January Silent Night

As for winter, Northern Colorado is not Oregon, and it is not Maryland. Regular temperatures in the teens or lower at night, with wild swings as much as 40 or 50 degrees greater during the day. Having significant amounts of snow still on the ground when the next storm comes is a new experience as well, but not needing studded tires and a relative lack of lost traction when driving around town is novel as well. When the snow falls at night, there is a silence around us, and the build-up on tree branches, lawns, roads, and houses carries on with the layers of blankets over the landscape.

Picea pungens to the right, Kinkade left

I took a picture last night from our second floor landing looking out our the upper living room windows at the house on the corner across the street where the lit window glows like in a Thomas Kinkade painting. I always look at that window when I head upstairs to bed, and with the beginning of the accumulation of snow on our Colorado Spruce tree in the front yard, I thought about the beginning of the Night Before Christmas poem by Clement Clarke Moore, just that January 30th isn't Christmas Eve.

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'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; the stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of sugarplums danced in their heads; and mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, had just settled our brains for a long winter nap; when out on the law there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow, gave a luster of midday to objects below, when, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, with a little old driver so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his courses they came, and he whistled and shouted and called them by name: "Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donner and Blitzen! To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall, now, dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, so up to the housetop the coursers they flew, with the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too. And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof the prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. 

He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot, and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; a bundle of toys he had flung on his back, and he looked like a peddler  just opening his pack. His eyes- how they twinkled! His dimples-- how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry. His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, and the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, and the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath. He had a broad face and a little round belly that shook when he laughed like a bowlfull of jelly. He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, and I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. He spoke not a word, but went straight t his work, and filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk. Laying his finger aside of his nose, and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, and away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight…

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"