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It's a cold December morning here on Tellnard Mountain. It snowed throughout the night, and now the sound of sleet is slapping at the windows. It's not even officially winter yet, and we've already had our fair share of it's frigid grasp. There's a part of me that dreads the months ahead and all of the tasks that will still need to be met regardless of the frozen gray that bites at us as we leave our home. Yet... there's another part that somehow feels warm... This season has been so much like the ones I remember as a child. Those memories flood back like a blanket for the soul, reminding me that true warmth, like true peace isn't something that can be found in this world.

I have always hated the cold, even as a child. My dad would insist that I go outside and play with the other children. Mom would bundle me up 'til you could barely see only my eyes and I'd run down the stairs and across the street. All the kids would be on their wooden sleds with the metal runners... a few had those new phangled round plastic coasters, and one or two were hooting and laughing just as hard making the run on their piece of cardboard. I'd stand in line and wait my turn. While all the other kids bounced in anticipation of their ride down the steep hill, all I could think of was the long haul back up with my sled in tow! I'd make the run once or twice... the cold snow and ice would still manage to creep up passed the rim of my mittens so carefully sealed within the sleeve of my snow suit. Then there was the snow melting down into my boots... I would silently pray that I had been outside long enough to satisfy my parents, grab the rope of my sled and head back across the street, poke my head into Memere and Pepere's apartment to say hi, then back up the stairs and stumble through the door. Mom would help peel off the endless layers including the bread bags that she saved to wrap our double socked feet in so that they would slide into our boots easier. My skin would be bright pink and I couldn't feel her touch at first. She would wrap me in a blanket, put an extra blanket around my feet and gently rub outside the blanket 'til the feeling came back. Then the whistle of the kettle would blow, and she would come back from the kitchen a few moments later with some hot chocolate and cookies...

Once I was sufficiently cuddled and cared for, I could then spend the rest of the day daydreaming, writing, roleplaying, and of course... fighting with my brothers! This was the winter weekend routine of my childhood which only got to be even more fun when I was placed in charge of chaperoning my brother on these outings. He enjoyed the icy play much more than I, so the only added chapter to the story is that I would have to drag him home crying when I was satisfactorily frozen! And mom would somehow take care of both our needs at the same time. I read once that a mother's love is never divided, but multiplied... which was good news for our youngest brother when the two boys were sent out in the snow...

I do have one memory of winter outing that somehow erases all of the unpleasantries of the rest. One weeknight, just before dinner, mom realized there wasn't enough milk for the mashed potatoes. The snow storm outside made driving impossible, but Dad would make the treck to the corner store a couple blocks away on foot. Hey... we are talking mashed potatoes here! I don't know if he asked me, or if I asked him, but by some miracle, I ended up braving the storm with him. That walk is one of my treasured childhood memories and the subject of my poem, "A Walk In The Snow".

A few times over the next few years, I would venture out into the snow for some important missions... usually involving a cute boy... But for the most part, my idea of a nice winter has always been watching the pretty snow through the windows. But... there was this Sunday in 1982... My boyfriend drove through the snow so that we could attend mass together. Afterwards, we were going to his grandparents for breakfast. At the time, I could think of about a dozen places I would have rather been going on a date, but it was snowing afterall... Anywhere indoors would do!

After mass, we drove up the steep hill to his grandparent's home. As we walked from his van towards the door of their basement, this scent was wafting out into the cold. If I close my eyes and pray really hard, I can still smell it sometimes... Mike knocked on the little handhewn door, and opened it. His memere was the first to greet us. A kiss on each cheek and a warm welcome in English, then something in French. Her warm smile helped me know it was something nice. Then uncles, and aunts, cousins old and young... his mom and dad, who I had met a few times, brother, and finally... Pepere. More kisses, more smiles, more French...

There were only two rooms in the sparsely finished basement. The ceilings were low, and there were people EVERYWHERE! Yet... there was room for everyone. Mike found me a place to sit and made his way to the old stove where Memere was flipping the crepes and stirring the beans. Crepes and beans? For breakfast?

Then, I saw it for the first time. The first of many, many times... The twinkle in Memere's eye when she looked at Mike. And the way he looked at her... like he hadn't seen her in months. Yet, they lived on the same property... And it wasn't only Memere. It was Pepere, who may as well have been SuperMan to Mike. And his mom and dad too. I had never met a teenager who thought his parents were wonderful...

While Mike helped Memere heap the crepes and beans on the plates, I got lost in the experience. Laughter.... so much laughter... stories too. Somehow you could tell that they had been told so many times before, but everyone listened like it was the next chapter in a weekly radio show... Pepere's eyes widened for each of his many great-grandchildren who approached him with some greeting or little found gem...

The sounds of forks scraping plates, glasses clinking on the counter, coffee being poured, footsteps going up and down the stairs to the main floor, (for more coffee no doubt), and the familiar sound of the smoker's cough heard in every home I knew.

Mike smiled as he presented me with my plate. He thought it was funny I had never heard of crepes and beans and he promised that I would be pleasantly surprised. I was. The crispy crepes blanketed in powdered sugar.. The home-baked beans... The maple syrup... Did you know that when maple syrup seeps into the juice of baked beans, and the combination is thickened by powdered sugar, a portal to heaven is opened???

In fact... that whole morning opened a portal to heaven for me. I couldn't help but feel that this very ordinary breakfast, was an extraordinary moment in my life.

Oh... my family gathered on special occassions to share good food, conversation, and laughter too. But that's just it. This wasn't a "special occassion". This wasn't a family reunion. This was Sunday morning. And it was what they did EVERY Sunday morning!

I remember thinking that I wish I could feel the way I felt in that room for the rest of my life. Somehow every dream I ever had, ever fantasy of what life could be, paled in comparison...

I always knew my boyfriend was a special guy. It just never occured to me before that he was one member of a very special family. And they gathered in a very ordinary... very special place.

That Sunday morning... cold, snowy, gray... very much like this one... was my introduction to Tellnard Mountain.

As I write this, my 2 middle children are playing beneath our dining room table, my toddler is cuddling in the arms of her oldest sister in the living room, our oldest son has gone out into the big cold world to begin his own chapter of Tellnard Mountain, and our youngest child has already gone to heaven with Memere, Pepere, Mike's dad, my mom... and so many other loved ones. No doubt enjoying the scent of crepes and beans! My husband has just come through the door after playing the music for the Sunday morning masses, and shoveling our walkway again. He playfully says "Honey... I'm home". And has no idea how much that means to me at this particular moment.

How can I ever thank him for making my winter memories so warm? And for bringing me home... to Tellnard Mountain...
Memere & Pepere