11.25.14 The ice is melting now in this 40 degree temperature. It’s the kind of gray we get at the end of November when there is valley rain and mountain snow. I’ve come to love it, especially during Thanksgiving week, when the house is filled with the scent of cinnamon and cloves, rosemary and sage. We’re taking the dinner this year to my daughter’s mountain cabin, five remote hours from here. The three grandkids and we four adults all sleep lined up in beds in the dormitory room, above the wood stove. There’s a good chance we’ll have to drag the food in on a sled, wearing our snowshoes–a quintessential Montana experience.
I was back in Colorado last week to visit my sisters. All that sunshine surprises me, now that I’ve been gone so many years. Here at home, as I stood outside on the porch to take this photo, I thought how there is no way I could describe to them how cold and damp, quiet and still it feels here. And, there is no way they could understand that I like it. Time feels suspended on a gray day like this one. Soon, December snows will blanket the ground, and we’ll have white fairy lights on outdoor trees, and the house will be ablaze with candles and greenery. In town, there are already colored lights wrapped around boughs on storefronts, brightening the perpetual dark gray skies of Winter. It is about to get very busy, bustling and festive for the next month, and the house will be filled with grandchildren and stockings, and it will be wonderful. I’m thinking that today is a good day to put in the bank.