Walking Through the Dark

As we approached the darkest – or at least the longest – evening of the year last month, the kids and I took to venturing out for post-dinner walks. Partly this is because with so much dark and so little daylight, it can be a challenge to fit exercise into the daylight hours. And partly it’s because there are only so many Netflix shows we can watch and games of cribbage we can play during these long nights. Sometimes we need another diversion. Or a fresh air fix. Winter evening walks are a way to have both.

Like lots of people around here, we live on a dirt road where the traffic is sparse, especially during dark winter nights. The only streetlight is at the far end of the road, and we tend to wander in other directions during our evening forays. I often strap a headlamp around my hat as we venture into the darkness, but my preference is to allow our eyes to adjust, to see our way bit by bit, sometimes with a twinkling of starlight or moonglow to guide us. 

Last year, these walks generally included only me and the dog. This winter, though, the kids have been wound up and ready to ramble with me after we’ve eaten dinner and done the dishes. Having their company is not always relaxing – they can be loud, and sometimes they run ahead to hide, then spook the rest of us by jumping out from behind some shadowy tree – but as the mother of teenagers, I figure I should take all the screen-free together time I can get these days. Plus, I’d rather have them running around outside than bouncing off the walls inside.

 

I remember watching people stroll along Lake Garda one summer, during college, when I spent a few weeks backpacking around Europe. Older couples walked arm-in-arm, kids scampered about, and nobody seemed to be going anywhere in particular. They weren’t in a hurry, or pumping their arms to burn extra calories from eating all that delectable gelato – just meandering along a lake in a resort town of mountain views and sidewalk cafes. 

 

Probably most of these evening strollers were tourists, like I was. And maybe this was not their normal, non-holiday routine. But I found the idea of an after-dinner walk charming – and memorable enough that the mental image has stuck with me for more than a couple of decades and countless life changes since those two nights spent at a hostel by the lake. 

 

My winter evening rambles through the neighborhood with my kids are vastly different from those Riva del Garda strolls through the bright evening light of an Italian summer when I was 21. Somehow, though, the one evokes a recollection of the other. 

 

Then, I was sipping wine with friends and basking in warmth of the season and our youth, suntanned and carefree and thrilled to be spending a couple of days in this foreign land. Now, I walk with offspring who have surpassed me in height, our feet crunching across a frozen, white landscape. Our breath curls as wispy clouds into the darkness. The snow-laced branches of balsam firs and hemlock trees stand as silent, magical sentinels along the quiet road.

 

Sometimes we step off the road and into the woods, where our tracks crisscross those of snowshoe hare, deer, foxes, and other forest dwellers. The dog revels in the scents floating in the night air and throws herself happily down to roll in the snow. The mountains of home rise along the horizon, their familiar craggy shapes barely discernible through the dark, the bright lights of snowcats prowling along ski trails. 

 

We come home rosy-cheeked and stomping snow from our boots onto the floor, where it will melt into small, cold puddles. These winter nights are long, yes. But our walks bring us, bit by bit, through the darkness.  

Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay appears as Meghan's January 6, 2022 Close to Home column in the Littleton Record. 

Snowscape

The landscape near home transformed last week, from dull and dreary late-November blah to the soft snow and sparkle that inspire those of us who love winter to welcome it back each year.  

On the afternoon before Thanksgiving, the dog and I had walked through the woods, crunching across a thick layer of fallen leaves and watching the final rays of a quickly-sinking sun sift through the bare, gray limbs of trees. Two days later, those leaves and limbs were covered by a few inches of snow. 

Snow changes everything. It softens the hard, homely edges of late fall. Covers the blemishes of the brown fields and color-depleted forest floor. Drapes the evergreens in lacy white and sets the mountains to morning brilliance and evening alpenglow. 

