Portrait in Winter

Deep in the night, the unsilent snow whispers down beyond the windows. Some days it is not nearly so hushed, scratching against the panes, the wind moaning or howling as it wends its wild way around the corners of the house. 

In the library tonight, my desk slumbers quietly; other nights it is restless, laying in wait for me, ready to pounce if I venture near it. On such nights we will wage a raging battle, until one of us wins – I wrest from it some treasure it dares me to claim as mine own, or I fall asleep, forehead bumping against the keyboard that seems to rise, whacking me awake to battle more.

Leslie Venable, Life magazine, January 8, 1945

The library is dimly lit; there is a desk lamp, down-turned green glass shade illuminating the work space on tonight’s quiet desk; blue glow of printer on-light; flicker of LED-flame candles on bookcase shelves - no heat to burn the precious volumes. In one window a banshee hovers above a reading gremlin; on the tippy-top of another bookcase a skull dimly glows. Below, in a corner, a gargoyle shows teeth as it squats, ready to jump. To one side, my mother-in-law the Model peers through the gloom, forever captured on a Life magazine cover, and above her the Tall Dude and the Musician look on. In the dark depths of one bookcase, a Chinese warrior ever stares at me; he won’t stop staring; he is ever disquieting. Through the double doors on the opposite side of the room, in the dim deepness of the living room, I hear snores, quiet shufflings, rhythmic loud breathing and at times a dream-squeak or rowl: the barkie boys and the furry people are sleeping, but will rapidly rise if I make any movement toward the source of all goodness: the night kitchen.

The Model, the imp, the gremlin and the banshee are haunts from earlier times who companionably share space with me and remind me of things I love. The Tall Dude, though ever wakeful on my library wall, I know is now slumbering and snuffling and sleep-muttering in his own dark house, next town over; the Musician at this late hour is as apt to be sitting at his baby grand, in the palely-illumined darkling depths of his house in the far Kingdom, doing battle with his own Muse, as I am here at my own desk; the Husband has long since ascended to the flannel sheets to ride out the night in a sensible way. I know that in sinking Florida, Kai is not long awoken from her daytime sleep, moving about her brightly-lit house, wondering what to eat for breakfast; The British Car Gal will now be in the deepest depths of sleep, soon to stir towards her early rising about the time I finally climb the stairs towards bed. There are no lights visible at out-back neighbor Eddie’s house; even the lanterns that dimly shine through the night hanging from trees along his property are dark tonight, swallowed by the snowfall. These and dozens of other pale threads of heart-connections wind love-knots in my spirit, comforting webs that can be lifted and lovingly caressed. I breathe a midnight blessing along them all.

The Chinese warrior has a story. He is, in fact, a gift from the Singer via the Sailor; she has a friend who is one of the company at the Metropolitan Opera in New York City. Every so often, the Met needs to renew its costumes, eliminating ones that will never be used again when productions change their presentations. Those who know can, at those times, acquire cast-offs; the warrior is one of those. I’ve lost the tag that told me the production it was from; but what it is, is a black Chinese foot-soldier’s helmet, with open face space in front for the actor, and, painted in white on the helmet’s back side, with startling realism, a Chinese face that pops out from the dark in full-human-sized 3-D wonder. I can imagine an on-stage troop of these characters – no matter which way they were facing, they would  seem to be looking at the audience; it would have been amazing, and creepy, and if worn in a real battle, would be totally frightening. I do so admire the unknown artist who conceived this piece.

A library, by definition – even a very small library in a tiny room in a home – is filled with works of art and old friends. Mine has many loved books, many oft-watched DVDs, dozens of CDs, and, stored away, vinyl from the dark ages when we were youngstahs. On one shelf is a covered bowl with twisted snakes forming a handle that the Model got in Greece; on another, a pottery jar containing a scarab given to me by an old friend. There are wooden bowls and pottery vases, woven baskets and sewn cloth bowls, a hand-made kaleidoscope, a set of chess men, a Chinese sword to scare off ghosts. A guitar hangs on the door frame, photos on the walls. Calla lilies live on one window sill, small glass and metal and ceramic and wooden critters march across another. In boxes and binders and baskets and piles lie the bones of the work we do, the work waiting to be done, the paper passages of the roads of our lives.

Deep in the dark night, deep in the snow time, all this – all this – is the body of my soul.

All photos by Deb Marshall

Originally published in the Concord Monitor as “Library Stories”, February 8, 2017.