The irresistibility of books in winter

   White bright sun rays camouflage the reality of bitter cold lips sewn together with frozen mustache hairs; when the wind joins in finding fingertips, nose, ears, and toes as weak defenders; everything alive or once alive creaks and cracks as the wind cruelly powers chill to a factor of liquid nitrogen. 

   Wood-stove smoke only peaks out of chimneys afraid it will shatter upon addressing the gelid air in stark review. Fire races up retreats and tries again only to fall back in its attempt to awaken a diminished wood stove that has nearly met its match. 

   Companionship, warm hugs, and bubbling hot trysts all fall short in this Cold Covid Confluence. 

   When arbitration takes into account the News: CNN, Fox, Vox, NY Times, The Juneau Empire, The Arizona Republic, Sun-Sentinel, Palm Beach Post, San Diego-Union Tribune; the testimony of sensationalism, pictures of folks somewhere else on warm sunny beaches, and cold hard facts are presented; the hope of relief from cold is forlorn so too the hope of relief from our emotional hunger for companionship. 

   Some people live for spring, some for summer, some for fall, and some for all three. (I suppose a few actually like winter icicles.)  Me, I just live for today.  Cut hay when the sun shines, wrap up in a warm fuzzy dog-haired blanket next to a sputtering wood stove, snuggle up to my princess sweetheart, and feed my inner sparks, my heat generator, with books, when the thermometer belies or denies the promise of the white bright sun. 

   The age of intimacy seemed waning even before humans became carriers of micro-sized air-born torpedos. Sure I could read a digital book. But I need that touch of paper that carries love, hate, secrets, laughter, tears, mystery, heartache, joy, philosophy; stories to be told, stories of lives that for a short time encompass my own. 

   Books help me feel connected, embraced, and full if not inflated. They don’t show me warm places, and diverse social experiences, they bring me there. Books provide me with intellectual conversations that I can listen to and talk back at without talking over anyone else. When my partner reads the same book and we talk about each our reactions and thoughts therein, the book acts as a face-to-face conduit as though we flew to Paris, France for a lunch in a quiet, comfy little tavern on a summer day (a hot day of course).  

   High in the Alps is the Great St. Bernard Pass. In 1049 Bernard of Menthon built a hospice on top of the temple ruins as a shelter for travelers. Monks maintained the hospice and among other things, acting as search and rescue teams for travelers that became lost. At some point, they brought dogs with them along for these rescue attempts. The barrels we see around St. Bernard’s necks purportedly carrying rum or brandy, came about in folklore after a 17-year-old painter produced such a painting in 1820. 

   The books within The Little Library (the one that rescues me, is in Jericho Center, Vermont)  have perhaps, not been sketched nor painted on a canvas as yet; however, they do simulate a better rescue capability than that of a St. Bernard with the rum barrel under its chin. Whereas alcohol causes blood vessels to dilate, resulting in blood rushing to your skin and your body temperature decreasing rapidly, the books that the Little Library carries cause blood vessels to constrict, retaining body heat, and increasing body (and mind) temperature. 

If you spot a tall man in a Big Bird yellow winter coat, with a frozen mustache threading his lips together, donning a Rudolph red nose, walking as though he had petrified toes, and he seems lost, please do point him in the direction of The Little Library hospice or rescue shack.

 

   The white bright sun may camouflage the bitter temperatures of a Vermont winter, the news may sound like spring and summer and barbecues with friends and neighbors are all sunk dreams, but they cannot tone down the shining lighthouse beam of our Little Library and all the goodies our community of companionship deposit inside it. 

Books Rescue me, do they for you? 

Laugh, Dream, Try, and Do Good

Bernie

PS I just finished reading, The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie, and would like to share this excerpt from the book.

"Well, life is a constant struggle between being an individual and being a member of the community. 

In the early days of humans, the community was our only protection against predators, and against starvation. We survived because we trusted one another. 

Back in the day, weird people threatened the strength of the tribe. If you weren't good for making food, shelter, or babies, then you were tossed out on your own.

But we're not primitive like that anymore.

Oh, yes, we are. Weird people still get banished. 

You mean weird people like me.

And me.

All right then, So we have a tribe of two." 

From Bernie: So let's toast to a tribe, to a community of many!

PPS The Tony Bennet CD in The Little Library was an audio plus to the recent books!