Winter Is Coming

by Shannon Baker

Here it comes again.

Winter.

It’s my last one here in Nebraska. I say this with my fingers crossed. I haven’t often said “never” in my life, but when I have, it’s come back to bite me. For instance, I remember my first drive through the Nebraska Sandhills. I said, “This is awful country. I’d never live here.”

Less than three years later I moved to the Sandhills and lived there for twenty years. It might not have been the awful country I’d imagined, but it was a challenge to love.

When I escaped from there, I moved to Boulder, Colorado. An amazingly beautiful place. From there I bounced down to Flagstaff, AZ. That’s the gateway to the Grand Canyon and in the middle of mountains and a lodegpole pine forest. I said, “I’m never going to live anywhere not beautiful again.”

A little over a year ago, I ended up in southwest Nebraska. There is probably plenty to love around here but this is a temporary gig for me and I don’t feel like setting out to find the silver lining. Bad attitude, I know, but I’ve been through menopause and older women tell me you lose your capacity to accept BS with the collagen and everything else that disappears. I’m good with that.

There are lovely homes in this town, even a luxury neighborhood on a golf course. We don’t live there. We live in the ghetto, if a town of 6,000 can have a ghetto. Our house is nearly 100 years old and has as much insulation as a canvas wall tent. (Just how the hell did Indians make it through prairie winters in a teepee, anyway?) All I have to do is survive one more winter here and we’re heading south, all the way to Tucson, where silver linings abound.

I have heat. An ancient furnace that kicks on about the time I can see my breath, blasts me into the Death Valley zone, then pops off, leaving the air to hiss against the frigid walls. It’s like a family-sized hot flash and everyone can share in the fun. I peel off layers at the height of the heat wave before I can start sweating, then quickly add them back when the temperature plummets again.  

Last winter, I trudged to the library five days a week. This worked for me on multiple levels. It got me out of the house and among living people, made me stretch my legs and breath fresh air, imposed a work environment where I couldn’t leave until I completed my quota, and, the most important, the temperature remained steady. Chilly, but constant.

Back at home, my writing outfit consisted of long underwear, jeans, t-shirt, sweatshirt, fingerless gloves, down booties, and on the coldest days, my husband’s fleece pullover on top of it all. Most days I added a fleece cap, because, 80% of heat escapes through your head. (Did anyone else’s mother tell them that?)

I did a lot of cooking and baking, especially recipes on low heat that I could simmer all day. I even found a DIY heating system online that called for terra cotta flower pots and tea lights. I nearly burned the house down and have been banned from playing with matches ever since.

I’m bracing for it, clenching my teeth and pulling out the long underwear and wool socks. Here we go again. One last time. Winter is coming, and as with any George R. R. Martin work, there’s always a large and surprising death toll.

Our Midnight Inkers are scattered all over the map. The Minnesotans (Jessie Chandler and Jess Lourey) will call me a wimp. The Floridians (Deb Sharp) and Californians (Sue Ann Jaffarian) and Arizonans (Maegan Beaumont) have no clue what I’m talking about. The Coloradans (Linda Hull and Mark Stevens) will mock me since they spend winter with crisp white snow and bright sunshine. So what about the rest of you, tell us what you love and hate about winter.

    

Winter is Coming

Summer ended in my northern Colorado town not with a whimper but a bang. Nighttime temperatures dropped, and then one morning we awoke to find each blade of grass finely limned with frost and the rooftops glittering in the sunlight as if the wind had scattered broken glass in its wake. The tender plants in the vegetable garden -- zucchini, peppers, eggplant, cucumber -- withered and twisted in instant defeat. But others, planted in August, relish the cool weather. Crisp Swiss chard leaves, tiny and tender on bright, multi-colored stems give the spinach some serious competition for our plates. Spicy mustard greens combine with baby lettuce leaves, new radishes, purple carrots and scallions to create a salad reminiscent of spring. But the sound of dry, yellowing cottonwood leaves scratching together in the mildest breeze belies any notion of impending summer.

The sweaters are back in the closet, returned from their summer hiatus in the guest bedroom. Flannel sheets and down comforters warm the beds. Menus veer toward soups and chilis and the house smells of fresh baked bread. Evenings are spent in front of the fire for all nine innings as the championship teams hammer their way -- or not -- to the World Series. On the arm of the sofa, a half-completed hat in chunky red wool perches on a pair of circular knitting needles.

Green tomatoes cover the window sills. Those that don't ripen quickly will go into cake, chutney, or spicy green tomato catsup. The big freezer in the garage is packed with local produce and a quarter of grass fed Charolais beef from a rancher down the road. The pantry shelves hold neat rows of pickles -- beans, watermelon rind, cucumbers and asparagus -- and bright yellow chutney, dark raspberry jam, jalapeño pickled carrots and purple sauerkraut. On the top shelf, a few bottles from my first attempt at making wine, strong enough to make your eyes water. Bunches of herbs hang from the ceiling to dry. The weekly vegetable delivery from our winter CSA share begins at the end of the month.

There will still be plenty to do: cleaning up and putting away the yard, getting a few more bulbs in, carving pumpkins to light the front porch for the costumed trick-or-treaters to come.

But for now, my desk beckons.

I've indulged in fresh notebooks and another cluster of my favorite pens. I've purged and archived computer files, defragged and backed up. Books for research sit ready on the shelf. On my clean desk, three new writing projects await my attention. At this point it's my choice which one I go with first.

Fall has arrived, as full of promise as any spring. And winter is coming.

Winter: my favorite time for writing. The anticipation is delicious.