Blue Winter



Mary, dutifully modeling for a romantic December scene.



        It's January. A very long, cold month, filled with stinging icy winds and a special kind of chill that seeps into one's bones. No matter where I go, January is there to meet me. Why do I put up with it? Well, because I can't go anywhere else. I live here, in this high, cold place. So what can I do?

    Follow the kind of annoying advice I usually give other people: in this case, bloom where I'm planted. And in light of that consideration, I'm compiling a Mountain Winter Survival Plan, with the side motivation of starting 2012 off in a constructive state of mind.

    1. Take pictures. It may not seem like it now, but even this chilly moment of your life is worthy of remembrance. And there is nothing like finding a masterpiece on your camera screen for the restoration of good cheer. A fine cure for winter blues is to take a blue winter picture; the photo above is of the view behind the house. I took it during the evening when the light turns all the world blue; I recall being absolutely spellbound as my breath clouded in the frosty silence, and half-believed myself in fairyland. 

    2. Read. This should be obvious to me by now, but sometimes I need to be reminded that this is the best solution for any spare time, no matter what mood you're in. Classics seem to suit best in Wintertime. And mysteries. And classic mysteries. I suggest any Sherlock Holmes story, or slightly more heavy-duty stuff, like Wuthering Heights or The House of the Seven Gables. To my lasting shame, I have not made Dickens part of my routine, but my mother assures me it's well worth it. 

    And while you read . . . 

    3. Drink tea. Tea is the fountain of youth; the elixir of life; the reason for civilization. It is the finest drink ever created by man, and the author of my reasonably firm hold on sanity. Mary Basquez would probably say that coffee does this for her, but I consider coffee and tea linked in the heavenlies and therefore no arguments need be ignited for the precedence of either. (Anyway, Mother prefers that I don't drink coffee; she knows I love it and she "doesn't want me to get addicted to it" like she has been for the best part of her life.)

    And while you drink tea . . .

    4. Eat brownies with butter. I discovered this miracle earlier this winter, and was so struck by it that of course I had to take a picture. Perhaps this seems like overkill to you. It won't if you have the wisdom to actually eat some. Anyways, you're already eating the brownie, and since to me that indicates no particular interest in healthy living, you shouldn't have any qualms about adding butter to it. (It's better if the butter is salted, but I'm not looking over your shoulder.)

    5. Listen to relaxing music. If I can, I like to leave the rock songs and stuff like that for brighter, more energetic days. Winter is a time of burrowing and bundling up and getting cozy, and Jazz or softly crooning vocalists are a perfect accompaniment. 

   

6. Knit or crochet. If you don't know how, learn. It's not difficult and it's only dorky if you think of it that way. (So don't think of it that way. Weirdness is a virtue and if you do what you really like without agonizing over "nerdiness", God will reward you in Heaven.) My personal favorite is knitting. If I could I would buy every skein in the luxury yarn stores in town and knit myself a house.





The monkey's name is Shadrach. The teddy bear is Orlando.

 7. Dance with your teddy bear (or any other of your athletically inclined household objects). This Christmas I received a truly charming sock monkey, something I've desired since childhood. He was a present from an old friend, The Right Honorable L.R.K., and has proven himself to be a worthy dance partner. This is one of the few occasions when I prefer vigorous music in the Wintertime; it's just too hard to toss the fluffy dancer into the air in time to a soporific love song.

   

    8. Watch a romantic movie. I highly recommend historical dramas like the BBC Pride and Prejudice, most of the versions of Jane Eyre, or any modern chick flick with a satisfactory ending. A good romance warms my soul at any time of the year, and the happy glow it gives to a person is just what you need when you slip between cold sheets on a dark January night.

Another eggy triumph. Also the only way (for me) to tolerate eating a boiled egg. Bacon bits in the filling are a good idea. 

9. Cook. I confess that I dislike cooking, but I love the returns of the sweat and blood of the culinary experience: cookies and cheescakes, half-pint jars of golden homemade mayonnaise, paprika-sprinkled deviled eggs, toasted pecans on toast, bright salads with colorful vegetables arranged artistically upon them. The cooking builds character, and a little work and the proud, un-store bought effect these things lend to a table are a good tune-up to teenage self-esteem. And what better than sharing the result of your efforts with your family while the wind whips around your snug house? 

    10. Paint your nails. For a teenage girl, nail-painting is the height of cheerful luxuriousness, even if it doesn't seem like a necessity during a snow-booted winter. (I actually go out in the snowy yard in my flip-flops once in a while, however, and when I do I'm glad my toenails are thoroughly bedecked.) It's also good way to rebel against the straggly-haired, whisky-chugging image people tend to have of mountain girls.

