The Twelve Days of Blogmas, Day 5 : Guest Post

    Today, I have a special treat for you: A guest post by my mom! I have wanted her to do a guest post for a long time, and she finally made time!

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                                                 Colors of the Season

     Stinging snow, clopping horses, hissing gas lights, and the spicy fragrance of homemade pies. These are the wintery memories of my childhood as an Amish girl.

  Our barn on a winter night was warm and steamy with cows' breath, as they contentedly stood in their straw-filled stanchions, chewing their cuds. The hum of the distant diesel motor mingled with the swish-swish of the milkers and the chatter of my older brothers and sisters as they went about their tasks. On an extra cold night, after my own few chores were done, I loved nothing better than to curl up in the straw cart in the darkened front alley, drowsing and listening to the sounds of farm life. The cold constantly nipping at the edges receded pleasantly into the distance, until everyone finished and we walked together through the crisp, hard air under a starlit sky toward the yellow glow that called us to house and supper.

  The Wisconsin winters were long and dark, and our old farmhouse was warm and cozy when we came inside after chores, puffing and stamping our snowy feet. 

  Occasionally we came in to find my mom waiting with a freezer full of fresh custard, ready to be churned into homemade ice cream. We would take turns cranking the handle, swapping out as arms succumbed to weariness. Others would bring in fresh snow supplies as it was packed into the outside bucket along with layers of rock salt. There was need to frequently add snow as it melted and ran out the bottom. As the youngest, my job was often to stand on top of the ice cream freezer to add extra weight and stability. As the cranking got harder, staying there got more difficult, with me hanging on to any pipes overhead I could get hold of, the freezer bucking and tipping with the exertions. About the time it seemed as if it would never end, my mom would finally pronounce it done. 

  Now came the lovely payment for our labors, beginning with the privilege of licking the dasher. Many little mouths made short work of that. And last but not least, the little bowls heaped with creamy goodness, disappearing at a speed that spoke more eloquently than words of our appreciation and enjoyment of the fruit of our labors. 

  Our small one room school always had a Christmas program, with recitations and two or three plays put on for our parents,  community members, and other invited friends from the area. Nerves tingling, shivering in excitement, we stood straight and tall and looked out over the crowd, our sometimes-faltering voices  bravely ringing out to the best of our abilities, and the crowd joining  in for the closing song, Stille Nacht. Afterward, the students exchanged gifts with each other and the teachers, wrapping paper tearing and exclamations filling the air, and the parents and onlookers watching bemusedly.

  And who could forget the tables set up downstairs, groaning with food. All manner of finger foods spread out in a vast array, dazzling with the sheer variety and colors. Hungry children filing past, piling plates high with homemade party mix, chocolate turtles, corn flakes and rice crispy candy, finger jello, caramel popcorn, and reluctantly taking the obligatory sandwich as their mothers watched with hawkish eyes. A once-yearly feast fit for a king.

  As I grew older and joined the youth group, slow horse-drawn hayrides in the December dark became a part of my life. Perched on prickly, pungent hay bales, we laughed and jostled and sang and talked our way to the local nursing home to spend an evening caroling for the elderly there. Along the route we briefly serenaded  neighbors with a carol or two before moving on, often being offered cookies or other snacks as we passed through.

  All these things and many more parade through my memory in a colorful never-ending stream as I take another sip of peppermint tea and gaze out the window as the flakes drift down. I pause to breathe a thank you to the Lord for the mosaic of blessings that make up my life, past and present.