A Perfectly Imperfect Winter's Day: Two Perspectives

Inspired by: Beth Kempton's Winter Writing Sanctuary, 2024

Perspective #1: The Neighborhood Pond in Winter

I am certain there have been more perfect winter days (but can perfect ever be more so)? When my mind reaches for the idea of frozen perfection, I am reminded of the small neighborhood pond that turned to ice a couple of times each year. When this magic happened, we enjoyed hours of sledding, snowball fights, madly careening across ice, playing crack-the-whip, skate tag, and there was always a bonfire with hot chocolate. A few parents made their presence felt as they huddled by the fire supposedly keeping an eye on us but mostly chatting and sipping a suspicious communal eggnog we were not allowed to sample.

I wonder what made these particular winter days of my childhood so perfect? Was it the scrapes and bruises, the broken arms, hurt feelings when someone was left out of a game, a cold so fierce that snot froze on chapped lips and poor Danny had to go to the hospital to make sure his toes were not frost bitten? Maybe it was the laughter and squeals that pierced the crisp December air and hovered over the pond as tenaciously as the smoke from the comforting bonfire. Maybe it was discovering the magic of ice where a child might glide like a snow queen, fly like a frost fairy or fearlessly slice through the dark cold surface like a superhero. But I think it was mostly because Christmas was so near and going back to school seemed so far.

It was an age of innocence. The very air contained a comforting sense of community, family ties felt sustaining despite the considerable shortcomings and contradictions of grownups. The smallest of pleasures were found in sharing a delectable treat or childish secret with a friend. It felt as though the perfect and not-so-perfect had found a way to peacefully co-exist.

In retrospect, these days stood out because in those years I felt an extraordinary connection with my deepest self and to others around me. I could revel in the freshness of adventures and feel like God and nature conspired to allow me these precious escapes. Outside the hothouse of cigarette-soaked rooms where the television blared and grandpa lounged while grandma labored over her cauldrons of soup, medicines and mayhem (only sometimes mayhem - she was the best kitchen witch ever!), I could retreat to a place of play and imagination with other kids also escaping the monotony of domestic captivity.

Stories that elders pass on verbally are sometimes written and sometimes turned into film but often never recorded and so lost forever. Preserving such tales may keep a bit of their flavor, but canned jelly, no matter how good, is only a hint of the real and living fruit. Yet, these stories, like canning fresh vegetables, is a way to preserve a nourishing gift for those around us and those that will come long after we’re gone. and preserve we must

Our memories are important to the thread we all share, they speak of our humanity and even of our inhumanity; the perfect and not-so-perfect that lives within and around us.

Perfection is not always perfect…remember the frozen snot and broken arms? Whether it is perfect melancholy, deep despair, incomparable wonder or joy, it is important to preserve the memories and experiences that allow escape from the known and predictable, into the raw pleasure of the perfect and imperfect.

Now that I am old, I still believe God and nature are in cahoots to create moments of perfection and I feel a debt of gratitude for having been allowed to experience this magic. But I also see more clearly than when I fearlessly glided across frozen ponds, it is in theater, film, books, music, and art that the precious memories of our culture are “canned” and preserved. We are the stuff stars are made of (thank you dear Carl) and at any moment by opening a book or watching a film, we partake of a magic old as humanity and enter a place where all things, perfect and not-so-perfect abide together.

Perspective #2: The Snow Globe in Winter

Elizabeth looked out her small kitchen window as distant images of children skating looked like tiny figurines gliding about in her own personal snow globe. Somewhere on the ice was Tate, her granddaughter, more like her than anyone else in the family. So, like her in fact, the child was a source of constant worry and upset.

Elizabeth would not join the other adults at the pond to watch over the children for if she did, she would be expected to socialize which she was loathe to do and worse yet, be tempted to partake of that disgusting nogg they all liked to guzzle. She would have to watch and worry as Tate flew by on skates too large weaving chaotic and dangerous paths around other children. Did she borrow her mother’s old pair again? The child skated like the devil himself was chasing her and who knew, perhaps he was.

Certainly, Old Nick had caught up with Elizabeth many years ago. Better to sit in the silence of her kitchen and pretend it's only a small snow globe filled with make-believe children having make-believe adventures that could never cripple or kill them. Memories too painful to entertain and stories that must never be told threaten to interrupt her uneasy winter vigil.

Elizabeth sips her own special and far more appealing nogg, Napolean brandy - warm, potent, comforting.

Soon she will need to send someone to the store for some more and by then, she doesn’t want the worry of whether Tate has broken her leg, given some kid a bloody nose, or fallen through the ice…they said the ice was safely frozen, but who really knows about these things.

Some time passes, and both her glass and the brandy bottle are empty. The snow globe shines with an inner light of its own and the little figurines dart across the ice as large lazy flakes drift down and settle. She is thankful for the little snow orb for it contains a beauty so compelling, tears fill her eyes.  

But Elizabeth worries. Mostly about Tate but also about the emptiness of her glass which aches to be filled. Why is Tate taking so long to come home...and where could that child have gotten off to anyway?