Frankie Pancakes
8th January 2025, 21:21
Winter’s Song
Before winter, even before the first leaves drop, the quiet man is in his shop tuning his snowblower as if it were under the hood of that muscle car he has up on blocks out back. The tarp over top, threadbare and twisted. He got the car as a project for him and his son.
All the kids are retired, so the newspaper is delivered by a slow-rolling car now.
It barely has the girth to be called a newspaper. Instead arriving as a couple of folds inside a thin plastic bag. Not like when I was a kid when that beefy pulp would burst open with the news of the day when liberated from those thick rubber bands.
With the wind and snow, it can be hard to find that little bag. It’s mostly advertisements anyhow. Reprints of approved global stories, with a few quirky local happenings. The football team. The weather. Obituaries.
But she still takes the paper as she always has. The only one on the street. Reads the entire thing.
Her husband died three years ago. She lives alone now.
She will tell you she does just fine, thank you. But her kids do worry about her and all those stairs. She chuckles as she grabs my arm. Part emphasis, part balance. She just takes it “really slowly”, she says. Like her old dog, Muffin.
I don’t know how Muffin is still alive. Muffin is that old. I don’t think Muffin knows either. He just knows he can’t leave her all alone.
A quiet heartfelt piece
For some reason unknown, you need to scroll up a touch to start the essay.
https://www.theburningplatform.com/2025/01/02/winters-song/#more-357569
Before winter, even before the first leaves drop, the quiet man is in his shop tuning his snowblower as if it were under the hood of that muscle car he has up on blocks out back. The tarp over top, threadbare and twisted. He got the car as a project for him and his son.
All the kids are retired, so the newspaper is delivered by a slow-rolling car now.
It barely has the girth to be called a newspaper. Instead arriving as a couple of folds inside a thin plastic bag. Not like when I was a kid when that beefy pulp would burst open with the news of the day when liberated from those thick rubber bands.
With the wind and snow, it can be hard to find that little bag. It’s mostly advertisements anyhow. Reprints of approved global stories, with a few quirky local happenings. The football team. The weather. Obituaries.
But she still takes the paper as she always has. The only one on the street. Reads the entire thing.
Her husband died three years ago. She lives alone now.
She will tell you she does just fine, thank you. But her kids do worry about her and all those stairs. She chuckles as she grabs my arm. Part emphasis, part balance. She just takes it “really slowly”, she says. Like her old dog, Muffin.
I don’t know how Muffin is still alive. Muffin is that old. I don’t think Muffin knows either. He just knows he can’t leave her all alone.
A quiet heartfelt piece
For some reason unknown, you need to scroll up a touch to start the essay.
https://www.theburningplatform.com/2025/01/02/winters-song/#more-357569