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When
winter's
breath
announces
the
season,
I
think
of
the
shack
of
my
childhood:
cracks
in
the
walls,
wind
rushing
in,
icicles
hanging
from
the
eaves,
water
frozen
inside
the
water
bucket
on
the
back
porch.
How
strange
that
my
mind
embraces
images
of
Christmas
warmth:
Daddy
dozing
by
the
crackling
hearth,
Mama
in
the
dim
kitchen,
cracking
pecans
for
Christmas
cakes,
supper
simmering
on
the
old
wood
stove.
I'm
sitting
at
the
table,
wanting
to
eat,
watching
Mama.
"The
meat
is
tough,"
she
tells
me,
"it
will
take
a
while."
She
smiles,
puts
down
the
hammer-cracker,
then
cooks
me
a
hoecake
on
top
of
the
stove.
Copyright
©
1998
Ruth
Gillis
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