February in New Hampshire

I just came across a poem I wrote when I was away from New Hampshire for a while and missing winter. I'm just in time, because it's called "February":


A desolate wasteland of white,
Of wind and of snow and of light--
The wind in the trees on a hill,
The snow now at rest from its flight,
And everywhere--everywhere--light.

A universe barren and bare,
Where man cannot see for the glare
And barely can breathe for the chill.
He stands 'midst the elements there.
And they? Neither see him, nor care.

Story Beginning: Way Past Boston

The guy walked right up to Brooke and thrust his head forward and down, but his eyes were turned to the side, somewhere beyond her left ear. “Are you Emily?” he demanded. The toes of his sneakers nearly touched the toes of her hiking boots.

Photo: johnbyronkuhner.com

She looked up at him. “No, I’m Brooke.”

“Oh.” He swung his head to glance over his right shoulder, then jerked it back. “I could have sworn you were Emily. Are you sure you’re not Emily?”

“I’m sure.”

He just stood there for a second and wiggled his lips, then shrugged, “Well, I guess you can’t help that. What’s your name?”

“Brooke.”

“Oh. I’m Franklin.”

“Nice to meet you, Franklin.”

He smiled at that, as though she had said something very kind, and suddenly shouted, “Thus saith the Lord!” Then in a regular tone, he asked, “Did you know that?” He was still staring past her left ear.

Brooke nodded. It was because of guys like this that she hadn't wanted to come to Penn Station in the middle of the night. But at least he seemed to be harmless, so far.

He put his right hand up, fingers and thumb upturned together, raised his face to the ceiling and said, “I mean, it’s all connected, you know what I mean?”

Brooke nodded again. “Sure. I can agree with that. It is all connected.”

He turned his face down again, let his hand come down, too, and grabbed one of the buttons on the front of her coat. "Why do you have buttons on your coat?" he asked.

"You need to let go of that," Brooke warned.

"Most coats have zippers," he persisted, still holding the button. "Why does - "

"Let go of my button," she interrupted, louder this time.

He didn't let go. "I don't think coats should have buttons," he said.

Another second and she would have had him on the floor, wondering what had hit him. Fortunately for him, his odd behavior had attracted attention, and a distinguished-looking man in a dark wool dress coat and bright red scarf was on his way over. Maybe Franklin the button-phobe would listen to the man, and she wouldn't have to hit him.

"You didn't answer my question," said Franklin.

"Because putting buttons on coats is a Belgian tradition," Brooke improvved, to buy a little time. "It's for good luck."

"Are you Belgian?" he asked, still clutching the button.

"Excuse me," said the man, reaching them and grabbing Franklin's arm. "You need to move on now." He didn't stop walking, and Franklin had no choice but to join him, or maybe fight him. Brooke stayed alert, ready to intervene if he chose the latter option.

He didn't. He let go of the button and the two men walked about thirty feet away. After that, Franklin kept going and the man in the red scarf came back. A woman stood nearby.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you," Brooke smiled. "That was very nice of you. He's probably harmless, but you never know."

"That's just it," the man agreed. "You can't wait to find out. I'm Bill Perelli and this is my wife Charlotte."

"Nice to meet you, Bill, Charlotte. I'm Brooke." She shook hands with each of them.

"Are you waiting for someone?" Charlotte asked. "We're waiting for our daughter. Her train was delayed due to mechanical problems. She's coming in from Washington."

"No, I came here to take a train. I hope your daughter makes it okay."

"Oh, yes, it's all fixed now; we're expecting her in a few minutes."

"That's good. Have you been waiting long?"

"Not really waiting, no. She's been texting us. We went out to eat; it was very nice."

Brooke nodded and tried to think of something else to say. She was exhausted.

Bill broke the awkward pause. "Where are you traveling to, if you don't mind my asking?"

Photo: nytimes.com

"New Hampshire."

"Oh, you have family there?" from Charlotte.

"Yes, I live there; I'm going home."

"What time does your train leave?" Bill asked. "I'd like to see you safely off. Pardon me for saying so, but Penn Station is no place for a young lady alone, especially at night."

"It looks like I'm not actually going to be taking a train tonight," Brooke admitted.

"Always a good idea to check the schedule beforehand," Bill chided gently.

"My car broke down," Brooke blurted. "It's done for; it can't be fixed, not for what it's worth. I was able to get it towed away for free, but that took all day; everyone wanted to charge me. Then I came here and thought I'd take a train home but I had no idea it would cost so much."

What next? I'll go on with this story but I wanted to open it up to all you writers out there. What would you do with it? What would happen next? What genre is "Way Past Boston"? Is it a short story, a novella or a novel? Feel free to finish it, your way; just please be sure to give me credit for the beginning. And if you send me what you come up with, I'd like to consider posting it on this site.

