In our corner of the world, in winter, the nights are very long.
You would think that I'd find it aggravating; having so few hours of sunlight during our 'waking' part of the day.
For a period of time, the street lights are coming on when the school children are just getting home.
And don't shut off until they are safely back in class the next morning.
One does everything in the dark.
Early morning walks.
Extra curricular activities.
But I love it.
For a few months, Life seems to slow down.
Family comes home earlier.
And stays longer.
But I have one memory that makes the darkness . . . special.
Let me tell you about it . . .
On the ranch, meals were served like clockwork.
Breakfast, lunch and dinner appeared with amazing regularity.
And an equal amount of delicious-ness.
During winter, at least two of those meals were prepared and served with stars in the sky.
With the modern conveniences of electricity, this was not a handicap.
Mom worked with every imaginable electronic gadget.
In a brilliantly lit kitchen.
As the rest of the house darkened with the fading sunlight, the kitchen remained a beacon.
It called to all of us.
As suppertime neared, I would shut off the lamp in my bedroom and, without stopping to turn on any more lights, walk quickly along the dark hallway.
And that's the part I remember most clearly.
Seeing the light flooding out of every doorway leading into the kitchen.
Moving from the dark into a world of light, fragrance, warmth.
Mom orchestrating and/or supervising numerous pots and kettles and children.
The rest of the kids already seated.
An evening of great food and wonderful company ahead of me.
Mom is gone, now.
My siblings scattered throughout North America.
But whenever I come from a darkened hallway into a lighted kitchen, I feel that same anticipation.
That same joy I first felt over fifty years ago.
And that time and life experiences cannot fade.
Stepping from darkness into light.
The light that is family.