Yearly traditions have a lovely way of just sort of ‘happening’ and some books find their way in to my hands every year. Stillmeadow Seasons is one such book. I always jump straight to the winter chapters and relive the familiar everyday tellings of Gladys Taber’s life in rural 1940s New England. My Grama first read these chapters to me and her voice often pops in to my head, reading scenes of snow so thick you can’t reach the post box, presents chosen from the few shops in the small town, and homemade candy in ribbons of tissue paper. Like me, Taber loves the promise of one particular shape of package under the tree:
Books were the best gift Santa could bring, and all of my Christmas memories are bound up with books. Other presents were wonderful enough, but that flat rectangular package under the tree- ah, there is the closest thing we know of pure happiness and all tied up in a holly ribbon. A bottle of French scent may be lovely for a time, but all the perfumes of Araby may be between the covers of a book, forever fresh.
I hope that your winter days are filled with fun, food, and love. And maybe the odd new book. Merry Christmas.
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