Well come, Winter

Ray Bradbury’s “Farewell Summer” opens with

“Look, Doug,” said Grandpa, driving into town from the farm. Behind them in the Kissel Kar were six large pumpkins picked fresh from the patch. “See those flowers?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Farewell summer, Doug. That’s the name of those flowers. Feel the air? August come back. Farewell, summer.”

“Boy,” said Doug, “that’s a sad name.”

I was in bed and was keen to crack open another Bradbury (for a novel by Ray is a treat. Like investigating the back catalog of a favorite band, I savor each one) and, right on cue, like a Mark Knopfler guitar lick, he tickled my place in this world.

This past week, leading up to what must be the storm of the century, has been all about plans, enduring, prepping, surviving, how …terrible it will all be. And as Doug and Grandpa said farewell to summer it occurred to me that the coming snow and ice aren’t some thing to be warded, but rather a moment. The heart of winter. True cold. True quiet. And if the forecasts of the week to come are even half right, it will be a long session, the deepest part of winter.

Isn’t that a good thing? It is well come. It is what it is supposed to be. It will be cold. It will bring much snow. There will be shovels. Power will likely go out. But winter is presenting itself fully to us. Black nights, brittle, stars glimmering like snowflakes (as my wife and grandchild discussed last night), white snow, brown and gray and winter-green trees, a sun hidden in gray, barely showing itself, and then bright white crisp and heatless through blue skies, with breath-grabbing cold.

That we try to avoid it? No no no no. Embrace. Give winter a long hug. It’s giving you one.

I resolved to go into the woods.

When I did this morning, a hemlock tree off the trail called me over. Then I was referred to a trio of uprooted trees from a storm a few years past, leaning out from a central point into three different directions, like construction site cranes left for the weekend, forming a mound which they encouraged me to climb. When I reached the summit, I stopped at a well-trodden snow path over the top, just a handful or two wide, with some yellow markings. It went partway up one of the angled trunks. A lookout? Following it the other direction I saw two beaten paths headed into the woods. Wait. A third trail curled under the mound out of the wind and snow into a shelter formed by one of the the up-rooted tree bases. Oh. My apologies for standing on your home.

I backed off the mound and followed some tracks through the deep woods until I crossed a trail familiar to me. The domain of people like me who visit these woods through out the seasons.

You are well come, winter!