About Winter Stories

Post 521:

            The sum of my history knowledge is a bachelor’s degree and a high stack of random books. The whole of my literature knowledge comes from a different high stack of books. There are no letters after my name. God knows I weighed the merits of entering academia, but the Muses stirred me and stole me away.

            So. Basically, I’m an expert.

            I’ll say it. More stories have been written in winter than in any other season. I know, because it makes sense. First of all, when it’s crazy cold outside, there’s nothing else to do but make crap up and sit by the fire. Or tell other people about the crap you made up. By a fire.

            Again. I have no bonafides and offer no empirical data, as that would imply that I know something.

            So. Basically, I’m an expert.

            The winter draws me closer to my ancestors. It tells me their stories—the hardships and bitter chills that ran through their bones as they survived year after year, pitted against the night winds sweeping through whatever dwelling they happened to be in, if any at all. The loses and pain sustained during those bleak seasons, and the hopeful eye toward one more spring. My own vulnerability forces me to remember their stories and to at least hope to do them some honor.

            Think of the tales conjured as they rested and waited out the snows. The children encircling the teller, enraptured in the tale. The colder it grew, the bolder the story: Trees holding up the world and giant wolves and dragons. Wondrous distractions from the other side of the frost-stiffened door. Wrapped in homespun blankets, children were given a chill of suspense; one to replace the seemingly interminable chill given by the earth.

            I’m no expert, but we’re fixed to do combat with the harshness of life, feeble as the fight may be. This makes sense to me. A time for every purpose. See you after.