The Magic of Winter

This is the magic of winter.

Fresh deep snow. A hill to slide on.

Endless fields criss-crossed by snowmachine tracks.

When you stand there, in the still silence, listening, you feel like you can actually hear the silence. It surrounds you, quieting your mind and soul.

This is the winter of my childhood, in both poetic and literal terms. this is my Grandfather's farm. This is where I spent my childhood. My 5th birthday party was here. I got a bike and shiny satin Strawberry Shortcake shorts. It was a joint party with my cousin Donalda. This is where we spent Christmases with all our cousins. A living room and dining room so crowded with family that you had to sit on the stairs to the second floor because there was no other room. There was a present mountain that you only see in cartoons. It was amazing.

It was days of snowmaching across the fields and over the river... chanting that poem / song... over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother's house we go... because that's how you got there once you were outside.

It's winter days of tobogganning in the creek. Building a huge bon fire to stay warm. Heading back to the house to warm up with hot iced tea (because that's what my Gramma liked.) Of playing with 10 of your cousins. Waiting impatiently for the adults to get back from their "fast ride" and hook the old dog sled up behind the snow machine again and take us all for a ride. And arguing over who gets to stand on the back of the sled (where the "driver" would have gone.) And trying desperately not to fall off.

Days of my Grandpa clearing a spot for us to skate on the river. Being terrified I'd fall in. Never actually happening. (yes, I'd be terrified to fall in after a several ton tractor just cleared me a rink...)

Days of wading through snow so deep it came up to your waist. And laughing at my dog Shortie, who had "moved" to the farm when we moved from our house back when I was four. He was so short that he'd run along in the snowmachine tracks, and from time to time he'd stop, jump up to see where we were, and continue along. I miss him. He's buried on this farm.

This is the winter of my childhood. I'm 32 years old. My Grandfather died last November. My Grandmother is now in care because she has Alzehimers. This is probably the last winter I'll spend at the farm. Listening to it's quiet. Remembering. I believe our family is selling the property later this year. The grand red brick five bedroom house sits empty, where it once held the laughter of nine children, two parents and an uncle. It's seen 21 grandchildren and eight great-grandchildren. It's seen parties, christmases to remember, birthdays, family reunions, baby showers, summer pea picking parties, corn harvesting, chicken "harvesting"... it's seen barns being torn down, and barns being raised. It's seen a family, and been part of this family for more than 50 years. I'm really going to miss the place.

This is the winter of my childhood.