It is the last day of the old year. We awaken to the sound of the plow and the temperature is exactly zero. It is strangely satisfying to awaken to zero. Zero. A clean slate. A new day.
My husband rises and bundles up and leaves the house. In a few moments, I hear the roar of the snow blower and the whoosh of snow flying as he runs it over the length of the driveway. I look out the window and see all the snow blowing to the right of the driveway. It circles around in the wind and comes back to hit him in the face. I make a large pot of strong coffee and toast bagels. I spread the cream cheese. We are officially out of coffee and I write it down on a list.
He comes back in and stomps around, leaving snow on the kitchen floor. He picks up a broom to begin sweeping the white wetness off the tile and down the steps into the garage. As he opens the door, the shock of bitter wind encircles my bare ankles and makes me feel the hardness of the floor and my vulnerability. He slams it shut.
He wanted to plow the neighbors driveway and then decided against it. It was too cold and it felt too early on a Sunday morning and we aren’t that close yet; as friends, I mean. That will come. Good neighborly relationships develop slowly; a plate of cookies and a friendly wave at the mailbox and a conversation about football and in time, I suspect we will be plowing each other’s driveway in the heart of winter.
There are tracks winding and drifting throughout the yard on the north side of the house. We look out the upper story window. Who has been in the yard? They are most likely the tracks of deer; hungry creatures wandering carefully onto the property in the black of night, searching for something to eat. We look northward and watch the line of prints stretch into the yard of the house in front of ours and around the corner into the backyard of the dwelling behind us. At one point they look to be one track and at another point, they split and form two large graceful arcs which eventually merge back into a single track. Perhaps the deer meet in the middle of the snow to discuss their food options; to glance upward at frosted windows and to wonder who sleeps there. At several points, they split again, arc and reunify. I imagine their indecision.
I see the five huge frozen pumpkins lying on their sides in the garden box. One looks slightly gutted on one side as if perhaps something chewed desperately there for awhile. That orange orb is a sorry meal for any animal trying to glean nourishment.
I know that rich, orange smell. The pumpkins have been on the ground, in the garden box since the day after Thanksgiving and I still smell them. They have their own story and season. In October, my 4 year old nephew and I purchased, rolled and lugged them from the local farm stand to the car, to our front porch and up the steps. We arranged them and we talk about not carving them up for Jack-O-Lanterns. “Why?” he asks. He is sweating in his blue winter jacket. He wears the jacket because of heavy, cold October rain, but the weather is fickle. With the great exertion of dragging the pumpkins, the jacket is too much. But he must keep the jacket on. If the jacket comes off too soon, he will catch cold. If the jacket stays on, he will sweat too much and with one stiff breeze, he will catch cold. Either way. We go indoors.
“Why aren’t we carving Jack-O-Lanterns?” The little one persists. I respond, “The pumpkins are appropriate for the month of October and for Halloween, and if they are not carved they can stay on the porch all the way through November and Thanksgiving because pumpkins represent harvest and this way I get two months use out of them”. “Oh”, he says. He is still at the point in his little life where a complicated answer makes sense.
He is focused on pumpkins. After Thanksgiving, he starts noting all the people in our development who keep Jack-O-Lanterns on their porches including those who have committed the ultimate crime of combining Halloween and Christmas lights. He is enthusiastic with condemnation. “November 1st…goodbye Halloween” he states firmly. I train him well.
We hear the plow making a second round and another neighbor is snow blowing the driveway; the sound of forced driving snow whips vaguely in the near distance. On this last day of the old year, my husband bundles up again and leaves the house to purchase ingredients for pasteles and alcapurrias; Puerto Rican celebratory food. The house is silent as I sit and think. The furnace surges. There are a thousand things to do as we prepare to ring in the New Year with food from the island, and mysterious tracks in the snow and the memory of harvest and mud and orange.
690 Saint Paul 