You Can't Get Too Much Winter

The unyielding winter mornings in Montana never fail to impress. The windowpanes layered with a non-negotiable covering of ice and frost always seem to amplify the bitter cold, encouraging the unforgiving chill in the air to surround anything or anyone within its reach. This morning more than most I felt myself firmly held by the winter’s ice-cold and insensitive grip. Not even the inviting aroma of coffee filling the house could shake the feeling that something mystifying was occurring and I had to admit to myself the shiver that ran down my spine had nothing to do with winter.

As if on cue my little Yorkie Jackson began to anxiously bark at the door breaking me out of my curious train of thought. He stands all but nine inches high and today he was working extremely hard to deliver an authoritative message to the frigid world that beckoned beyond the solid wood door that stood before him. With a look he had trained me to understand he told me there was someone, something outside.

Glancing at the digital time display on my phone it indicated that it was 6:15 AM. Odd, who would be coming to visit at a such an early hour on a Saturday. I waited for a knock, nothing. Scraping a small portal out of the thick ice and frost that stubbornly clung to the door window I managed to get a decent look out at the front steps and front yard. Nothing. Assured that no one was lurking outside I slowly opened the door. A blast of arctic air greeted me causing me to freeze mid step. Wrapping my arms tightly around me I marshaled the bravery to peek out at the day. Dawn was doing its best to deliver some sunlight as the cool blue horizon began to rise out of the iciness of the night.

Once again Jackson brought me back to the moment at hand. With the agility of a gazelle, he flew in the air past me. Running as if his life depended on it, he pounced on an object at the bottom of the steps and with a growl and a yelp he proclaimed victory. I cautiously maneuvered my way down the slick steps as my teeth chattered and my eyelashes began to freeze. Jackson moved away from his prize and looked at me with concern. I managed to pat him on the head and praised him for his courageous catch. Inspecting his acquisition, I realized I was staring down at an old and battered metal lunchbox. By now my hands were stinging and burning but I could not resist investigating further. No ticking sound so I gently gave it a kick, no unusual rattling. No strange smell coming from it, so I gingerly picked up the time worn lunchbox. I could tell it was not empty because there was some weight to it. I decided it was safe and figured the Hell gate winds southeast of Glacier National Park transported it to the steps of my house. With that, I cautioned Jackson to carefully follow me back inside.

Once safely secured in the warmth of my home I headed straight for the kitchen. A hot and strong cup of coffee was needed now more than ever to bring me to my senses. Placing the lunchbox on a kitchen chair I raced to the cupboard, grabbed the biggest mug I had, and generously poured out the steamy dark brew and promptly sat down in the kitchen chair directly across from Jackson’s unusual discovery. Awe bliss. Sharply, Jackson redirected me from my internal journey of peace and harmony with a loud pitiful whimper to remind me we had some business to take care of.

I stared at the lunchbox not exactly sure if I wanted to open it. Moving closer to it I visually inspected the outside. The body of the box had dings and pitting, the rubber on the handle was cracking and the latches were water stained. Imprinted in the metal at the top of what I now considered to be a vintage piece of lunch ware, the word Aladdin. Laughing out loud, I wondered to myself, perhaps it contains three wishes.

Taking the final swig of my coffee I decisively placed the mug next to the coffeemaker behind me and pulled the metal box from the chair across from me and walked over to the kitchen countertop next to the sink and contemplatively put it down.

Taking a deep breath, I deliberately popped each latch and slowly opened the lid. Confused and totally unnerved, staring back at me was a handwritten note that had been attached with a large paperclip to a little black notebook. The note was written to me. “Anna, here’s to hopes and dreams and an outstanding future.” Hands shaking, I carefully pulled the notebook out of the lunchbox and opened it. Taped inside the front cover a key. On the front page a quote written with care “You can’t get too much winter in the winter” by Robert Frost. All other pages blank.

The digital ringtone Montana Moon filled the air interrupting the overwhelming sense of bewilderment that was encompassing my current state of mind. The caller ID… Mom. Reluctantly I answered. Mom began the conversation with “I hope you are having a nice Saturday”. But before I could respond she cut right to the chase. “Anna, I need your help. I am scheduled for Volunteers for In-Home Companion Visits today and I have a conflict. Please fill in for me. I visit a couple times a month with Mrs. Matson. She’s a lovely elderly lady and genuinely appreciates the company. Okay Anna? Anna?”