 

Snow – for me, at least – also provides a seasonal attitude adjustment. There is a stretch of time in late autumn (call it Stick Season – or simply November) where my instinct is to turn inward, hunker down, stay inside for all those growing hours of darkness. An outdoors lover by nature and nurture, during this time I often have to force myself to get out of the house and into the outside for that fresh air fix. I find myself wondering how I can possibly love the coming winter season – and if I really do, or it’s just what I’ve always known. 

 

Then it snows, and all is right in my world. 

 

Despite my touchy relationship with November, this year’s lingering warmth and smattering of sweet sunshine softened the drabness. I’ve often thought I’d adjust more easily to this seasonal shift if we went from 50-degree days straight into winter, and that’s sort of what last week’s snow transformation felt like. In a day, we shifted from Thanksgiving to the Christmas season, from autumn to winter, from blah to brilliant. 

 

The first snow also fell on a rare weekend when my family had very little on the calendar. We were free to simply revel in the newness of this season without rushing to the ski slopes or driving to soccer practice. Homework was done. No one had to go to work. 

 

We walked through the woods and had our first (short) ski through the field. We laughed at the dog’s joyful snow-rolling antics. Even after dinner, we returned outside. A few evenings earlier, the dark had seemed all encompassing. Now, a soft glow reflected from the snow, providing just enough light for us to make our way along the quite roads. The stars, I think, shine more brightly when there is snow sparkle below.

 

I know it’s easy to love winter when it’s sparkly and new. I know that in the coming months there will likely be rain that ruins the snow and my mood, bitter winds that make me want to stay inside by the fire, and nights long and dark enough for me to yearn for spring’s return. But it snowed last week. And, for now, that’s enough. 

Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay appears as Meghan's December 2, 2021 Close to Home column in the Littleton Record. 

Hello, Spring

As anyone who reads this column even occasionally knows, I love winter. When others are lamenting the arrival of cold and snow in December – and its continuation after the winter holidays and beyond – I am hoping for more snow and enough cold to sustain good skiing.

After the stretch of warm, sunny days we had last week and into this one, though, it’s hard not to look forward to spring.

Last weekend featured two blue-bird days on the mountain. Sunday afternoon, after exploring some of Cannon’s finer spots for skiing and sightseeing with the group of 6- and 7-year-olds I help coach, I met up with my own kids and enjoyed the rare occasion of skiing with all three of them. (Yes, they now have to wait for Mom at the bottom most runs.) It was so warm that I stripped down to a t-shirt and vest. We eschewed the most crowded places on the mountain for long, sunny chairlift rides and laps of turning through perfectly soft, not-quite-slushy snow.

Once home, the kids swapped ski duds for shorts. There was front porch sitting and passing of the football, as well as their recent favorite driveway game – while they wait for the yard to melt out – wall ball off the last big snowbank in the shady (and muddy) corner of the driveway. We checked out the spiky shoots of the crocuses poking through the barely thawed dirt of the window garden, and we’re keeping an eye on the front garden, where we planted bulbs between the perennials last fall.

Even the dog, who embraces just about any kind of weather, has seemed happier than usual outside. She’s taken to lying in her favorite warm weather spots again and looks at us mournfully when we suggest it’s time to come in. If there’s sun to lie in, mud to get messy in, and a few remnant patches of snow for blissful rolling, she is a happy girl.

We weren’t, of course, the only ones soaking in the early spring goodness. Baselodge restrictions this year have brought the ski area tailgating game to a whole new level, and every parking lot at the mountain boasted mini grills, chairs and tables set up next to truck beds, and folks enjoying a variety of beverages. On the short drive home, we saw three bicyclists pedaling away, seemingly oblivious to the months-long pileup of road salt and sand along the road edges. People were out doing yard work or playing in the park or gathering with neighbors in driveways.

I’ve been around long enough to know that a couple of nice weeks in March does not mean spring is really here. I’m certain it will snow again before we get through April – probably the day after the snow tires come off my car. In the meantime, I’ll take all the t-shirt-skiing, front-porch-sitting, early-blooming-flowers, and gathering-together-in-the-sun days that come my way.

Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay appears as Meghan's March 25, 2021 Close to Home column in the Littleton Record. 

