It’s cold this morning. You may live in parts of the world where twenty-three degrees would be considered a heat wave, but I’m not. I live in NW Arkansas and it’s cold! Rain that surely must be ice is on the streets, a dusting of snow like spilled flour, drifts across grass and pavement. I am thankful, thankful for a warm house and for the fact that I don’t have cows to milk, chickens to feed, or a long, icy driveway to walk down.
It was not always so. Some memories from childhood, back when the world was young and the horizons were limitless: walking home down a long driveway from the school bus which stopped to let me out on the country road; coming into the house with my socks caked with snow and so frozen, they were hard to remove; putting shoes under the stove and socks on top to dry out; hovering around the stove, first my front, then my back; the wonderful feeling of warmth as my hands closed around a cup of hot cocoa…I could go on. One thing for sure was that when a person is really cold and then gets comfortably warm, it feels so-o-o good, and she remembersI
I also remember the warmth of the animals. The walk down the hill might be long, but inside the barn, those big old cows and the horse emanated warmth. I remember the smell of hay and the soft puffs of white frosty breath as the cows chewed their bran. I remember looking back up the hill at the house as, chores finished, I slogged through the snow. The lights inside were welcoming. It was all worthwhile.
And, lest you think I had a deprived and pitiable childhood, I didn’t. I wouldn’t change those memories for any others. We had books; we had love and hope, food, clothing, and shelter, but most of all, we had each other.That made all the difference.
Manos Mysteries
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