Two hours later traveling US 12 from Helena to Anaconda in my trusty 4-wheel drive Yukon I looked over at Jackson curled up in his travel seat. Bundled in his tiny coat he appeared to be content. Why could I never say no to my Mom? And why did I feel compelled to bring that old lunchbox and its cryptic contents? Off in the distance I could see the old miner town. The Big Sky canopied the town attired in an azure blue mantle, wispy clouds slowly traversing its great expanse. I told myself visiting with Mrs. Matson could prove to be grounding on this wintry day.

Just before noon I turned onto E Park St and looked for the third house on the right. Mom said it was a wood and brick faded green house with a gabled roof. Mom’s directions were spot on and the little house was exactly where she said it would be complete with a front porch and gated entrance. I took a moment to acknowledge the many memories that must have taken place inside the walls of Mrs. Matson’s home. I parked the car got out and opened the passenger side door and gently picked up Jackson carefully waking him from his nap. Opening the gate, I walked up the paved path to the front steps. By now Jackson was wide awake and encouraged me to go the door with a quick yap.

With a light touch I rapped on the door. The door opened cautiously, and a lyrical voice called out. “Anna?” Surprised by her inquiry I let her know that I indeed was Anna. The door was now completely open and a tiny woman with a set of cheerful eyes and snow-white hair invited me in. She moved like a calm breeze carefully weaving her way through the humble living room. The lighting was low, and a cozy warmth embraced me. She directed me to “the settee”. My vision adjusted to the indoors and I noticed at once the aged upright piano. The piano was in pristine condition. Its wood exterior warm and rich and thoughtfully cared for. Mrs. Matson was pleased to witness my appreciation of her beautiful instrument and proceeded to tell me that the antique piano was her pride and joy.

Jackson was unusually calm and seemed to understand the importance of being serene and polite. To my utter amazement he gladly sat at attention and commanded a striking noble presence that belied his petite size for the lady of the house. My immediate thought. Maybe he and I should visit more often. Snapping to attention I realized Mrs. Matson was asking me “What is his name? He is so sweet.”

I formally introduced her to Jackson and the cheerful eyes that had welcomed me began to well up with tears. Unsure of what had caused the change in her demeanor I shifted awkwardly on the settee. She took my hand and apologized and softly said. “My late Husband was Jackson Matson. He was the love of my life. I met him as a young girl. He and his Mom and Dad lived next to my Grandmother.” She stood and walked over to the piano and told me the piano had been her Grandmother’s and she inherited it when she was a young woman. Jackson loved to listen to her play and after they formally fell in love and married, they sat many a night at the piano dreaming of things to come. He told her one day he would buy her the grandest grand and he would one day watch her play on a grand stage wearing a grand suit in the front row.

Casting my eyes to the floor overcome with emotion I quickly thanked her for sharing such special memories with me. Uncomfortable with the intimacy I was experiencing with this woman I barely knew I glanced around the room and noticed an old trunk. To change the subject, I stood up and walked towards the trunk. But she went on. “The last time I saw him was a wintry day, much like this day. He was headed for the mines, that was where he worked”. She went silent and then sadly said… “I still remember his last words… “You can’t get too much winter in the winter.””

Those words stopped me dead in my tracks right in front of the trunk. Shocked I looked down at the trunk, and etched into the wood, Anna and Jackson’s Hopes and Dreams. Whirling my head around to face Mrs. Matson, without thinking I asked her what was in the trunk. I don’t t know was her answer. She then told me Jackson kept it locked and that he would open it when he was ready to share. She never had the heart to try to find a way to open it.

Startling Mrs. Matson, I commanded Jackson to stay and burst out the front door, retrieved the old lunchbox out of the car, rushed back into the house and handed it to Anna Matson. Her hands began to tremble. She whispered… Jackson. She popped the latches of the old lunchbox and carefully pulled out the little black notebook, opened it, her shock evident when she saw the key and note. As she traced the words of the note with her delicate fingers a tear rolled down her face.

Key hugged to her heart she went to the trunk and inserted it. The lock turned. Mrs. Matson carefully opened the lid and as her eyes fell on the contents of the trunk she gasped. Inside, a stuffed envelope, written on it in bold black ink $20,000 and a picture of a grand piano. Underneath the envelope and picture a formal black dress suit.

There are no words to explain the how or why of my chance meeting with Mrs. Matson. Maybe the mysterious workings of the Universe were on full display that day or possibly it was simply fate. I don’t know.

It’s been a year since the visit and Mrs. Matson recently passed away. Mom told me she established a music scholarship in memory of her late husband. Gazing out the window I called to Jackson, “You can’t get too much winter in the winter.”