What Is Winter For, Anyway?

In my novel The Governor’s Lady, Mickey Spainhour is suffering from congestive heart failure and figures she’s not long for this world.  Her son-in-law Pickett is running for President.  In January Mickey says, “I hope I make it to March.  I would hate to die in February.  It’s a miserable month.  If Pickett gets to be President, I want him to outlaw February.”  Mickey’s daughter Cooper, who has just taken office as Governor of the state, says, “I doubt Pickett will waste a minute on February.”

Well, he should.  Let me hasten to associate myself with Mickey’s opinion of February.  It can be, often is, a miserable – nay, a wretched – month.  Just ask Boston.  If I get to be President, I will outlaw February by Executive Order.

But…fair-minded fellow that I am, I admit that February does have one redeeming characteristic: Valentine’s Day, when my heart is full to bursting with thoughts of my own true love.  So I would move Valentine’s Day to March.  February also has the Chinese New Year, but the Chinese can deal with February as they please.

One thing about winter in the Carolinas, where I live, is that it may grab you by the throat, but not for long.  Even in abominable February, we always have a mild and pleasant day when winter loosens its grip and gives us some hope that cold and gloom are not a permanent state of affairs.  Most of our winters here are mild, and maybe we don’t appreciate them enough.  Even February.

What is winter for, anyway?  It makes us hunker down, gives us grim looks and sniffles and a bad outlook on life.  On the surface, winter seems to have little redeeming social value.  But perhaps Mother Nature knows what she is doing when she gives us winter.  Maybe she intends it as a time to just be quiet and wait and listen to the secrets locked deep in our hearts, to discover anew who we are and where we’re bound.

We modern humans are unaccustomed to silence.  We surround ourselves with recorded noise and idle chatter.  Much of our daily existence is filled, as the Bard said, “with sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

But Nature is smart enough to spend the winter in quiet contemplation.  Deep in the icy ground, or under the awesome silence of snow, animal and seed are locked in winter’s thrall, listening to the secret ticking of the great clock of the universe.  The hands move slowly, as nature’s creations regenerate and replenish, gathering strength for the noisy explosion of spring.  Nature knows when to dash about madly and when to bide her time, waiting and listening.

As I write this, the wind is howling outside, rattling the shutters and shaking the bare limbs of the trees.  The temperature will dip to 20 degrees tonight, even colder tomorrow.  But I am hunkered down inside – some peaceful hours at my desk working on a new book.  Soft music on the stereo, a cup of hot tea, my imagination.  A time of discovery, possibility, serendipity.  And Valentine’s Day is just ahead, hearts and flowers, my own true love.

Okay, maybe February is okay.  But just.  Still, like Mickey Spainhour, I hope I make it to March.  I’ll leave it to you to figure out if she does.

My Bird Can Whip Your Bird

Spring: a time of awakening, blossoming beauty, rebirth, possibility…and combat. 

There’s the male cardinal who’s assaulting my house.  I came downstairs one morning to make coffee and heard him bashing himself against the breakfast room window.  “Good Lord,” I said to my good wife, “he’s trying to get into the house.  I wonder if he wants a cup?”  But a friend set me straight: it’s mating season, and the cardinal is fighting what he assumes to be a rival – in truth, just his own reflection in the glass.  This fellow is profoundly territorial, defending his turf, making sure he’s the sole beneficiary of his lady friend’s affections.  He’s been at it for more than a month.  So has the cardinal in the glass.  I give them both an “A” for  persistence.

Then there’s the aerial combat I witnessed – a flock of crows chasing a single hawk.  They came in across a valley, a dozen crows clustered around the hawk, slashing in to the attack.  The hawk was by far the biggest bird in the melee, but the crows made up for their lack of size with numbers and daring.  The hawk was clearly in flight, getting the worst of it.

It was easy to imagine what had happened.  The hawk had gone hunting, as hawks will do, and happened upon a nest.  “Ah, eggs for breakfast!  Make mine raw.”  The crows had risen to the defense, as crows will do.  It was nature at her purest and most basic -- both savage and beautiful. 

The writer in me has an attack of imagination.  There’s a bird bar and grill – beer on tap, a good band, a billiard table, a baseball game on the wide-screen TV.  There’s this male cardinal and a bunch of crows sitting around a table -- drinking,  smoking cigars, and telling war stories.  The cardinal is bragging about how he kicks his rival’s fanny daily.

“You have to do this every day?” asks one of the crows.

“Yeah, the guy just won’t give up.  But I tell ‘ya, he ain’t been near my nest.”

“Well, our hawk ain’t been back.  When we chase ‘em off, they stay chased off.  You need help with that cardinal?”

“Nah, I got it under control.”

The crows exchange knowing smiles, but they don’t tell the cardinal what’s what.  They just let him keep bragging and buying the beer. 

Robert Inman’s novels are available on Amazon Kindle, Barnes & Noble Nook, and Kobo e-readers.