Winter in New York City

 

It was a heavy snowstorm. The snowflakes were quickly falling and landing on my black down jacket, no two flakes ever alike. They seemed to be dancing as though choreographed by the wind. The flakes had already made a blanket on the field in Central Park. Through the snowstorm, I could see the panorama glowing, glistening and glittering in the sunshine. No one had yet walked on this pristine virgin landscape. Farther afield, children were screaming with joy as they slid down the small hill on their sleigh. 

A short walk away, families were ice skating on the Wollman Rink. They were laughing with glee, even when they slipped and plopped to the ice. Why didn’t I bring my white figure skates? I was once quite good at this. 

Outside of the park, people were bundled up, mittens on, scarves tied and hats covering their ears as they sat on the wide steps leading up to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Sometimes they joined in song with the young guitar player strumming a familiar folk song. I should join them. This land is your land; this land is my land.

All these joyful scenes are now only memories, planted in my imagination from times gone by. This was my Winter in New York City from the past. A winter scene I once knew; one that I would have been part of. At my age, and my stage of agility, would I ever dare to be walking in Central Park on a snowy day? While I do not sit in a wheelchair or use a walker or cane, I do walk with mild trepidation on my carpeted floor. Could you imagine my trepidation walking on a path in the park carpeted with snow? Could you imagine this elderly woman figure skating in Wollman’s Rink? Can you picture me getting up those icy museum steps with not even a banister to hold on to?

During a winter in my city, I’m strictly a stay-at-home girl. And you know what? I I can’t say I mind it. I can appreciate the beauty of the storm from my glass front door. My view of my snow carpeted front lawn and white powdered trees and bushes is awesome. My view is a winter wonderland.

 When I leave my front door, I join the sumptuous simmering pot on the stove where my comfort food is cooking; water, carrots, celery, onions, string beans and potatoes dancing together. Part of this is soup for tonight’s dinner and part to be frozen for future use.

While my outside garden is dormant, my windowsills hold natural wonders.   Every day, I visit my small African Violet plant with its 5 tiny purple flowers. Standing alongside is the tall multi flowered white orchid. The elder of the pots is the orchid plant I received for my eightieth birthday, over ten years ago. This plant has a long spike, promising to yield at least eight blossoms shortly. The surprise of the windowsill flower garden is my newly acquired amaryllis bulb, which will probably make history, since in one month this one bulb has produced fourteen huge red radiant blossoms. Successful herb plants (chives, basil, oregano and parsley) adorn my dining room windowsill. 

As this day winds down, snow continues to fall. I can enjoy my shut-in winter day snuggled on my couch, my body wrapped in my hand knit blanket, writing this story. Softly, Beethoven’s Pastorale Symphony adds to my wintery day’s indoor contentment with a certain promise of spring to come.

Ethyl Haber

February 2022