The Winter Glow: A Family's Night of Storytelling and Warmth

A Winter's Hug: The Story of the Brantleys at Home

Snowflakes fell like mere whispers, silently settling over the quiet little town's streets and rooftops. As soon as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, pale pink radiance spread itself out on that cold, white landscape, warming the Brantley family house with smells of cinnamon and nutmeg and crinkles of firewood. Winter had finally come along with a greatly loved tradition for this very night: Family Story Night.

But still, for Brantleys, that cold season is not about warming up but also about memories wrapped up like a quilt and ties nourished with years. The first three of them behold their first fall of snow for winter. All of them converge in the living room, then recall together and layer more from new ones onto old ones. Just as snowfall sometimes piles up on the ground outside. That's how great-grandfather Brantley started this many years ago. For them, it is the most precious ritual of all.

It crackled and danced and hurled about that room in this soft orange glow of the fireplace within the Brantley house. The youngest, Ellie, quilted up on the floor, where she was enjoying her mom's hot apple cider. Her big brother Sam sprawled out on the couch; his mug of steaming hot chocolate faced her. Grandpa Brantley settled into his favorite armchair—the old, worn leather seat that seemed almost as much a part of him as the twinkling eyes in his face. His warm, rich voice filled up the space with comfort and drew in his whole family so close, away from the cold outside.

"Grandpa!" exclaimed Ellie, her face full of excitement. "Tell us the story of your first winter with Grandma!"

His eyes lit, and a smile seemed to burrow into his cheeks. He chuckled, flipping through memories like pages in a book, hunting just for the right one. "Ah, that was a winter to remember, he said, settling back into his chair. "Your granny and I, well, we were practically kids, and I'd just come aboard my post. We hadn't much of anything—and certainly not enough to affort any fancy digs—but we had each other, and that is enough to keep warm."

Across her face played a look of avid fascination as the small children leaned forward in their chairs, wide-eyed and agog with delight. Even Mrs. Brantley, who had heard the tale for the hundredth time, smiled benevolently as she sipped cider from her mug.

He speaks softly, as if directly to the friends, about a cabin deep in the woods where he and Grandma spent that first winter they lived there. Well, money was scarce, so the cabin was pretty small—just a room, drafty windows, and an old, rickety old stove. Now, all the deficiencies of the little shack had become for him some sort of treasure because of the warm winter days spent here.

He says, looking out the window past falling snow, it was a kind of snow. When this happened in those days, we came all dressed up to the nines in every coat and scarf we owned and trudged off to make snow angels in the field over by the house. He remembers that she had laughed so hard that she'd turned red as a tomato.

She can imagine her grandmother to be this much younger frivolous woman at play in the snow and laugh out with alacrity, her cheeks flushing at the thought of hours spent outdoors as their hair sparkled with snow and their numb fingers as they rushed into the warmth of the house. Close, all curled under one thick quilt, they'd share a cup of steaming hot chocolate. She stinted on it sharply so that it would last for the rest of the season. We take the tiniest little sips so that it lasts longer, Grandpa winked.

And if it suddenly turned chilly at night, she'd hum old songs—song lullabies from her childhood sometimes—and that would suffice to warm up the whole world all over again.

For sitting room Brantleys, all his household peered through the ingenuity of the two youths there, how Grandpa and Grandma made the best of that little, cold cabin, and what filled the room with such an element of nature as the stories brought warmth to that fire-lit room, almost she hummed softly in silence.

You'd like our Story Night, Grandpa?" Sam's voice was low, soft.

Salty tears welled up in Grandpa Brantley's eyes, and a huge smile shone brightly. "Oh, she'd love it, Sam. She'd be right here with us, and she'd probably have a whole lot of stories to share herself." Aft points to each family member's faces, then tears well in his eyes. "It's traditions like this that keep her close.". A fragrance of gingerbread cookies that her mother freshly baked in a tray wafted into the room, mixed with cider and firewood. Cookies were finger food. Crumbs lay strewn across the softness of the couch. Grandpa tells funny stories about years ago, when Grandma locked herself out in the snow.

The lumps of dough hanging there, the first Christmas tree together, nothing standing between but a paper ornament.

None of that was left to the hours slipping away as they laughed and joked and teased each other and rubbed warm smiles. The smallest little story of a new layer of comfort and connection. Outside it snowed in thick, silent drifts; inside hardly seemed to be there at all.

Then, when the fires had smoldering down a little and gone to embers and the children asleep, Grandfather Brantley drew them close in warm arms. "Remember," he whispered softly, "family is like fire on cold nights; it warms you no matter how cold the night might be outside."

Each went to bed full and content. But on this night, all space would be filled, and in it, the closing in of coldness banished. And so with every tale told—or every memory shared—the Brantleys wove themselves a blanket of warmth to last through winter—and all of their lives. It was the first snowfall for the Brantleys. To the Brantleys—and to anyone, and for everyone who has cherished family on a cold, snowy night—it will forever remind them of love, laughter, and memories that never grow old, no matter what season may be.