Christmas is a poignant time. Events, images and memories flood our daily events..
As the winter season begins, necessity is the driving wheel. We were taught to be frugal, using only what was necessary. It could be a long winter.
Furry creatures scurry deep into the night as hiding places vanish. Meadows are covered in icy frost, yielding nary a secret. Cold, bare trees remind us of the stark beauty of winter's palette. The underbrush is frozen into skeleton beds, shrinking hiding places to shimmering tangles. A pause comes silently into our existence. We collectively yield as life becomes a puzzle of finding, foraging and filling our needs. A race against the elements. Keeping the wolf at bay.
It is not unusual for me to think of my father on Christmas night. I always think of him when I leave my home place. I know he is somewhere in the ether, shepherding the most poignant of memories. Reminding me of all the necessities of survival. I was jolted from this reverie as WFS said," that wasn't there when we drove in." Ahead on the pavement, was a perfect red fox. We turned around and returned to the spot where he lay. I do believe in another hour this red fox would have vanished into the night...but somehow, it was there, immobile in the cold...waiting for me to see his magnificent image. The image that truly evokes my father. The image most connected to his essence. Fox hunting on a cold, dark, winter night. The fox horn sounding as we buried him on Dutton Hill. Foxes were instilled in his being from his very early years. He knew their patterns, he admired their sly and cunning ways. His final months were spent in a twilight world where he relived the chase,calling out the dogs names as the fox zig-zaged across the nearby knobs.
I suppose we all find solace in memories. As my mother's days fall toward the twilight, the child in me cries, one more chase across the knobs....one more winter night. One more Christmas dinner. One more trip home.
6 comments:
I'm in tears, Sarah Belle. I wish I could have known your dad.
Forgive a prosaic city-girl question, but...was the fox dead?
Beautiful, Magic Christmas table! I remember the night after your Dad's burial, we were sitting outside and a giant fireball you could hear went swiftly across Dutton Hill, like the spirit of your Dad.
Th fox was dead or at least in such a repose as to fool the eye~~~~I guess the poet in me thinks he might have rested as my dad would, fooling the hounds and waiting for a chance to slip along the hillside.
ah, nancy, such a lovely memory...but also, remember how hot it was the afternoon we buried him? Then, just as Alan blew the horn a breeze rustled the cedar tree? I am convinced Dad moved as mysteriously as the fox.
ok, i was going to write something about the end of the year, but that deserves the headline to take us into -09. wonderful, wonderful entry!
Ashley, post a year end blog!
It's tough to see a fox killed on the road ~ there's so few of them left around here.
Memories of dad are such a comfort though - no matter how they are evoked.
Great post! Happy New Year!
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