NOTE: This is an on-going story (in ten parts) entitled "The Blizzard Coat." To become more familiar with this entry, be sure to read back posts that entail earlier "parts." Three uneventful seasons had passed and it was winter in Grand Folks once again. With only a semester left to complete before graduation, Annalie found herself sitting in the same Grand Forks coffee shop, this time on the frayed maroon couch with Eddie, marking their one year anniversary.
Eddie placed his Steamline Express next to one of the dragonfly lamps that sat on the oak end table. Two ugly pigeon sculptures watched the pair of them from their spot perched on either side of the lop-sided bookshelf mural that was painted onto the wall behind them. Annalie had just finished telling Eddie the tale of how her parents had spent their honeymoon, again. She gazed out of the window and imagined herself in her mother’s world as a flurry of icy feathers stained the atmosphere in white blotches outside. The most significant thing that Eddie had observed about Annalie during their relationship was how her face glowed in the winter; the sparkle of the snow that reflected in her eyes was the magic that made the season bearable for him. “I really think it’d be nice to be snowed in. No one can come to the door and bother you and you’re left with nothing entirely important to do but sleep and eat,” she paused and sipped her Christmas in a Cup. “It’s just you and your thoughts; it’d almost be like living in a dream.” Eddie smiled. He could never wrap his mind around why Annalie loved everything about the winter. “Yeah, but what if you run out of food or need to get to a doctor? I wouldn’t want to be stuck in a blizzard then.” Annalie pried her eyes off the window and frowned. “That’s not the point," she said and wiped the rim of her mug with her fingers. “Then what is the point?” Eddie asked bluntly. It took a few moments for Annalie to translate her feelings into words so that maybe this time Eddie could understand her. “It’s like you and your dog—” “—my dog?” Eddie asked with a puzzled expression. “Just listen,” Annalie scolded, tapping his wrinkled jeans with her hand. “When you plop down on the couch and the dog rests his head on your lap, you feel comfortable, like it’s home. He’s your best friend but he can’t talk to you and you only get to see him when you go to your Dad’s house for a weekend. But when you drive up to the house, he gallops down the driveway and you both get so excited at the feeling of familiarity and comfort and love. That’s what the snow is for me. I could be around it all the time, smothered in its security and endless conviction.” Annalie paused and took a deep breath. Her eyes reached up to the ceiling and she eagerly searched her mind for the absolute best words to describe her feelings. “A blizzard, to me, would be like an old friend, wrapping their arms around me, protecting me from mundane routine and welcoming me home.” Eddie shook his head and a frivolous chuckle escaped, “Geez Annalie," he started. "Some girls want the moon and the stars, but only you would want a blizzard.” Annalie didn’t say anything but tugged at a loose thread on her sleeve. Eddie, thinking he had just forced a painful splinter into the skin of their relationship, put his arm around her and replied, “If it was ever possible, Annalie, I would give you a blizzard.” Smiling, Annalie shook her head from side to side, brushing away his remark as a joke. “No, really, I promise,” he insisted. “How much snow would you like in your blizzard?” He asked as though he were copying down a recipe. “Three feet? Ten feet? We could go for a world record.” Annalie sighed. “You still don’t get it Eddie.” ”I’m trying to Annalie.” She faced him, placed her pale hand against his scruffy cheek and said, “I know Eddie, that’s why I love you.” Annalie smiled at the memories that the snowfall had brought her. Her mind quickly glanced over the fact that Eddie had taken her to Finland for their honeymoon, in hopes of running into a blizzard. They only experienced Finland’s warmest winter on record. Smiling at her husband’s sweet but stubborn persistence, she tucked young Mason tighter into his blankets and decided to return to bed. The ground would be covered in a thin layer of snow by morning, she hoped, and another flood of memories would overcome her dreams.
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NOTE: This is an on-going story (in ten parts) entitled "The Blizzard Coat." To become more familiar with this entry, be sure to read back posts that entail earlier "parts." When Annalie went away to college, she loved to sit at Clever Grounds Coffee Shop in chilly Grand Folks, North Dakota and stare into the outside world. The place wasn’t crowded with college students in the early chilly mornings, and she often parked herself in front of the window; the people rushing from store to store under their hats and scarves amused her. While partaking in this favorite past time one morning, and sipping a large mug of the shop's signature flavor Christmas in a Cup, she unexpectedly met her future husband, Edwin Evans.
