- Continued If you had the right plug-in, you would be hearing nice music now.

"At Stillmeadow, we use hemlock boughs from the upper woodlot to  decorate the old narrow mantles. They are not sprayed with gold or silver. They are just green boughs, for it is the green of evergreen boughs that symbolizes immortality."

Stillmeadow Sampler

    Living in the country in winter is not easy. It is not simply sitting by a log fire and reading that good book. It is no life for lazy people. one morning always comes when you are snowed in, no matter whether you planned to go out or not. you can't even open the front door.
    You have to shovel to get to the kennel, and shoveling snow is just like tossing up spadefuls of cement. The road crew gets held up somewhere along the line, and of course the telephone wires are down.
    If there is a real blizzard sweeping down the ice palace of the old king of winter, the next thing is that "the electric," as we call it in these parts, is cut off. And when the electric is off, so goes the furnace, the water pump, the freezer and the stove.
    But for us country life continues to be wonderful. Nothing in the city compares, as far as I am concerned, with the sight of George plunging through hip - deep drifts, his shovel on his shoulder. "Guess you need a little help," he says. I rest on my shovel, and watch the swift easy rhythm of his arms as the snow rolls back like the waters of the sea in the old testament.
    Then there is the excitement of the arrival of the light-and-power men. everyone bundles up and goes out to watch as they climb up ice - encased poles, and patch up the interrupted life - current for our equipment.

    We pile up logs in the old fireplace; and if there is anything a city - dweller can have half as pleasant as a filled woodshed, I know not what it would be. We hang the iron kettle over the flame, and the good smell of onion, salt pork, and potatoes fills the room. If the electric is off some time we can get our meals in the fireplace or on the old range in the back kitchen. And candlelight is nice.

    Then finally the lights go on and the hum of the furnace can be heard and we feel as if we had bested winter again. It is a fine feeling.

The Book of Stillmeadow

Pile high the hickory and the light
Log of chestnut struck by the blight.
Welcome-in the winter night.

Here are question and reply,
And the fire reflected in the thinking eye.
So peace, and let the bob-cat cry.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Stillmeadow Seasons

    Now a Christmas gift is exactly as timeless and enchanted as loving thoughts make it. One of my best gifts last Christmas was a wreath made by hand, on a wire hanger, from Connecticut evergreens. I came back from a trip to New York, tired, and anxious about all those things which pile up when a housewife goes away. One of those lovely, early snows had been falling for hours, and I drove through a kind of lacy twilight down the winter road. I saw my friend walking away from Stillmeadow along the shadowy path, and she waved and said she had been to the house. I drove on, and there was the house in the sweet twilight of snow, and on the door the Christmas wreath she had carried over and put up. Deep green of pine, cinnamon brown of cones, a spray of gay little bells, and a flash of rosy ribbon.
    "This," I thought, "is what I mean by Christmas! To come home after absence, and find the gracious thoughtfulness expressed, the good and gracious warmth of friendship."

The Book of Stillmeadow

    When I was growing up, I found winter exciting. In Wisconsin, where we lived, it was often thirty below. Winter also came to stay, it began early and ended late. But it meant skating on the solidly frozen lake, tobogganing with my beau (I invariably fell off). It also meant sleigh - ride parties when Gracie (who pulled the town hearse also) plodded along at her usual slow pace but with a very lively freight.