Winter Worth the Wait

Winter was late in coming this year. The week after Christmas (when it rained), I was still walking through the snowless woods in low boots, and we were only skiing thanks to the wonder of manmade snow. We haven’t really had a big storm yet this season, but the woods – behind our house and on the mountain – have slowly filled with snow. Many days over the past two weeks, I’ve looked up from my desk to see it snowing on the other side of the window – sometimes big, fluffy flakes swirling casually toward the ground, sometimes a fast-falling wall of white.

To someone who loves skiing, all those snowflakes are really distracting.

Skiing on weekends is a given in our house. But twice in the past week or so, I’ve loaded skis into the car on weekday afternoons and chucked the kids’ boot bags in on top of the skis. One of these outings was pre-planned and involved springing the youngest from school a little early. (I’ve called family powder days on occasion in the past, and since we live in a place where lots of people – including the principals at both schools – are skiers, I just straight up tell them we’re going skiing. Or I say we’re working on “outdoor education,” but they know what that means. And we’ve never been scolded.)

Tuesday, every time I glanced up from the keyboard, it was snowing. I had planned to just take the dog for a ski through the woods between meetings and other work tasks, but when I went out to run an errand mid-day, I brushed a couple of inches of fluff off the car, and then it snowed a good bit more. My two 8^th graders were at the mountain that afternoon for ski team practice. A friend sent a photo of a glade filled with fluffy, untracked powder. My distraction level was high.

So, I did what any ski-loving girl with a little scheduling flexibility would do. I donned my ski bibs, tossed my skis and my daughter’s into the minivan, and we headed up Three Mile Hill to the Mittersill Double straight from school pickup. There was hardly anyone on the hill, and we found plenty of untracked snow, even late in the afternoon. It was a sweet hour and a half on the slopes. Just the right number of runs to adjust my attitude, the break I needed to focus back on the work left to do at home.

Winter was late in coming this year, but it was worth the wait. 

Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay appears as Meghan's February 11, 2021 Close to Home column in the Littleton Record. 

The Chickadees

I have always loved chickadees. In this, of course, I am hardly alone. These birds, with their endearing black caps, diminutive size, and cheery calls, appeal to many people. I love them in all seasons. But in winter, when so many of our spring and summer birds have flitted off for warmer climes, I appreciate the chickadees’ presence even more.

For as many winters as we have lived in this house, I have placed a bird feeder outside the big living room window. It’s hung from an iron shepherd’s hook post (hard for raiding red squirrels to climb) and placed roughly equidistant between two sprawling old lilac bushes, which provide ample landing spots for the chickadees.

Most of the daylight hours, a flock of these birds flits to and fro, from bush to feeder to tangled rugosa hedge and back, over and over. I’ve often watch them peck at the bark of the lilacs, or the nearby maple tree, or the mock orange against the house, where they cache seeds, saving some food for those days I am slow to refill the feeder – or, I suppose, in case there comes a time when the resident humans become an unreliable source of food.

Recently, I learned that chickadees develop additional brain cells during winter, which boost the birds’ memories, so they can recall where they’ve left those seed caches and retrieve them as needed.

The winter I became a mother, I spent countless hours in a chair by the big window, watching the chickadees as I nursed and rocked two tiny babies. I recall learning back then that (unlike winter chickadees) human mothers actually loose brain cells when they are pregnant. In those early weeks of motherhood, the size of my brain hardly seemed to matter; getting to know two new humans, keeping them safe, loving them was all I could think about anyway. Still, watching the little birds flock around the feeder was nearly meditative.

The chickadees we see out the window now are likely generations removed from the birds I watched 14 years ago. They have a hierarchy, I’ve read, although I can’t tell who’s in charge in of our little flock. When I approach to refill the stock of seeds, the birds call – to each other, I presume, but I talk back to them anyway, and stop sometimes to watch the ones perched closest to me.

