And this is a good winter. Some rain. But there have been frosts, mostly, and clear skies, and I had my old, familiar dream of ice in the waves last night. Our house is warm. I was worried, at first, that it might not be, for its windows are huge, and the floors are more wooden than not. But we have lived through several winters in it, before this one, and we know how it is there, now-where the warmest places are. The landing; the attic room, where he paints; the kitchen, of course. It matters-for if I'm to walk about in the cold, by a wintry sea, I want to return to a house of heat, and kettles, and radio songs. And a bath to run. It's all part of it. Don't we all have our secret things?
* I love to take down a box of old pictures and spend an hour laughing, remembering. *
* I love to go to my Mom's house, light a candle, dim the lights, and soak in her huge tub with a great book in my hands. *
* I love to come home to a crackling fire and a pot of stew at the ready. *
* I love to wedge my chilled feet between Jeffrey's warm legs. *
* I love to sit at the table and write a letter while the radio plays sentimental, old songs. *
* I love to reread old favorite books. It's just like checking in with an old friend. *
* I love to wash a big pile of dishes while I listen to Winter Solstice on my iPod. *
What are your secret things? The quiet pleasures of this winter season?
Excerpt from the most amazing book, Oystercatchers by Susan Fletcher.