates through our bodies and afterwards, neighbors say goodbye and how lucky we are and go out into the dark night feeling weepy. The next day I come home after skiing with my grandbabies in their backyard to find a dozen beautiful friends on the porch singing “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem,” caroling to me and the dogs. I am not a crier, but I wipe away a tear and loudly proclaim to the sleeping village, “Yes, winter will be okay.”
Micki Colbeck is a writer and naturalist. She chairs the Strafford Conservation Commission.