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Archive for December, 2018

Winter, circa 1972

Ferguson Road is a short leg of my daily commute, and the most mysterious. Punctuated by small bridges on each end, it curves to connect two more important roads. The bridge on the end that is dark and heavily wooded is prone to flooding and has been closed several times this fall, when rain- and snowfall exceeded the creek’s ability to cope.

There are houses spaced out along Ferguson, but the area maintains an air of unsettled wildness. I’m sure it’s mostly imagined on my part, because there are farms and late-model cars and power lines—all the usual signs of civilization. But Ferguson has a nostalgic spirit, as if time has stopped and we may have slipped back in a world with no cell phones, home computers, or doorbell security systems.

One house on Ferguson has always been my special favorite during the holidays. It had cedar trees in the front yard, and the family (an imagined family; I never saw a soul around) ran an invisible line between two of them on which they hung a flurry of homemade paper snowflakes. I loved those snowflakes. They were perfectly charming and non-commercial. I often thought about leaving a card in the mailbox to thank that sweet family for their gift, but I never did.

The snowflakes didn’t appear last year. This season the largest cedar at that house was filled with multi-colored lighted orbs. They were pretty, but didn’t give me the same sense of magic as the snowflakes strung on the line. I wonder if the children who lived in that house used to hang the snowflakes as a way to attract real snow and a day off from school. Maybe they had grown too old to cut paper snowflakes and yearn for snow days.

One of my co-workers in St. Louis had a daughter who, though a good student and socially well-adjusted, was devoted to trying every possible spell to make it snow and avoid school. She wore her mittens to bed, put a spoon beneath her pillow, and turned her pajamas inside out. Sometimes these tricks worked, sometimes they didn’t. Maybe the lesson is that dedication and vigilance are the elements most required to eke out a little magic.

Missing the paper snowflakes, I decided to write a sestude about them, to go with the vintage photo I found this week of Holli walking toward the pond with Lucy following behind.

Paper snowflakes cut and glittered to decorate the classroom had been brought low, discarded to make room for fresh art. She gathered them all in her backpack and flew homeward, entranced by a vision: flurries displayed from the winter-still clothesline, a charm to conjure a snowfall. Suspended from lines of floss, the snowflakes spiraled gently—brushing her bare head, dazzling the air.

I love this photo, and finding it was like discovering a hint of old magic. Maybe I’ve been sleeping with my pajamas inside out and didn’t even know it.

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