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Gripped by the Fist of Winter

It was raining a bit when Jerry and I tucked ourselves in our downy den last night. He drifted off first, making gentle sleep noises. For awhile, I lay quite still, listening to the wind as it blew from the lake, bustled through the lanes and roads, then slapped up the hill where sets our house.

Around 3:00, we both awoke to the sound of pelting rain and punching wind. I knew Jerry was awake, for I heard him mutter his displeasure as he buried deep into the covers. He's sick of winter.

At 5:30 when I arose, I pulled the front blinds, and stared into thick fog…and across the way, white roofs. Looking more closely, I saw our lawn was again white, with a thin layer of totally unpredicted snow. The thermometer hanging outside the kitchen window read 31 degrees.

He has a robust fist, this man called winter '06. He arrived late, but has pulled up an easy chair, poured himself a drink, and thrown off his shoes. He likes it here.

By Shirley Buxton

Still full of life and ready to be on the move, Shirley at 81 years old feels blessed to have lots of energy and to be full of optimism. She was married to Jerry for 64 years, and grieves yet at his death in August of 2019. They have 4 children, 13 grandchildren and 11 great-grandchildren...all beautiful and highly intelligent--of course. :)

3 replies on “Gripped by the Fist of Winter”

Funny you should mention Pappy being sick of winter, for so am I! Of course I know that here in San Diego it’s not near the winter that you experience up there in the mountains, but I still am counting the day’s till summer. Something about the overcast grayness of it all leaves me feeling a little out of sorts and I can’t wait to wake up to blue skies and bright sunshine! Love you lots, wonderful post.
Shawnna

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