I grew up thinking of January as a long, dark penance between Christmas and my birthday at the end of February.  These days it seems even darker and, actually, it is, given the contrast in day length between the Bay Area of California and Oysterville.  But now I can substitute “dreary” for “long.” As I age, the days pass more quickly but they are definitely colder, rainier and grayer here on the northwest coast.

In Oysterville, not much happens in January.  Most of the part-time residents are elsewhere.   The rest of us stick our noses outdoors on an ‘as needed’ basis – to get the mail, to restock the pantry or, for some, to walk the dog.  Or, in our case, to feed the chickens.  Days and weeks go by without seeing neighbors. Visitors to the church and village slow to one or two cars a day.

In the “Introduction” to his Oysterville book, Willard wrote:  In January, tens of thousands of brant, a seaweed-eating goose, lined the edge of the tide.  Their quacking was as mournful, and interminable as a Greek chorus.  About that I can only say “some things don’t change.”

Yesterday, between rain squalls, I took a walk around our garden looking for signs of hope.  There weren’t many yet, except for hundreds of still-tight buds on the camellia bushes.  They’ll be blooming by my birthday at the end of February – definitely a reward for the bother of January!