We rode in a flat wagon which had runners replacing the wheels of summer. The wagon box was filled with clean hay. Gracie clumped along at a decent pace, no galloping for her. We were young and innocent and if mittened hand held mittened hand, that was excitement enough. We sang "Juanita" and "By Thy Rivers Gently Flowing" - and then we came to my house, for Mama was always willing to fix oyster stew for any number. Snow was tracked in, wraps melted on her best Chippendale chairs, boys skidded on the best rugs, knocked things over. Girls giggled. But Mama had the oyster stew in the big tureen, gobs of butter melted on top, a dusting of paprika. Plenty of toasty buttery crackers to go with it. Hot cocoa was our drink then and there was a big pitcher of that. A bowl of whipped cream accompanied the cocoa. Actually Mama's hot cocoa was a fine brew, for she had been in Mexico with father and learned the Mexican chocolate way. She had a wooden beater to froth it, and she added a touch of coffee.
And after some of the gang had gone home, Mama never cared if my beau happened to note an apple pie lonely in the icebox and ate half of it. Father was fretful about those invasions but Mama was fine at managing. She usually had him over at his best friend's, the family Doctor, planning a camping trip.
    As we have such a problem these days with juvenile delinquents, I often think there is only one recipe for juveniles, and unfortunately you cannot get it by any amount of legislation or law or consultants. What juveniles need, in any level of society, and at all times, is a home. The gallons of oyster stew and the gallons of hot cocoa kept me and my companions satisfied not to go to any "joint." Better food and more fun at home.
    But it wasn't just the food. It was Mama not minding when some awkward boy broke a cherished piece of china. "My goodness, these things will break," she would say. And if things got too noisy, she would remark, "The neighbors hear everything."
    It seemed quite natural to me that anyone in trouble just came over to talk to Mama, but now I realize it was quite unusual. Not only young boys and girls found it easy to talk to her, but the college students did too, and also older people with heavy burdens. She never, so far as I knew, told them what mistakes they had made, or how wrong they were. She listened, and poured hot tea, and made a suggestion so gently that they always felt they had thought of it themselves.
    And as the season turned toward Christmas, Mama was busy making gifts for everyone who needed them. She had a fierce dedication to Christmas. It was, for her, a giving time. She felt it implied thought for the one you gave the gift to, not just buying something and wrapping it because it was the thing to do.
    She was a noticing woman and she could spend all year noticing what some friend did not have and needed. Whenever I feel sad about the over - commercialization of Christmas, which has become such a big business, I think of Mama, happily wrapping the jars of quince preserve that one friend so loved. For the non - cooks, she made the most elegant of fruitcakes. For prospective mother's, she made practical layettes, things she called "tubbable." But for me, she spent her saved pennies for a special book of poetry.

    For my mother, Christmas was a time to express love and friendship.

Stillmeadow Sampler

    Jill planted a stand of Christmas trees when we first came, but as they grew. we never could cut a single one. We took our trees from the woods up the hill, where thinning was needed. Other people drove down Jeremy Swamp Road at night and cut what they wanted, but some are still left, tall and beautiful, a beginning of more forested land. Once you have planted and nourished a tree, it is hard to cut it down. The last few years, we have bought our tree, presumably from a tree farm in Maine, and I go over with Erwin, my neighbor boy, to bring it back. I confess the sight of the great stacks of trees makes me sad, although Erwin points out that they are already cut down, so why worry? I think  we shall see the day when any tree must wear a certificate saying it really is from a tree farm and not a natural forest.
    I do not like artificial trees, however. The symbolism of the evergreen is of life and growth, as are holly and Christmas greens. I am apt to go around singing "Deck the halls with boughs of holly" as the tree goes into its metal stand, and I like to think we are following a tradition of centuries past as we light the candles on Christmas Eve and sit by the fire singing carols, supplementing them with Christmas music on the stereo (a concession to modern times).

    Our tree has ornaments saved for years, and the glass star goes on the tip. although it has lost quite a few points by now. The children all have favorites, and if one little carved animal from Germany is missing, it must be found. Amber has a desire to climb the branches and knock off something shiny and has to be persuaded to chase her own traditional toy, which is a tiny woolen wreath she can carry in her small mouth.
    The Christmas tree lights go outside and not on the tree. all along the valley Christmas lights are strung on trees and bushes, and it is a happy sight to drive to Woodbury at dusk - dark and see the glow. Every house has lighted front windows, too, and the village centers are decorated with crèches, stars, huge electric candles, and garlanded store windows.
    The gifts pile under the tree, and there is much secret wrapping and many admonitions not to open this or that door. The new soft woolen ties are lovely and easy to manage - I am the world's most incompetent wrapper of gifts. but there is a problem with Amber, who loves to grab one end of a tie and swallow it. We spend some time hauling lavender and rose and green yarn out of her mouth.
    Gift time is a delight, but I feel the most important part of Christmas has nothing to do with material things. It is a matter of the heart, of thinking about those we love and cherishing the happy times we have had together. And it is a time to stop counting up everything wrong with the world and consider what we have that is good, and to hope that in some way we may help bring more joy to this small piece of the planet we inhabit.

    Most of all it is time to remember the Baby whose birth we celebrate and to wonder all over again how this humble Child has affected the world more than all the powerful men who have ever lived. His simple words "Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself" would yet save mankind if we followed them.

Country Chronicle

Please Continue on to Gladys' Christmas Blessing Page

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Return to Part One of Christmas at Stillmeadow

Gladys Taber: Page 1 / Gladys Taber: Page 2

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The carol you are listening to is called: "It came Upon a Midnight Clear"

Webpage design by Susan Stanley
I created this background,  title graphic and fireplace scene especially for this site.
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Copyright © 1997, 1998. Susan Stanley.



(I did not make the bells,  bird line,  red bow,  tree,  holly,   cardinals  or  the mailbox.)
Sleighride,  and snow scene painting are from World Wide Art