Today I fished the Christmas tree out of the pond in the back yard. Good thing I had a roof rake to do it.
Flannels pajamas, duck boots and a fleece hat offered warmth from the crisp icy snow fall.
J had moved the tree—with the last two strands of white Christmas lights twined throughout its branches—from our living room to the back porch. He steadied it and plugged in the strand of lights to a husky outdoor socket. “People will see it when they drive up and down the road. It will make them happy,” he said.
In the days following Christmas if I would go out in the afternoon, I would find the tree lit upon my return home. The days getting dark by 4pm.
“Did you see the tree?” J asked when I stepped back into the house.
“I lit it up for you.”
But on Tuesday a wind and ice storm blew through the valley. I padded the down comforter around my chin and watched the trees outside my window sway like weighted fishing poles trying to pull the ultimate catch ashore. It was 3:30am. I checked my phone but the internet was down, and then I realized there were no little green or blue blinking lights in the darkness, the electricity was out.
So this morning I fished the Christmas tree out of the pond.
Today is also Virginia Woolf’s birthday. That woman, her writing… I first rediscovered her in 2004 while sitting at a locals bar and reading Moments of Being while waiting for my clothes to dry at the laundromat next door.
In 2004 I underlined the following passage by Woolf about maneuvering within and without her 1920-30’s social circles, “We both learnt the rules of the game of Victorian society so thoroughly that we have never forgotten them. We sill play the game. It is useful. It has also its beauty, for it is founded upon restraint, sympathy, unselfishness—all civilized qualities. It is helpful in making something seemly out of raw odds and ends.” (150)
I wrote the following in the margin: So, b/n reading these moments of Victorianisms, she chose to identify, yet conceded to think outside of. I walk from the bar to the laundrymat & proceed to move my whites and colors from the 5 washing machines to corresponding dryers.
Exactly. Thank you Virginia Woolf. Forever yours.