"Above all, be the heroine of your life, not the victim."

-Nora Ephron

I recently wrote a story to submit to an anthology for Polish writers. I've never been to Poland and genetically, I'm actually Irish, French, and Norwegian. But I was adopted and raised in the Polish ways, so to speak.  

The part I had to leave out of the story, because it was getting to be too long, was how I was also raised in the "Great Depression" ways, only I didn't realize how much having Depression Era parents affected me until I got out into the bigger world. 

I wasn't aware that it was unusual to scrape the remaining egg out of the shells with your fingers as you were frying or scrambling them up. "What are you doing?" people exclaimed, and I looked at them confused as to what the fuss was about.

The same thing with scraping the butter wrapper with a knife and depositing the remains back onto the stick of butter. Silly girl...

Or not throwing away a scrap of paper, until it is completely filled with writing. My Mom saved the envelopes that bills and junk mail came in and wrote her grocery lists and other notes on the unmarked white sides.

I wonder what people would think if they knew I now save the egg shells and crush them up to mix up with the garbage for my worms? The little garbage munchers need some form of calcium and grit for their digestive system.

But at the same time that I have learned to be frugal, I have also learned that some things should be used up and not saved for a special occasion or a rainy day.

Scented candles, gifts of luxurious lotions, and those creative ideas simmering on the back burner need to be taken out of the closets and drawers and used up.

Hoarding them for a rainy day is not frugal it’s foolish.

Life seems so much quieter in winter, slower, with everything waiting, waiting to start anew. I suppose it is different in warmer climes, but here in the Northeast United States, it tends to be the season of hibernation for people and animals alike.

Last week we finally did have some snow for a few days, though it has all melted since this photo was taken.

It's been a limbo sort of winter thus far, not really cold enough to keep us inside, buried under warm clothes and blankets, but not at all warm enough to spend great lengths of time outside, either. Just now I am surrounded by mud and grey and a bare-boned landscape.

But it has been nice enough for walking, on this day I went with my husband and our dog, and we took a little shortcut through the golf course that obviously wasn't being used. But so much has changed since then that just yesterday my husband was able to golf again.

I'm pretty sure that is a record for him, golfing in early February. We have been joking because he is turning 50 in just a few weeks and we have a ski-weekend planned with our children, but we are starting to think it may end up being a golf excursion instead.

(Of course, either one will be fine with me... since I don't ski or golf, I will spend much of my time with my nose in a good book.)

And whether there is snow or mud or something in between, I love the way winter somehow finds a way to hold silence in its heart, cradling it there for a few shorts months and giving it time to ponder.

Because there is nothing more lovely than the perfect hush of a world that has just been covered in snow.

Except, perhaps, the raucous voice of Spring as it bursts from the cold cave of winter.

I guess that even silence can't be expected to sit still forever...