Now is the winter of our discontent and the beginning of our discontent with winter.
Winter has come early this year. The past two weeks have been more reminiscent of January than a stretch of early December. People are more bundled up than normal. You can tell the natives by how they layer. Not from experience, from necessity. Down here, not everyone has winter coats and clothes.
The myrtles are bare, the maples will soon follow. The coleus are wilted to the ground despite being bundled up at night. The ferns and periwinkles look peaked. The ixora and ficus that took the freeze so hard last year might not survive.
The cats have taken to curling up inside my sweatshirt, with me already in it. The north wind cuts. The chill, when it finds you, settles deep inside and can't be shaken. People have begun cursing bitterly as they complain about the cold. They are grouchy and grinchy fearing the plunge in temperatures that January might bring.
But it doesn't have to be that way. Today is the winter solstice, a time of magic if you're willing to believe.
Thirty-six years ago, I believed in winter magic. I was ten. My sister was twelve. Old enough that we didn't believe in Santa Claus anymore, but young enough that we still wanted to believe in something. We needed to in a way.
Four months earlier, my parents had divorced. Looking back and having talked to them, that was the right decision. Ours was not a happy family. Still isn't in many ways.
That year, my grandparents, my mother's parents, wanted us to fly us up north for Christmas. Both my parents are transplants to Florida, both originally from near Boston. My sister and I were excited. We each had an ideal picture of Christmas in New England in our minds. When we asked if there would be snow, my mother said, "I hope not." My grandmother and aunt both said it wasn't very likely. My grandfather, on the other hand, said he'd see what he could do. We took that as a promise.
I'm not sure why the thought of snow excited us so much. Neither of us ever had ever seen it, at least that we remembered. We had lived in Florida since I was 2 and she was 3. Both of our parents hated winter. To this day, if the temperature drops below 70, my mother breaks out the sweaters and starts complaining about the cold.
When we arrived in Weymouth a few days before Christmas, the weather was warm, at least for New England in December. All my sister and I could talk about was the possibility of snow. All the adults, except my grandfather, told us that seemed increasingly unlikely. There was no snow in the forecast. Maine might see a dusting, perhaps northern New Hampshire and Vermont. Massachusetts was definitely out of the question. We were kids so we didn't pay any attention to what anyone else said or thought. We just wanted snow.
My grandfather, however, did pay attention. To backtrack a little, I remember him as a serious man, a stern and orderly New Englander reminiscent of a Dickensian character who spent his days hunched over his desk, reading reports and working columns of numbers. I remember I was somewhat intimidated by him at the time. Raucous children, as I know we were, were a distraction he didn't really need. It's not that he didn't love us. He did. He was just set in a routine that children no longer had a place in.
So it came as a surprise that unlike every other adult we asked about the snow, he continued to answer, "We'll see." He always said it with a sprarkle in his eye like he knew a secret no one else did. My mother rolled her eyes and admonished him not to get our hopes up. My grandmother tried to prepare us gently for disappointment. My grandfather paid no attention to either of them. Not that he often did.
Soon after we arrived, he took us out to the fence in the backyard. It was all very hush, hush, and don't tell your mother. He said there was someone we needed to talk to. My grandparents' house backed up to the fields of an elementary school, though you couldn't really see the building through the bordering of trees. There was a man there waiting for us there, a nondescript New Englander in heavy flannel that struck us as light to ward off the cold. My grandfather explained that we were his grandchildren up from Florida for our first Christmas in Massachusetts, and that we really wanted to see snow. The man eyed us both appraisingly, nodded tersely as though making a decision, then said he would talk to some people. Definitely, we would see snow. Just you wait and see.
As we headed back toward the house, my grandfather explained that the man had connections, but he never said what they were. We didn't care as long as there was snow in the offing before we went back home so we could brag about it to our friends.
The eve of Christmas Eve, our fortunes began to change. The forecasters said the front that was supposed to hit northern New England had drifted slightly south. Weymouth might see flurries of wet snow on the day of Christmas Eve, maybe up to half an inch, but it wouldn't last the night.
Sure enough, the next day, an inch of ugly, sticky snow fell and barely stuck to the ground. The temperature was just below freezing, so it wasn't going to last. It didn't even stick to the walks and street, only the grass, not so much a blanket as a sodden towel.
My sister and I were undeterred. After donning our sweaters and coats and scarves and mittens as our mother insisted, we went out and played in the slushy mess as long as we were allowed. We tried to make a snowman, but he turned out to be hunched and pathetic because the snow wouldn't stick together. Even the snowballs we tried to throw at one another didn't quite hold up. Still, we were content. We'd seen our first snow, even if it wasn't exactly like what we'd seen on cards and Christmas specials. It lasted only a few hours. That was all everyone said we'd get.
The next morning, we were awake early for Christmas. We ate breakfast in the kitchen and were just settling around the tree when my grandfather looked out the window and smiled at us. "It's snowing." My mother and grandmother thought he was teasing us. We all peered out. Sure enough, white fluffy snowflakes were falling. Not the mushy, gray, translucent stuff from yesterday, full on New England snow, first tentatively then steadily and finally heavily where it started accumulating on the ground. A thick, white blanket was being laid down.
My sister and I were ready to abandon the tree without opening a single present. The adults convinced us the snow wasn't going anywhere this time. Soon the entire yard and all the walks were covered. Once we finished with Christmas morning, my sister and I went out to play. We made a real snowman, threw real snowballs and romped through the 4-6 inches of drifting snow. Later, I got to go sledding for the first time, which involved cousins, a flying saucer, a steep hill, rocks and a graveyard. What could be more fun?
For many years, I thought my grandfather could tap into magical powers. If not himself, he knew someone who could. Talking to him many years later, he told me that he wasn't at all certain it was going to snow that year. He knew there was a chance and just wanted us to be happy. Today, my sister would probably say that snow was a miracle. I attribute it to love, luck and a little magic, the kind that always exists deep inside. If you believe.
And the man he had us talk to, the one with the weather-changing connections? The custodian from the school.
Sometimes, it's the smallest kindness that sticks with you for a lifetime, even it's just a stranger playing along with children's dreams, even if he is only helping them believe.
This year, may you find a little winter magic of your own. And, as always, may your solstice be warm and bright.
Because now is the winter of our discontent and the beginning of our discontent with winter. But, remember, it doesn't have to be that way.
© 2010 Edward P. Morgan III
