Even though winter is a month away… winter weather is upon the northeast. Near enough to easily coax a winter missive out of me, especially with that winter weather arriving back home in upstate New York, in particular the Lake George area.
Those who read my missives and musings might recognize the following for what it is… I have mentioned it before… in passing. It is something that has stayed with me for forty-six years now.
Come with me… let’s take a journey…
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On a snowy evening in late 1976, in the Adirondack village of Lake George, New York, I was walking a snow-covered sidewalk on the way to my favorite little pub… the coziest, friendliest, most welcoming place one could imagine, especially during the winter months, when its patrons were for the most part local and its rustic stone fireplace kept all inside warm and cheerful, even on the coldest of nights.
It was located north of the downtown at the bottom of a slight downhill. In the evening, from the top of the gentle rise one had to crest to get to it, warm light could be seen emanating from its windows, beckoning all who passed by to escape the cold and come inside.
That night, as I came over the top of the hill, I saw a small group of people gathered there, in the light… talking… their breath visible in the cold night air… their hands tucked deeply into their coat pockets. As I began the downhill leg of my walk, the group was joined by someone who had come from the direction of the lake. The group then turned and quickly scampered into the warm pub.
It was at that moment, and seemingly out of nowhere, that a taxi pulled up to the curb in front of the pub. Its rear passenger door swung open and a tall young woman with dark hair emerged. I watched as she spoke to the driver and closed the door. As she turned to face the pub, the taxi pulled away, moving slowly up the hill in my direction, a soft crunchy sound coming from its tires as it traversed the fresh snow that was accumulating on the street. It eventually passed by me and disappeared over the crest of the hill, now behind me.
The young woman wore a long wool coat that went down past her knees. It was adorned with large round buttons running up the front. She also wore a white knitted scarf and two matching mittens. Her dark hair, which fell around her shoulders, was now speckled with snowflakes.
She looked up at the hand-carved wooden sign hanging above the pub’s lighted entrance. I thought she might be trying to assure herself that she had come to the right place. Then, instead of entering the pub, she looked down the sidewalk in my direction. Upon seeing me, she turned and remained there, as if waiting for me.
A few steps later, I was close enough to see her face. She had cheeks that were red from the cold, and beautiful eyes that sparkled with all the starlight that was missing from this wintery night. She looked at me and smiled the loveliest of smiles… and all I could do was bite my lower lip and stand there… frozen in my tracks, for it had been far too long since that smile, and those eyes, had brightened up any day of mine.
“I missed you,” she said.
I quickly closed the gap between us and took her face into my glove-covered hands… and with a thumb resting upon each of her rosy frozen cheeks, I kissed her… the first time since August.
“How did you know…” I began but was shushed by her.
“Your aunt told me where you’d be,” she said.
After a long embrace, I told her, “I better get my Florida girl inside… before she freezes.”
We entered the pub and found a booth near its hearth. The fire was warm, and we shed our winter garb, hanging it on the hooks next to the cozy booth. As we always do, we sat across from one another. Our hands, now free of mittens and gloves, quickly found each other’s, and I raised one of hers to my lips… to prove to myself that she was truly there and not still in California.
We ordered hot chocolate with marshmallows and talked of her surprise homecoming… our sad goodbye in August… her travels… and our future… the one we so carefully planned in the letters we wrote to each other while she was away.
The warmth of the fire was all around us… I could feel it. Its crackles and pops were a playful arrangement of random syncopations… I could hear them. Snowflakes continued to fall on the other side of the frosty windowpanes… I could see them. Laura’s voice soothed me and breathed new life into me… like sweet music in the night… strings in a summer gazebo under the stars. Everything about the moment felt real… even though it was not. And like the marshmallows in our hot chocolate, the dream eventually melted away into the night.
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I owe much to my simple writings (for though I enjoy putting pen to paper very much, and it has helped me through many a difficult time… a writer I am not… and never will be).
It was in letters written to Laura, both while she was in California, and (strangely you might think) only a few miles away from me in Virginia Beach, that I let my heart be known to her. At the time, it was the only way I seemed to be able to accomplish that. And it was because of that, I thought I might lose her, but as fate would have it, those letters and writings brought us closer together. She answered all the questions my heart was asking… took to her own heart all the words that I had written… and without a second thought, chose me as the one she had been waiting for… all while knowing I was not the easiest of souls to understand.
That’s all… not very much of a missive I suppose… or perhaps it is, depending on the eyes of the beholder.
