Snow in Our French Garden

How changeable life can be.

One morning, I looked outside and discovered that winter had quietly arrived overnight. Snow was falling softly, dressing the garden in white. Blossoms that only yesterday had welcomed spring now stood wrapped in frost, as if suddenly remembering patience.

Tiny crocuses folded their delicate petals and bravely faced the cold. By evening, the garden had almost disappeared beneath snow.

And yet, by the next morning, everything had begun to melt.

To my surprise, the crocuses had survived beautifully. They stood there like little heroes, unbroken by the cold night. Perhaps I imagined it, though they seemed somehow fresher, sparkling with frozen droplets on their petals like tears or tiny jewels. Around them, the snow melted first, as if their quiet warmth had gently persuaded the earth to wake again.

Then came another mystery.

Large footprints crossed the snow near the garden.

Far too large for our cat.

Could it possibly be the Hound of the Baskervilles wandering through rural France? 😄

I brought firewood from the shed and lit the fireplace. Soon the house felt warm again, wrapped in that particular kind of winter coziness only old homes seem to know.

And then, as always, came Blackie.

She was our French cat, though technically she belonged to no one and everyone at once. Intelligent, independent, and wonderfully dignified, Blackie never walked fully into the house. She preferred to remain near the doorway, accepting affection on her own terms. She appreciated good food, showed excellent manners, and seemed especially fond of my cooking.

Naturally, we decided she should stay.

Or perhaps, more truthfully—

Blackie decided we could stay with her.

First written on 31 December 2012, during a snowy winter in our French home.