Why I Don't Write

It's very gratifying when readers leave comments like this one on An Analysis of the Cardassian Language: "Where's the rest of the story?" But comments like this also ask a legitimate question: Why don't I write more? It's not that I don't want to. Take today, for example.

When I got up around 6:00 it was five below out, and, yup, the bathroom is outdoors. Bundle up, go out, come back in, take off the outdoor gear, think about breakfast. The water's coming out very rusty from the hand pump. It does that when it's cold out; I don't know why. Maybe ice crystals are playing wall ball with the pipe. Anyway, no doing dishes or drinking pump water till that clears up. But that's why we keep several full bottles under the sink.

Then it's time to get to work. No, not writing yet. The convenient stack of wood has just about run out, so it's time to uncover the inconvenient one. Bundle up again, take a good layer of snow off the top, remove the weights that hold the tarp down, remove snow again, then remove the tarp. Now, the stack is carefully balanced, so I clear the snow off a couple of chopping blocks, stand on them and start removing wood, carefully, from across the top. I bring it in until the space beside the chimney and the space under the stove are full. Then I transfer the rest of the wood to the porch, where the convenient stack was. When I get tired I check my email and tweet about my blog. Not that I've posted anything today.

By the time the wood's about a third done it occurs to me that we're going to burn through it fast at the rate we're going. I can't control the weather, but there are a few things I can control, more or less. We're losing a lot of heat around the door, for example. Not only is that corner of the house just drafty in general, but the door opens directly to the outdoors. Good New Hampshire houses have mudrooms that function as airlocks to preserve heat. So every fall I hang a set of thick quilted drapes to make a temporary mudroom for the cold months. Only last fall I didn't. So when I'm done with the wood I get going on that. Or I try to, but I can't find the stupid thing. Small house, lots of family members keeping stuff here, stuff getting added and taken away every few months. The place is never tidy, always looks like a bizarre combination of charming log cabin and disorganized warehouse. And I lose track of things.

So I spend a few hours organizing the warehouse and looking for the mudroom. No dice. (Actually didn't see any dice, but I think I know where they are.) Give up and grab some blankets. No rod pocket in a blanket, so I'll have to nail them up, need to get out some nails and a hammer. One of the blankets turns out to be a tiny throw; I'll have to find another one. And then I remember where the mudroom is. I put my coat and gloves on, push off some snow, shake some ice loose, and open the barrel. That's right, I had it in a barrel outdoors. Space, sometimes - good indoor space - is at such a premium, we can get very creative. I pull out half the set, bring it indoors to warm up, wish it hadn't completely slipped my mind to do this months ago. There's a reason my daughter calls me "crazy writer lady." I see my computer, I see the time, and can't stand the fact that I haven't posted a blog entry today, so I write this.

After I hit 'publish', I'll finish installing the temporary mudroom, reheat some supper and eat it, and - if life doesn't hijack me again - write at least a little before I sleep. But chances are it won't be a big enough chunk to post yet.

Merry Un-Christmas!

This one's for everyone who doesn't celebrate Christmas. I know there are a lot of you. Some of you celebrate something else instead, while some just don't do the whole winter-holiday thing.

Photo: internationalsupermarketnews.com

Some of my Christian friends would want me to try to pull you in. They'd want me to talk about Christmas this week, and nothing but Christmas. They're among those shoppers you hear in supermarkets, replying to a cheerful greeting of "Happy Holidays" with an indignant "Merry CHRISTMAS!" I love them, but when I hear that, I cringe, for two reasons:

First, no matter how strongly someone believes in Christmas, yelling at a store clerk like a petulant child probably, I'm guessing, isn't going to help the cause.

Second, there's nothing in the Christian Bible designating late December as Christmas. In fact, it puts the date of Jesus' birth much earlier in the year and never mentions anything about observing a holiday for it. Christmas is pure tradition, stemming from a European cultural background in solstice holidays and the desire of many Christians to celebrate one of the pivotal events of our history. There's no more basis in the Bible or in logic for insisting on "Merry Christmas!" in late December than there would be for yelling "Jolly Dove Day!" every August, in celebration of the day Noah released a dove from the ark in search of dry land after the great flood.

Photo: cllctr.com

But in a broader sense, we all celebrate together. If you live in the northern quarter of the planet, this week is when the days finally stop getting shorter and start getting longer again. It's a physical reminder of something we can make real in our own lives and relationships: the theme of renewal, of new light and the hope of new life.

With that in mind, no matter where you live and what you celebrate or don't celebrate, I'd like to wish you a joyful and life-renewing solstice season.