Yule writings

[carmenbeaudry]

I've gotten into the habit of writing an essay or story during the Longest Night of the Winter Solstice. Upon reading a few of them, I've decided to post them here.

So, here's the first. 
 

.I carry a postcard around with me.  No, not a real, touch-it-with-your-fingers-look-with-your-eyes postcard, but a visual memory, from a Christmas long ago.
        It was so long ago, I have trouble remembering if I was 7 or 8 or 9; my sister was old enough to talk (barely!) so I must have been around 8.  My father was in the Air Force, so we were used to Christmas with just the four of us, instead of the multitudes of grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and all the rest of two extended families.  We had the endless wait up until Christmas Eve, the begged-for-and-finally-granted boon of “just one present” opened after the laboriously rehearsed “play” written by myself, and performed by my sister and I, and, with our gift appetites thus whetted, we went to sleep. 
        I do not remember which of us awoke first; I know it was way before the parentally mandated time of 6 am, so my sister and I waited, and watched the clock until we could stand it no longer, and pounced upon my sleeping parents.  There was some grumbling about the time, but it was finally agreed to be “close enough”, and down the hall we raced.
        Did we stop astonished at the wealth of gifts left by Santa Claus?  Did we dive under the tree in an orgy of paper and ribbon shredding? Did we get riches untold in the way of toys, candy and of course, useful gifts? I cannot tell you,  for, as important as this undoubtedly was to the child I was then, this is not what stayed in my memory.  I remember, after the gifts were opened, being asked if I minded leaving for our camping trip today, Christmas, instead of later in the week, as planned.  With everyone in agreement, my mother put the finishing touches on Christmas dinner, and packed it in the car, along with our camping gear.
        San Jose, California is fairly warm, even in the dead of winter, but we intended to go into the mountains, so my parents had rented a small trailer for us to camp in, instead of our normal tent.  We were cautioned to dress warmly, and to take only one book, and one toy, from our Christmas haul.  After many forgotten items, and false starts, we were packed into the car, and away we went.
         We drove for hours, first on freeways, then two-lane highways, then mountain roads with snow-covered trees on either side.  I lost track of how long we had been traveling, the trip punctuated only by meals of turkey, stuffing and sweet potatoes, portioned out by my mother and eaten as we drove.  The road got narrower and more winding, the day grew darker, the trees taller and the snow deeper, and finally I joined my sister in sleep.
         When the car stopped, it woke us both.  I rubbed my eyes, and settled my glasses back in place, sat up and looked around.  There was a landscape out of a Christmas card, the clearing in the woods, the old hunting lodge, covered with snow and  lit with colored lights and candles in the windows. The door opened and a cheery figure welcomed us in with mugs of hot cocoa and towels for our feet.  I was later to find that this was the Lewiston lodge, the main building of the hamlet of Lewiston, deep in the Sierra mountains.
        We were shown to our rooms on the second floor of the lodge, old-fashioned high ceilinged rooms with iron-framed beds.  My sister and I were to stay in one, with our parents right next door, and the bathroom down the hall, but she clung to Mother and Daddy, and so slept between them, while I stayed alone next door.  After all the commotion of getting settled, and into our nightgowns, the lights were finally turned off, and my door closed on the outer world.  And that is when my postcard was taken.
        The room was oddly light, even after the lights were turned off, and I wondered at the light, and at what was outside my window to produce it.  I rose from my bed, and stood by the tall, old-fashioned sash window, feeling the draft from around the glass and looked out.
        In back of the lodge was a Grandfather oak tree.  It must have been at least 200 hundred years old, gnarled and bent branches lined with snow.  Caught in its branches was the full moon, turning the snow and ice to silver and diamonds, and the world to magic. 
        I stayed up most of that night, watching the moon rise and finally set, watching Jack Frost paint the window my nose pressed against.  The next day we traveled farther into the mountains, and camped and had many adventures, but that snow-covered tree, in back of a mountain lodge, had become a permanent part of not only my Christmas memories, but of my whole being.
         Whenever I think of peace, of stillness, of winter, I see my postcard, as clear as if I still stood by that window, on that long-ago Christmas night.

 

 

 

Comments

[javagoth.livejournal.com]

What a beautiful first post card!

[krazyfiberkat.livejournal.com]

Thank you for sharing your postcard.