I sit watching the snow fall from the sky in thick, ponderous plops to the ground. White rain. I can see Paul dragging chunks of wood that he had cut from the tree that had toppled into our driveway during the night.
I finish plugging in the two crockpots of chili on the wood bar, fill the borrowed steel commercial percolator with coffee grounds, plug it in and listen as it begins to wheeze and pop. I place three loaves of farmhouse bread that I’d baked earlier in the morning on the large wooden cutting board. Muir walks over, lifting his nose to the air.
Paul has spent much of the morning cleaning out our garage, burning boxes and sweeping. I walk out, gingerly stepping through the wet muck in the walkway and check out his work. Our garage never stores a car. In the center is the large table saw, its backside covered in sawdust: on the side wall is the smaller band saw. The back wall is largely window overlooking woods and sheep pasture. Against it sits a workbench covered in bags of egg cartons and dog washing buckets. The dangling red heat lamp swings above it. When it is spring we put a large cello box on the top of the bench and brood chicks. Today the garage is hosting our holiday party and it is as clean as it ever gets. I take a mental photo of it because I know how temporary this state actually is.
Paul stands on the table saw and strings colored lights above the folding table I’ve set up for our cookie exchange. I pull out an old wreath that belonged to my parents when they owned a shoe store, fling it over a hose hook and plug it in with fingers crossed. It immediately comes to life and I take a minute to smooth out its gold bow.
I pull a tablecloth over the long table and place my basket of cookies as an example for others. We stand in the large doorway and survey our work. Satisfied we drag our Chiminea out into the rain/snow. Paul places a triangle of kindling inside and in a few minutes there is a fire in its round belly and smoke billowing from its chimney. We unfold chairs around it: this will be an in-and-out-of-door party.
We take a moment to sit and enjoy the warmth of the fire. Soon we hear voices: Jason and his daughter Morgan appear from down the road, cookies on plate and container in hand to take some home. Cars turn around in the base of the driveway and park. I watch kids run down the dirty road in their heavy snow boots, their vinyl snow pants swishing. They toss muddy snowballs at each other, happy to be somewhere other than home and delighted to be greeted by our three dogs, who act as hosts to everyone.
Jeanne arrives with her folding black chair and cookies from an old family recipe that she unearthed for this occasion. I take her inside to warm up. While the temperature is not frigid for this time of year, it is damp and the kind of cold that goes to your bones. We take a seat in the living room near the fire, leaving Paul to host the outside contingency. I offer Jeanne a paper bowl of chili and some of our mulled cider. As we talk others join us, drawn inside by the smell of peppers and tomatoes, the bubbling of coffee, the lights on our Christmas tree and the promise of conversation. Jeanne lives a life in Pennsylvania but grew up summering in Vermont on our road. She and her husband had an opportunity to purchase a house at the end of the street and they grabbed it. Until they retire, she makes forays to Vermont and becomes part of our neighborhood. She tells tales of Les Buck who lived in a cabin up in woods we now own. He had an enormous garden from which he sold vegetables to neighbors, collecting fifty cents a bagful, the low price explained by the fact that he had everything he needed except papers to roll cigarettes and maybe a taste of whiskey now and then. He and his cabin have vanished into the new growth but sitting here near the fire, he lives on.
Donna is in the hospital this year so Pete arrives, in his orange hunting hat, with just Cooper. He fills a bowl with chili then returns to the outdoor fire to talk with neighbors. He and Vince talk with Josh about hunting season this year. Cooper sits on his feet ignoring Muir’s attempts at play.
As the light fades I look out the window and take a moment to enjoy the people in silhouette. The shooting star that Paul carefully hung lights up the surrounding snow. Amanda arrives late, one daughter had a basketball game. She finds the rest of her brood kneeling on chairs around our dining room table making reindeer headbands. She listens with one ear as her youngest stands on the rug complaining about his soaking wet jacket.
The party begins to wind down and before leaving everyone takes their Tupperware, tin pie plates or freezer bags and gather around the long folded table that is wedged next to the table saw. Kids point and parents fill their containers with holiday cookies to bring home with them.
After everyone leaves Paul and I begin sorting through trash for what can be burned. The dogs hop, hopeful for dropped cookies. There is contentment after festivities.
Later I head out to tuck animals in. It is a clear night and I pause to search for the big dipper, one of the few constellations I can identify regularly. As it is going to be cold, I take a scoop of cracked corn in for the sheep. They surround me as I come in.
Afterward I look in on the two chicken coops, being sure nobody has wandered into the wrong house. I make sure they have clean water and that the doors are bolted shut.
I find four brown eggs in the same nest, cold, and in the back coop I see one small blue egg, like a jewel, a grand total of five eggs. With almost twenty five chickens, this is low percentage but they are in molt, looking like they had been plucked of their feathers, their necks scrawny, muscles and chords visible. Each morning the nests are filled with, not eggs, but feathers.
Books tell of leaving lights on a timer to create artificial daylight, stimulating the hens to continue to lay and not go through their molting process. We choose not to do that. There is a natural rhythm to life; the summer months find them fat, fluffy and happy to donate eggs but as the light fades, the hen’s instinct is to rest, using the cold as a time to be quiet and conserve.
I shut the wooden gate, pause, watching smoke curl out of the stone chimney and drift upward toward the big dipper.