It is the week of Thanksgiving. Snow is on the ground. Temperatures will plummet to fourteen degrees tomorrow night. I pile wood into the stove and take my place beside it to write: my brain filled with details of Thanksgiving dinner.
My hands perpetually smell like the Music garlic we grew. I take delight in pulling a new bulb down from the bundle we have tied to the beam in our kitchen and chop it into soups to keep Paul warm and full. This morning we wandered around the annual Thanksgiving Farmer’s Market: vendors in overalls laughing with customers, their tables filled with berry baskets of small brussel sprouts, neat squares of goats milk soap, golden bottles of maple syrup, steaming silver tins of dripping baklava. We fill our bag with miniature Honey Nut squash, two containers of Farmer’s cheese and handmade holiday cards. We stop and chat with a woman who also raises sheep, and purchase five chickens for our freezer for winter dinners. We feel the hand of friends on our shoulders and we turn, delighted. I stop for a moment to take in the bright colors, the happy laughter and the amazing smells: grateful for what feels familiar and brand new all at once.
The week before at Youth Orchestra rehearsal, we saw a sign in colored markers for the Swap and Play taking place in the basement of the Grange Hall. In a few minutes cars were filling the parking lot and people were unloading treasures from their trunks to swap. I set my instrument upstairs,trooped down to the basement to leave my blonde brownies at the bake sale table and was greeted with warm smiles of thanks as volunteers continued to receive. I wove my way through the arriving families. One mother had a toddler hanging on one hand and a Thomas the Tank Engine in the other. A dad carried two boxes of clothes stacked on top of each other, and various small children raced gleefully toward each other. I watched outside as an old card table became a make shift check in station for the event. People sat at the table and welcomed the young, the old, the baked goods.
Tonight we drove down Main Street and watched as a clerk put finishing touches on the Christmas trees decorating the windows of Walgreens. She stood back, eyed her work, and went back inside the warmth.The storefront was slightly fogged, blurring the string of red lights strung across the window. Between two Christmas trees was a snowman, set on a bed of what looked like white coconut, waving his mittened hand. Next door the three short windows of the American Legion were fully lit; one window red, one white, one blue. Lighted reindeer moved in jerking motion as their lights staggered on and off. I could see the silhouette of a man seated at the bar. The scene could be from any time. In Anytown, USA.
In Vermont, there is something to love about all four seasons, but this is my favorite time of year because I believe it is when we are at our best as people. In the sparkling decorations on people’s homes I see an invisible common thread of joy, and better still of hope. Ads in our local Front Porch Forum give information on fuel assistance, where someone struggling can pick up free winter clothing and who to call to plow your driveway. I see people holding doors, leaving extra money in their parking meters and buying gifts for the families of strangers.
It is when I feel most proud of living here. When we are wrapping each other up in the fabric of our community, it is us who sparkle.