As the oldest of four kids,
growing up in the mid-fifties,
no pa and a sick ma,
was not something I ever thought I would sit
here writing about sixty-plus years later.
But upon reflection, those times were the most important,
growing up years that I have come to cherish!
Some may read this and say to themselves,
"Well, that doesn't sound so bad; others might say, "Um-hum."
and then others will not even finish reading this murky
puddle of thoughts and that is as just fine as silk threads.
What I am recalling jarred me awake,
in the wee hours of that morn,
like a 7.4 earthquake,
remembering seeing that hoarfrost on that
-12 degree, moon-lit, pre-dawn day.
Now, anyone with the slightest bit of rational thinking will read
the word frost and know I am writing about a time and place
where it is downright cold.
I know to some folks' cold is a relative word. So, let me explain.
The chill of that morn was such that snow, when trod upon,
would squeak underfoot. Hairs in your nostrils would form tiny icicle-like tendrils
when your breaths expelled from your lungs would freeze with every inhalation and exhalation ...
We slept in a bedroom with two rickety-rackety bunk beds.
A clothesline stretched from wall to wall,
on which hung a heavy, hand-tied, quilted bedspread.
Thus, splitting the space for my brother and me
and the two sisters in the opposite bunks.
Smack dab in the middle of the room was a double pane window
with more peeled paint worn away from its decades-old window frame
like the bark stripped from the trunk of a paper birch tree.
I woke that morn with a terrible quiver in my bones, shivering mightily!
Immediately I was aware that there was not a lick of heat in the room!
I gazed out the window to get a sense of the time of day,
I saw hoarfrost stretched on the inside of the window,
plumb across the lower single-pane of glass.
Corner to corner that hoarfrost crept.
Forming a thick quartz-like, shimmering glow,
backlit by the moon's brightness.
I might have thought the sparkles were beautiful,
had I not felt so dang cold.
With a sudden feeling of dread, I realized that
water pipes might have frozen and burst,
gushing water in places that would be impossible
to contain in our humble abode.
Quick as Lark, I tossed on another set of wool socks,
another layer of pants and a heavy sweater and boots.
Just outside the bedroom door was the dining room.
Standing in the corner was that Siegler oil stove;
stone-cold. It was almost gasping out the
words, "feed me, feed me, I need fuel."
With every stiff step I took toward the kitchen,
I listened keenly for the sound of running water.
Hearing none, I gently turned the faucet onto the hot water
and gladly the water came forth,
spewing out ever so slowly warming water.
I turned away from the sink toward the electric stove,
twisting the knobs toward high on all the burners,
opened the squeaky oven door.
Turning the oven knob on full bore.
Feeling the faintest amount of heat
fighting its way above the suppressing cold,
I rushed into the bedroom, shaking the kids
out of their depths of sleep and had them grab
bed covers. Herding them like little lambs
into a warming kitchen space.
So, back to why I cherish memories, such as this?
Because from this experience
indelibly in my mind, body, and soul
I learned the meaning of gratitude.
Gratitude that the pipes had not yet burst.
Gratitude for the electricity working.
Gratitude having an electric range and oven radiating
life-saving heat.
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