Did Someone Hear A Bell
I lived in Southern Pennsylvania for most of my life. Winter memories are stored in my heart like scenes out of a Currier and Ives postcard. We lived down a winding lane where my house was tucked away next to my only neighbors, my dear parents.
Those winters were filled with shoveling and plowing amid snowball fights, building snowmen, and carving toboggan runs, as exhilarating as the Indy 500. The crisp snow would sting our skin as it slipped into our boots, and inside our gloves with frozen mini-crystal balls. No one complained, we had the time of our lives. Of course, the magic always faded when it was time to head off to work the next day.
Snowcrete on Kent Island
As I sit in my new home on Kent Island in Maryland, I find myself encountering a new experience.
Snowcrete.
Unlike the powdery snow of my childhood, this storm delivered a solid sheet of ice at least six inches, as unyielding as concrete. The snowcrete, as the locals call it, could be used as a foundation for the next Empire State Building! There is no hope of shoveling or plowing, making a snowman or having snowball fights, and a four-wheel-drive vehicle doesn’t make a difference in the unmovable cement. The only hope of getting a daily fix outside is a possible skate to the mailbox at the end of the lane, which is quite a distance and, at my age, rather treacherous. The talk on the island, “It hasn’t been this way since 1970.”
And now…
The Bay today!
As I am imprisoned at my keyboard, this snowcrete has caused me to reflect on those winter childhood memories. What I miss most is my doorbell. In my youth, the doorbell inside most every home consisted of long hollow tubes hanging from either a plastic or metal box. Most played the same traditional “Westminster Chimes.” According to the Carroll County Comet article by Susan Holsinger, this sequence of notes makes up the fifth and sixth bars of “I Know My Redeemer Liveth” from Handel’s “Messiah.”
The Old Fashion Door Bell
The doorbell symbolized home and family, who in our house were usually congregated in the kitchen. At the first note of melody, everyone raced toward the front door. My mother or grandmother usually in the lead after shoving us kids aside. We stampeded in a train down a long narrow hallway from the kitchen. Grandma wringing her hands in her apron preparing to greet whoever with eager expectation.
The Ring of Fairy Dust
In my daily routine, writing is solitary. I spend hours waiting for responses from editors and publishers, which test my patience—never my strong suit. The ring doorbell is plugged in unnoticed somewhere in the house and breaks the monotony with a sweet sound as if from Tinkerbell herself is zipping around the room sprinkling her magic dust. I rush toward the door, leaping over my dog Scarlett, who bulldozes her way to greet the arrival with the same enthusiasm as my grandmother decades ago. We are in search of presents; the delivery of packages from Amazon or a new blouse from Macy’s—small presents that I hide before hubby gets home!
Getting ready for the big show!
I must admit the snowcrete here is just as beautiful as bygone days and is ringing the bells of inspiration to create more surprises for 2026! It is locking me in to prepare for my next big event where I hope to see you!
Come see me at The Horse World Expo, Pennsylvania Farm Show Complex with special guest authors, Montie Eagle and Maria Hilagras! This show will kick off my new writing adventure for 2026!
Fingers-crossed that my non-fiction, The Garden of Horses Between Us, and my fictions, Private Mom II and The Last Butterfly will be headed to the publisher later this year!
Happy Reading!
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