In other places, I’ve fed chickadees right from my mittened hand. But the wild birds in our yard remain just wary enough to stay out of reach. Perhaps it’s because they know I also tend to a cat who is far too curious about their comings and goings.

Boots (the cat), who came to live with us just before the winter solstice, is fascinated by the birds. We don’t know where he lived before he joined our menagerie, so I don’t know if his former home had a window to look out and birds to watch. He spends hours on the windowsill, tail in some stage of movement, from slightly twitching to frustrated wagging. He meows and paws at the glass, or crouches as if ready to pounce. It all makes me think Boots will have to forever be an indoor cat – or wear a collar made of bells if he’s ever allowed outside.

Although the chickadees are the most loyal to our feeder, sometimes their flock expands to include a couple of red-breasted nuthatches, or a pair of blue jays pops in for a bite. A few weeks ago, a couple dozen Bohemian waxwings alit on the highbush cranberry on the other side of the driveway, all showy black eye streaks and bright, yellow-tipped tails. And just Monday, a small group of common redpolls scavenged the fallen seed below the feeder.

But the chickadees are the regulars, the reliable birds I know I’ll hear calling from somewhere nearby any time of year. And in a year like this one, it’s nice to know there are some things that are steadfastly similar to how they’ve always been.

Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay appears as Meghan's January 28, 2021 Close to Home column in the Littleton Record. 

Snow Fix

A few inches of snow. That’s what it took to adjust my attitude toward winter this year. For as long as I can remember, I have loved this season of white – it’s filled with Christmas magic and snowy woods and skiing. But this December, I just wasn’t feeling it.

This year, I held tighter than ever to summer, lamenting its passing in a way I never had. Summer had provided a bit of a respite from the pandemic, as we spent the long days mostly outside and often with friends – hiking and splashing in the river or just sitting together. Here in the more northern realm of New England, it felt as if we were in a germ-free bubble of safety. Autumn arrived with colors as brilliant as ever, but also with the kids returning to school, less opportunity to gather (safely, outdoors) with friends, shorter days and continued uncertainty.

While visions of powder days and wintery wonderlands normally fill my head once the leaves drop from the trees, this winter took shape in my mind as an endless stretch of cold, dark days. Even the thought of skiing didn’t excite me. I couldn’t – and still can’t – picture a ski season without the banter of the coaches’ room in Ernie’s Haus, the young kids I coach sharing candy at snack time, my own kids goofing around with their friends and sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at lunchtime.

Rather than bemoaning the lack of snow, as I would normally do, I reveled in the warm weather that lingered into this strange December, in long walks through the woods, and in the extra time of unexpected free weekends due to a delayed start to the season. It didn’t feel like December or ski season or Christmastime. It felt like endless November, and despite my normal disdain for that month, this year I didn’t mind.

But Saturday afternoon, the steady drizzle turned to snow, and Sunday morning, we woke up to a landscape transformed to white. The tree limbs, long bare of leaves, were sheathed in snow. The mountains were covered. The plows once again prowled the back roads near home.

My son pulled the old toboggan out of the depths of the garage and we trudged through the snow to my folks’ house to visit (outside) and help with the shoveling. After lunch, we rallied some friends and a cousin, and the kids spent a couple of hours tramping up, then sliding down the long hill of my in-laws’ yard.

It was an afternoon of laughter and rosy cheeks and snowballs lobbed at passing sledders. It felt almost normal. It felt good.

Back home, the lights of the recently-trimmed Christmas tree twinkled against the early dusk outside. Our familiar hodgepodge of holiday decorations occupied their regular December spots along windowsills and across the mantle. The skis, hauled out of their summer storage place just the day before, were waxed and ready – for whatever this season will look like.

It still doesn’t feel like all is right in our little piece of the world, and maybe it won’t for some time. Our anticipation of the season is tinged, in this year of 2020, with anxiety. But a little bit of snow went a long way to remind me that I really do love this season – and had me embracing winter again, at last.

Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay appears as Meghan's December 10, 2020 Close to Home column in the Littleton Record.