Well, a cold wet fall has turned into a cold, early winter here in Vermont. Never quite ready for it, but all is well. There is beauty in watching it snow, and watching the many birds at my feeders. It’s different than twilight in the summer when all the camp windows are open to the sounds of the waves, but the feeling of peace when one’s mind is quiet is the same.
I cooked my Thanksgiving dinner a few weeks ago when my youngest daughter was home for a visit from NYC. Add the early snowfall to that, and I am a bit displaced in time, feeling as though I should be turning on Christmas lights as the sky darkens, but it’s still too early. Today I baked two pumpkin pies to bring to our family gathering at my oldest daughter’s home tomorrow. She lives in the house my mother grew up in, and tomorrow it will be filled with the still new-to-the-family relatives of her boyfriend. It’s hard, knowing that not a single one of the people who sat around the farmhouse table when I was a child are here any longer. One of the drawbacks of being an only child and having no cousins on my mother’s side, either. I am responsible for a lot of memories. Maybe that’s why I’m a writer. I don’t know.
Anyway, I am thankful I am still here, at least, and loved, and have ones to love, including the furry one curled at my feet. And I’m thankful for the people who read my books.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.