My home in the storm

There’s a storm brewing outside my house, but I’m sitting comfortably cozy on the couch by a warm fire. Leaves are being ripped off the trees, tossed sharply at the windows. The sky is grayish and brown, and a smattering of rain drops fall against the pane. I check the time and know I only have an hour before I have to get dressed and go out to meet with friends.

But I am thankful to be inside this big old ranch house right now, its thick wood and plaster walls surrounding me, the comfort of animals gathered around me.  

The three dogs are lying as close to the wood stove and they can possibly get without singing their fur. These dogs are family pets, and, at 12 years old, are getting a little more feeble and senile in their age.  They love their warmth and their comfort.  As the storm worsens outside, Happy whines anxiously. He moves from me to the window and back again, sitting straight back and glancing at me from the corner of his eye. He needs constant reassurance that it’s okay to relax. 

The other dogs are not nearly as bothered.  The windows creak against the gale and I can feel little breezes rushing through some invisible cracks.

Daisy flicks her eyes up at me whenever I shift in my seat, but her expression stays trusting from where she rests on the carpet.  As long as she has her human companionship, she’s content.

Mable, infamous now for her failing hearing, lifts her head at the most recent onslaught of debris against the glass. It’s made the house rattle.   She grumbles audibly before settling her head back on the floor. No storm will fully disturb her from her slumber.  So long as she has warmth and comfort, she’s determined not to leave it. 

I think about our other animals outside. The one old arthritic sheep, a remnant of a childhood past, sits stolidly at the top of the hill where she can observe everything.  No storm will move her; no promise of hay in the barn can keep her from her watch. The three barn cats, fluffy and thick in their growing winter coats, are probably nestled somewhere in their own shelter outside. 

Although I know they’re all safe, on a night like this I wish I could herd them all inside and around the fire where we could all be safe and dry together. 

When I was little, I would imagine that being inside this great big old ranch house was like being at sea. The house was a giant wooden ship getting tossed about by the waves but I was always safe inside it.

Now, that old thought makes me thankful to be where I am, cozy and content. I’m surrounded by the artifacts of my family from over a decade of living in this house. Their touch is everywhere: a quilt sewn by my mom, logs hewn by my dad, scribblings on pieces of paper by my niece, well-worn books resting in shelves that all of us have leafed through over the years.

When I was little I used to hope for big snowstorms that would lock my family inside the house. We would always have warmth, food, books to read and games to play. It felt like the best place on earth.

Now I am grown up and the threat of getting snowed in makes living in the country less desirable.

I watch as the giant tree in the yard flails its branches in the storm, losing its fall mantel in the violent display of someone ripping off their own coat.  The gray brown wind continues to whirl like a monster against the walls and yet, I am at peace. I bask in the contentment of a hundred other just such afternoons and evenings, growing up out here in the bare hills. In summer time the hills were my favorite place to be, for I felt free and little and could dream uninhibited by reality. In the winter, this house was my favorite, because I knew that the hills would always be there waiting for me in springtime, and in the meantime, the house was my shelter and not only kept me safe from the cold, but gave me refuge to continue to dream and wonder.

Now, in this moment, I feel at once finely in-tune with the younger self of my past.  The memories of being snuggled up inside this big old ranch house are not merely re-imagined, but felt. They are a consistently flowing stream that I step into and let wash over me, keeping me connected to the child I once was. The great big, terrifying world of grownup responsibilities is outside these thick walls. Its endless possibilities and wants and disappointments cannot touch me here, sitting beside the hearth, surrounded by my animals. 

Suddenly I don’t feel like going out anymore, not because I’m scared of the storm or scared of the world, but because I am happy to be where I am in this moment, and I don’t want to waste the feeling of this warmth, this history, and this love.