In the early days of January, 2010, the morning air is cutting and cold and the fog blocks out the tops of buildings and all glimpses of the sky.  The heater is on, and a cup of scalding tea sits cooling on the kitchen counter.  The baby has been awake since 5:00 a.m., Mommy has left for work on little sleep,  and we have already read the tales of Hercules and watched the adventures of Little Bear, Duck, Hen, Cat, and Mother and Father Bear.  The living room is full of toys and in the center is a slide that has been transformed into a sailing ship.  We are loading all the dolls and stuffed animals for a voyage, and slide the dolls down the gangplank/slide into the murky depths of the cotton pile carpet.  

Taking a little rest while Daddy is home for a brief break, I have decided to write about winter.  It is in the winter that we become more reflective and slow down, keeping our hands warm in our pockets and our ears warm with our wooly hats.  The pace of life slows little on the Northern California coastal city of San Francisco.  Tourists still flock to town like geese on the migratory paths, stopping along the way to yet another destination.  Locals continue on with daily chores and activities, seldom slowing to consider life in the relentless city.  Beside the Bay the whiff of sea air and oil from passing ships is evident when we walk along the Embarcadero. Always loved the smell of a harbor. Sailboats moored like herds of cows rock back and forth in their docks, forgotten until the weekends or inviting sunny days.  

I have no idea how long I will keep writing in my winter diary, but it seems like a good thing to do when it’s winter.  If I were in Oregon, the seasons change in markedly drastic ways, and lifestyles do as well.  I miss the seasons in their stark contrast to one another.

It’s now February, and the days are growing longer...lighting up the skies. The rains have come, watering down the sidewalks, sending people scurrying indoors, under umbrellas, or holding jackets, newspapers or arms to ward off the occasional deluge. Mostly, it’s “misty, moisty mornings, when cloudy is the weather...”  Haven’t met any old men “clothed all in leather...” yet.  

The sun bursts through banks of clouds, the sunsets are pink and gray over the headlands and surging Pacific Ocean.  We can see all the way to Bird Island, one of the many channel islands that lay off the coast. Little one is wearing pink Hello Kitty boots and raincoat, and loves to splash in as many muddy puddles as she can find.  

Baked a cake and cookies for Mommy’s birthday, though that isn’t for a couple of months.  Baking is a joy in winter, and the cupcakes tasted good. We put applesauce and sour cream in place of sugar, and decorated the tops with sprinkles. Little One and I got chocolate frosting all over our hands, arms, faces, and clothes, and we had to lick it off our fingers.  

Yesterday we watched a family of four all trying to stay dry under one tiny red umbrella. They laughed and hugged, but didn’t stay very dry. Do you think they cared?

We planted some bean seeds, and are impatiently waiting for our bean stock to grow.  Ours has no ogre living upstairs, just a nice lady named Dallas. 

Daddy and Little One are off to the park and then to  meet Mommy for lunch.  

Writing about grandparenting takes place in the minutes and hours between bath time, meals, playing tag, on-and-off-again sleep, snuggle-up naps, and story after story, song after song, day after day of winter in the City.  

This afternoon we may plant a garden in the pots on the back porch, and check to see the new growth on the lemon tree and the lilac.  We will pick some parsley and thyme from the herb garden, and make something good with chicken and rice.  Winter is a time for puttering and playing and creating peace in our lives, hearts, and memories. Being a grandmother is like homemade soup....satisfying and hearty.