He was trekking through the mounting snow, gracefully stumbling over the heaps that the plows had accumulated against the curb. Short strands of brown hair peeked out from underneath his leather and sheepskin bomber hat. He didn’t bother to wear a coat, only an extra large University of North Dakota sweatshirt that was sodden in melted snowflakes by the time he stumbled into the coffee shop. Annalie eye’s followed him as his wet shoes squeaked across the black and white linoleum floor; she became intrigued by the cheekiness he flaunted towards the weather. She overheard him ask for an advertisement he needed to collect for The Dakota Student newspaper. “Hold on a sec,” the petite barista said with an annoyed tone. She flipped her long auburn hair over her shoulder and disappeared behind a swinging door. While he waited, the young man turned around, leaned on the counter with his elbows and surveyed the few people seeking refuge in the tiny shop. He caught Annalie’s gaze and smiled. She returned a blank stare, much like a deer caught in headlights, and then pulled her textbook a few inches higher to cover her face. “Here, this is what he left on his desk,” the petite barista shoved a manila folder into his hands and he thanked her. He made his way to the door and paused abruptly, as if he had stepped into a puddle of quick drying super glue. “The Biogenetic Foundation of Literary Representation?” A mixture of astonishment and threat coated his words. Annalie brought the book down a few inches, revealing her eyes and the bridge of her nose, knowing that he was reading the title of the book she was holding. “I don’t even understand the title; do you even know what you’re reading?” Feeling offended, a cold rigidness breezed briefly upon Annalie’s face. “My major is biogenetic engineering,” she said matter-of-factly. He could only form his mouth into a surprised, “Oh,” and stared at the book, no doubt trying to translate the title into layman’s terms. “Are you intimidated?” Annalie asked with a smirk. “A little,” he said, creasing his brow. His gaze shifted from the book to her, “I’m Eddie.” She observed his demeanor for a few moments and decided to let go of the offense she took to his earlier comment. “Annalie,” she replied. “So what exactly does a biogenetic engineer do?” Eddie asked, thinking he gotten the green light. He sat down at the chair opposite from Annalie and ordering a tall, foamy Steamline Express from the barista. Annalie sighed in defeat; he was going to stick around for a while, so Annalie began to explain her exciting world of biogenetics to the man who was soaked in winter pennies. NOTE: This is an on-going story (in ten parts) entitled "The Blizzard Coat." To become more familiar with this entry, be sure to read back posts that entail earlier "parts." As a child, Annalie remembered sitting on a deflated, thread bare chair next to the fireplace in the crowded living room of her parent’s house. During the first snowy night of the season, her mother would creep into her daughters’ bedrooms and whisper them awake with the soft spoken sentence, “Girls, the angels are celebrating.” Her mother whole-heartedly believed that angels celebrated the coming of December twenty-fifth by continually dropping “winter pennies,” otherwise known as snowflakes, down to earth. The girls snuggled with their mother in the living room, huddled together in their blankets and sipped Mom’s Super Secret Hot Chocolate Recipe. They drifted back to sleep on the carpeted floor, warmed by the glow of the fireplace, and watched the winter pennies floated against the dark blue sky and collected in teetering layers on the bare arms of the trees outside.
Winter was the season of the Bailer women; summer made them irritable and irrational. In comparison, they weren’t cold and icy, so to say, as most people perceive the winter. These women were rather comforting, familiar, and even exciting at times. Winter always held the thrilling chapters of their lives. Annalie’s parents, for example, were married the morning before the blizzard of ’68 that swathed the town in sixty-three inches of snow. Her mother told Annalie that they had spent their entire honeymoon snowed-in in a little shack a few miles down the road from her grandparents’ house. In one of the few photo albums that her mother owned, Annalie discovered a picture taken during that time, which now stood in an oak frame and hung on wall in her own house. Her mother, short but slender with long dark hair draped across her shoulders, stood against the window frame, her brown turtle neck sweater contrasted greatly against the bright glare of the snow drift that covered half of the window. A faint smile played on her lips as she watched the never ending stream of thick snowflakes tumble to the ground. Once, her mother ran her finger softly across the aged picture while recollecting the story and sighed tenderly, “We felt protected, like Winter covered us in our little burrow and the world was completely our own. It kept us hidden until we were ready to see the world again.” A few years later, Annalie’s oldest brother was born on a warm April day and her mother gave birth to Annalie’s two older sisters in the clammy summer months. Annalie was due in December, a guaranteed winter baby, and the idea of rushing to the hospital to give birth to another daughter under a sea of snowflakes sent excited chills down her mother’s spine. One November night, however, while washing the dishes, Annalie’s mother looked up, and outside the bleak window she witnessed the first winter pennies of the year fall down to earth. Almost immediately she went into an early labor. Annalie was her mother’s Snow Child, her very own winter penny; a noble title that all of her siblings were jealous. |
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