Winter

Winter arrived in the fog on Sunday, and temperatures dropped into the teens by Monday night. Garden visitors must look closely for beauty, but there are patches of bright color among the grays and browns of winter.

In late December, trees and shrubs are full of berries. Native holly (Ilex opaca) and beautyberry (Callicarpa americana) planted themselves on a thin strip of soil next to the driveway.

Itea virginica 'Saturnalia' on the East side of the house is brilliant gold in the morning sun.

Bruised and battered by cold, the flowers of the climbing aster (Aster carolinianus) endure a long time as they wait for pollination. The centers remain yellow until a bee pollinates them and they turn red-brown.

Huntin'

I walked up to the rain barrel and noticed that the screen had slid off the top. I bent over to dip the watering can into the rainwater, but a silver sheen caught my eye. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness, then reached down and lifted it out by its tail.

It was a squirrel, its body stiff in a running pose. It stared blankly with clear black eyes. Its whiskers pointed stiffly, like the ends of a handlebar moustache. Its mouth was slightly parted, showing two pair of teeth, tiny and sharp.

When I was a girl, my father went huntin' in the autumn. He left the house early in the morning, wearing a flannel shirt and a hat with flaps and a bill. Later in the day, he stomped on the porch. We stared out the back window at four squirrels piled stiffly on the milkbox. I recall eyes, round and dark, with a trickle of dried blood near the mouth.

My mother made stew but none of the children would eat it, appetites ruined by the memory of the hapless creatures on the milkbox. My father went huntin' a few more times, but gave up eventually.

I dug a hole in our pet cemetery, near the resting places of our pet rodents. Guinea pigs, hamsters and an Egyptian spiney mouse were the ones I remember-- Brownie, Petunia, Pepsi and the others, and now a nameless squirrel.