July 4th in February.
I’m writing the last scene. While this unending snow globe of a world unfolds outside my kitchen porch window, I write of July 4th and freshly picked blueberries, and the sun setting through stained glass windows. I write of henna on skin, and cosmos and cone flowers. In chapter 40, there is joy. Now, here, there is the tough Yankee endurance that makes us Vermonters stay instead of untethering ourselves and floating off to Florida.
Could I last in a cottage tucked well away into the woods, without a car outside my doorstep, and surrounded by snow? I suppose I could, though I’m not sure I’d stay sane. But I like the idea of the quiet life, and a soft cat at my feet. And I’ve certainly done my share of bushwhacking in winter, especially during sugaring season, when the buckets were full of sap and the snow was three feet deep.
That’s when I discovered tea. Once when I was in middle school, drenched to the bone from gathering one Saturday afternoon, I made my first milky cup of the stuff. It warmed me immediately, and I have never looked back. Now I drink it black and strong, PG Tips. I think they call it builder’s tea in Britain.
Of course Lucy drinks tea, shamelessly. Iced tea, hot tea, but always strong, always in the morning, afternoon, and anytime there’s trouble. Kind of like me.
Back to writing joy. On this winter day, In Vermont.