    11. Write. This is a hard thing, not necessarily fun. Mother has decided that for the next month, we are going to be following the BIAM (Book In A Month) program, and so everyone in the family must come up with some story they want to write, and then . . . write it, I suppose. In a month, that is. Which will be singularly difficult. To me, "book in a month" is synonymous with "snowball in Hell", but what do I know? I have never finished a story of any magnitude in any amount of time. So for all I know, it's quite possible. And bear in mind that the potential rotteness of January and February can be easily done away with by a little hard work and some bloody wrestles with an uncooperative story. (For so they've all turned out to be for me.) I'm not sure what I'll write about; I was all set to write a love story about a gentleman ship captain and a sweet lady, but now I'm not sure. Which is no good, because I wanted to start tomorrow. My all-time favorite book is Anne of Green Gables, and it has taught me that one has no need of a glamorous set-up to make a story good. L.M. Montgomery seems to have stuck to home, and the delightful relationships between her characters as main themes. Certainly, I know more about home and family than gentleman ship-captains. What I lack, then, seems to be "singleness of heart and action". Which God told me he would give me as I was reading Jeremiah 32:39. Well, Lord, I would love to have that before Monday.

    12. Send a letter. Ten to one you'll get one in return. And the written word of a friend is a balm to the soul.  

   

    This is a very short list, considering the actual number of worthy uses for one's time. The idea of this post is to convince everyone (or perhaps just myself) that winter isn't really worthless.

     Idleness is what brings on the blues for me. But this winter shall not be a blue one any longer.

       

American Boys

    Look at this guy. So strong, he can't be beaten. So tough, he eats nails for breakfast. So smart, there's nothing he can't figure out. His favorite foods are cheeseburgers and apple pie, his favorite books are about boy adventurers, and his greatest role model is his dad. Andrew Jackson is an American Boy.

    It's humbling to realize that one's younger brother is by far an awesomer person than oneself. Since I meet with such realizations often, however, I am used to them and can write about the people around me with admiration rather than envy.

    This kid is a full-grown man in a skinny 12-year-old's body. He studies every manly thing under the sun, and I have a growing certainty that he'll do America proud one day, whether as an engineer, an inventor, a diplomat, a ship captain or a pilot, or anything else you can think of that involves cleverness, technology, "cool jackets", as he puts it, or knowing smiles.

    Cool jackets are another thing. In spite of his rugged adventurer bent, he has an incredible eye for coolness. He notices absolutely everything. When we watch war movies and I'm occupied with how handsome the soldiers look in their uniforms, he's noting that "they're using flintlock pistols, which weren't invented in that time period". This is not the only important detail, however, as he announces to a resigned audience later on. He "would really like a pair of boots like General Such and Such was wearing during the seventh battle of part three". He is determined to look sharp, and historical styles are a source of never-ending fascination for him.

    As far as I know, he is the only twelve-year-old American Boy who personally irons his pants.

 

    Here is another American Boy brother. This one is older than me. His name in my foolish imagination is Ben Franklin, and since he won't let me take a picture of him I must instead give you a picture of a knight. My reasons are: a) I'm pretty sure this is how Ben pictures himself in his head; and b) it looks way cool.

    How does one describe Ben Franklin? As a prodigy, perhaps. He knows anything and everything about military history one would care to ask. He has books everywhere: double-shelved in his bookcase, plus stuffed every-which way on top of the rows; in numerous stacks under his bed; stashed away inside his bedside table, so that one cannot open one of the little doors in it without being buried in a literary avalanche; in little piles on his bedroom carpet; stacked on his desk, stacked abundantly on the shelf above his desk, in magnificent sweeping plateaus along his extra makeshift bookshelf, and of course peppering the rest of the household. One can reasonably expect to find at least a few of his volumes in every room.
    The boy has always had a slightly disarranging effect on books. He must have some kind of static charge radiating around his person. Wherever he goes, books seem to follow, apparently irresistibly attracted to him. After he leaves, book stacks teeter, rows of books on shelves are crooked, and fantasy novels and heavy military histories are inexplicably sprinkled around. I don't know how he does it, but I guess it's kind of charming. That is, unless I'm the one elected to restore sanity to the living room tables.
    *Sigh*
    These are only the books he owns, mind. He also seems to have read the entire library.

    There are many other things to be said about him. How he is a vending machine for jokes, for example. Except that there's no charge, and his supply never ends. (At times I rather regret this. Sometimes I'd so much rather he give away bags of cheese puffs.) I have never known anyone so determined to believe themselves the Supreme High King Ruler Emperor Guy of Jokes, however, and for that one must give him credit.

    He has many talents: he possesses an amazing memory; he reads unbelievably quickly, but retains all; he writes highly imaginative, original, and above all cool fiction (mainly sci-fi and fantasy stories); he makes friends with everybody. He believes this is because of his rakish charm. I think it's because he likes everybody; people respond to that kind of openness.

    Soon enough my buddy the American Boy will be off to college, and then I wonder what'll become of us all. Son, brother, scholar, leader, jokester, and friend, he is precious to the entire family. But maybe I shouldn't be moping about that. It is, after all, his business what he does with his life. While he's off enjoying his awesome exciting life and . . . uh, black coffee and stacks of mustard-stained essays . . . hm. Well, anyway, I'll be here, living it up sitting around and writing teary blog posts!

    I may even miss his jokes. Anything's possible.

    Love you, Ben.