#60: EARLY MORNING WINTER

The quiet time

EARLY MORNING WINTER

The sun has yet to come up and the color of the sky is still the dark of night without the slightest hint of the new day to come. I can’t sleep, so pull back my covers, sit up, swing my legs over to the side of the bed and slide my feet into my old wool felted slippers. GP senses the movement and comes over for a few pets and pats as is our custom each morning. I hear the click of her nails on the wooden floor as she follows me out to the kitchen. It’s a small blessing when I wake to find the living room still warm from the wood-stove fire banked the night before, but yesterday wasn’t cold enough for a fire, or maybe it felt that way because of all the multiple winter layers I wear—thermal tee, flannel shirt, fleece, leggings, chunky wool socks. The thermometer shows 35F outside so I get to work setting one.

The heat from wood is luxurious and even after forty-plus years of making sure there is a good supply of dry, split, and stacked cord wood for the cold wet winter in the Pacific Northwest, I have yet to tire of striking a match and seeing the paper and kindling I have laid catch its flame. I leave the stove door slightly ajar and, when I see a good draw up the tall black metal chimney pipe, shut it securely and head to the kitchen.

For decades my morning starts with coffee but recently I gave up caffeine—a story for another time—and reacquaint myself with hot water with lemon and honey or tea. While waiting for the water to boil, I choose a mug. Today’s has an impression of Hestia the goddess of the hearth on it. The heat of the filled mug warms my hands as I carry it to the couch blowing on the steaming liquid before taking a first sip. I watch the orange flames engulf the logs and sip from my mug holding it between my palms like a prayer. I coax GP to join me on the couch and she humors me for a minute or two before returning to the bedroom and her own comfy bed. Dark early mornings are not on her schedule. After about thirty minutes, the coals glow red and it’s time to load more wood on top of them. GP joins me again, this time choosing to cuddle up on my dad’s old overstuffed dark green chair—one of the few pieces I have from those early years of my life.

The flames are blazing now and I hear GP sigh. I walk over to the east-facing window and see lingering stars of the night sky and a low lying cloud that is not quite gray but more of a light black. The reflection of wood-stove flames dance in the window that looks out to the Olympic Mountains to the south of me. The sky picks up its pace now and there is a layer of midnight blue with just the slightest red below—the first striations of the dawn. Minutes later I count eight layers of dark and light grays, emerging blues, and reddish glow highlighting the Cascade Mountains to the east.

Early Morning Cloudscape (Photo Credit: ooyoo)

Opening the door to let GP out, cold air streams inside and I quickly close it. To the north, the waters of the Strait of Juan de Fuca are turning dark blue and the turret of the Victorian house across the street is silhouetted amidst tall cedar, fir, and maple trees…a view I have loved seeing for over 20 years.

I fill a big pitcher with water and a blue enameled bucket with laying mix for the girls, slip a barn coat over my flannel nightgown, trade my slippers for garden boots, place a wool cap on my head, and head to the hen house to let the girls out. Walking carefully so as not to slip on the icy deck, I follow GP as she leads the way. When I open the hen-house door, my little flock spills out like happy toddlers. Clucking and chatting, they gather around the feeder for breakfast. Inside the hen-house I find one still warm egg in a laying box and gather it up. It will be my breakfast. Retracing my steps on the path back to the house, I see the sky colors reflected on the snow pack on Hurricane Ridge.

Boots and paws are back inside a warm cottage and it’s time for GP’s breakfast. She waits patiently, wagging her tail as I fill her bowl and give her the sign that breakfast is served. The sky now glows pink, magenta, red, and gold. Two seagulls fly overhead to the southwest mewing loudly, and in the waters to the east I see the reflection of the sun as it begins to rise above the horizon. As if on cue, the bell of the clock-tower in the center of town strikes, and the day begins.

MUSIC FOR A WINTER MORNING

WHAT I’M READING

• The Cellist of Sarajevo by Steven Galloway

• My Kitchen Year: 136 Recipes That Saved My LIfe by Ruth Reichl

• The Nightingale by Kristen Hannah

OTHER STACKS YOU MAY ENJOY

• As We Eat by Leigh Olson and Kim Baker

• Finding Home by Jan Peppler

• Kate Hill’s Gascon Journal by Kate Hill