Clear bright blinding sunshine, a very satisfying warm hug (coffee for those who don’t know me) crisp fresh cold morning air flooding my lungs almost suffocating me with each breath its being so utterly filled with purity and cleanliness. My walking buddy seemed to be just as deep in thought of the day’s tasks ahead as I was, but we still savoured the sunshine despite his mirth in ridiculing the pupper’s latest fashion (it’s December, he has his Christmas jumper on these days lol).
We’ve had some very broken weather of late, temperatures plummeting rapidly within days from our usual temperate climes leaving us frantically seeking out varied layers of insulation so unprepared were we in anticipating the winter chill. But today, today I needed more. I wasn’t sure whether I could bring him there, but She was calling me for days but it was too dangerous to take on the climb with waves too angry to see reason. But I invited him, apologising in advance for what was to come and I believe he now knows me well enough to realise I wasn’t speaking of the climb.
So we went, slipping and tripping and half-hanging the pupper then laughing hysterically when he decided to perch on his shoulder like a parrot instead of braving the rocks parcour-style like he usually does. All too suddenly, we were there. My spot. And I breathed her in as she roared and spat her anger at me, she screamed and I absorbed. Her roar was so fierce it shook the soft unyielding rock we had planted ourselves on. Her salt-laden voice demanded my tears, and she wasn’t disappointed; as I cried, the relief was incredible. I hadn’t realised how much I needed Her, missed Her, craved Her. Pupper was as faithful as ever, his small warm body curled up into my own like a hot water bottle on my lap, my hands locked around him holding him close, his breathing so calming as his little body rose and fell, his warm chocolate eyes never leaving mine checking up on me constantly.
And then I got a fright. A warm rough hand covered mine, peeled my fingers away from my little pupper and wrapped themselves through mine. A strong arm wrapped itself around my shoulder and pulled us both in close, the gentleness behind the strength softening and growing in equal measure. I stiffened at first, turned to look at his purpose, searching that deeply weathered face for clues behind his intent. And there they were, wet trails matching my own falling freely as his chest heaved and the sobs became audible. I yielded, I softened, I allowed the comfort, I dropped my head on his shoulder and we sat there and cried, two people so lost in their own grief and sadness yet bound together by it.
We left once our hands became numb and the tears had finally stopped, clambering once again like toddlers trying to manoeuvre a step for the first time, all legs and arms with, of course, the new parrot perched throughout in his incredible bright red jumper. Suddenly conversation was intense and rapid, his plans for battening down the hatches ahead of our red level storm heading for us tonight. I gave advice where I could and took some in return, each of us bringing our own experiences to bear. We discussed who he was to look after and who I was, and whilst I would love to say we thought of the same thing together, in all actuality it was all him lol. We’d divide and conquer and do it all together.
So it came to pass that a man and a woman and a little dog in a bright red jumper spent the day stacking firing by hearths for neighbours and friends, the intoxicating smell of well-seasoned timber fresh in my nostrils from one house to the next, a competition of who could recognise what type of tree an on-going battle between us. I laughed at his wearing gloves to fill buckets of coal, while he laughed at the handprints all over my jeans from wiping the same coal off on them every time.
Some milk, home-baked bread, Spanish tortillas and what will be much-needed candles were my contributions to most houses, his being small camping stoves and oil lanterns the like of which I’ve only ever seen hung in my grandfather’s sheds many moons ago. Each house had “a warm cup” for us, leading to many gates being climbed for urgent relief between houses and bets being made of who’d need to go next. Stories of “the olden days” when lanterns were normal and the antics they used them for were plentiful, laughter echoed from house to house, and some six hours later I remembered I had a child to collect from the school bus and my own house to sort. We parted ways, however, with a promise to help at each other’s houses as soon as I was back.
Thoughts of her excitement filled me up driving to collect her as I imagined the happiness power cuts bring to our house: neighbours calling for something warm to eat or drink and staying for cards and board games, some mulled wine maybe simmering on the stove to warm the cockles of the heart before heading back out in the wind tomorrow, the teenager holding centre stage as she sits and observes, soaking in the atmosphere and sketching away in the corner silently to eventually emerge beaming at having captured someone’s expression to perfection through charcoal or pencil strokes, each person waiting in utter anticipation for the gift they know they’ll go home with - another memory.
Back to reality with a bang when the teen asked where I was going turning up his road. I quickly explained our day, and she was visibly a little put out she’d missed the antics of the though she did perk up when I told her school was cancelled tomorrow. A very welcome smell of warm hugs met me as he opened the door with a smile, but then slightly troubled lines appeared as he saw my daughter disappearing just as quickly as they’d appeared but noticed all the same. Grumpy teenager turned the charm on and had him in stitches laughing as she accused him of stealing her jobs and asked if he was going to steal her hard-earned pocket money next. The hard lines carved into that face curved upwards as he lit up from the inside and teased her back that the price of fuel being what it is nowadays, he would need it badly after the day’s work. We had coffee, the teen spilled her excitement along with her coffee and explained what storms were for us while I sat and soaked in the two toddlers telling stories and comparing notes, a vast age difference bridged by happiness of what a storm could mean.
Time was against us as we hauled and drew in wood, coal, water (electric pumps are a disaster, he’s just learned lol) and I blushed as the teen handed over candles and bread and tortilla. “You next”. I’d forgotten us. The pupper betrayed me and climbed into his jeep instead of mine, the teen following behind in equal betrayal but I did smile as they pulled away.
Work came first as dark clouds rolled in along with dusk and a bitterly cold wind. As the fuel came in, I set a quick fire in the hearth and turned on the oven to reheat dinner prepared early this morning. Steady supplies of wood came through the door, me stacking as the other two made a game of pretending to be a conveyor belt with the pupper designated to bringing me individual sticks of kindling from the pile in the shed. Buckets of coal followed soon after and suddenly my home smells like Christmas as that glorious smell of timber permeates every room.
He was all set to leave, washing his hands and still teasing my chuckling teen from the bathroom. I blocked his exit in a bold move and asked him to join us for dinner, a request he gratefully accepted courtesy of the glorious smells of a luxurious casserole now simmering in the oven. The teen held centre stage, hiding in the kitchen sofa wrapped up in a blanket with the pupper monitoring her progress carefully as I heard the familiar scratchings of charcoal on card, his head tilting side to side in appreciation of her efforts as we chatted about the recipe I was about to dish up. I set the table slowly, allowing her the time I knew she needed as her beautiful eyes scanned the face I now know so well. And just as I put the casserole in the middle of the table, she shyly brought forward her picture for his approval, eyes still searching his face though this time seeking approval instead of analysing each line and feature.
The compliments flew, her face alight with joy as was his. I barely glanced to be honest, sometimes fearful of just what she captures that others might not want shown. But as I dished up, I realised the conversation was quite technical and I no longer entirely understood. Realisation dawned. Another artist.
And so I sit here at 9pm writing to you all with a fire roaring in the hearth, a warm home, a belly overly-full of casserole, a day’s work done and a sense of contentment at what we achieved as I listen to familiar scratchings on two cards instead of one and quiet mutterings between a man and a teen as they discuss the intricacies of drawing the pupper snoozing peacefully on my lap while we await the storm with joyous anticipation of sitting it out with friends, family, neighbours and quite possibly some people we never knew before it hit. Then we’ll do it all over again when we pull together to tidy up what we didn’t tie down, re-roofing sheds and replacing roof tiles not destined to see another storm like Storm Barra. An early Christmas present from Mother Nature this year I think.
MLP
