Winter

Meet Clara Thimblewick — A Holiday Note from Little Red Bear Land

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From the Winter Desk of Clara Thimblewick

INTRODUCTION —

As we make our way through this busy December stretch, I thought it might be nice to pause for just a moment and share a quiet word from someone new in our Honey Hill world — someone many of you first met a few days ago in “The Lantern in Clara Thimblewick’s Window.”

Clara Thimblewick will soon be stepping into an important role in our community. Beginning in January, she will serve as the Editor of The Hearth & Holler Gazette, guiding our weekly wanderings through Honey Hill, Hopper’s Holler, Round Corners, and beyond with a steady hand and a thoughtful eye.

After spending much of her life working in newspapers back East, Clara has returned to Missouri to take up this new post and, in her words, “to resume a more measured life than present-day city rhythms permit.”

As a small seasonal greeting — and an early chance to become acquainted — Clara wished to offer a brief message to readers here on The Writing Pages. I am delighted to share her note with you today.

A Holiday Note from Clara Thimblewick —

It is my hope that this message finds you in a moment of quiet, however small such moments may be in December. The soft light of winter has a way of inviting reflection, even in the midst of the season’s many demands, and I am grateful for the opportunity to address you for the first time.

Although my name may be unfamiliar to you at present, please allow me to offer a brief introduction. I was raised in Missouri during childhood, later sent East for my schooling, and remained there for many years while building a career in the newspapers. I have now returned home to serve as Editor of The Hearth & Holler Gazette, a responsibility I accept with both humility and resolve. It is my intention to honor the stories of this community with clarity, fairness, and respect.

There is much work ahead as we prepare the Gazette for its January debut. New ventures often bring with them a quiet sense of anticipation, and I feel it very keenly. In time, I hope to become a familiar presence in your weekly reading — not by insistence, but by steady and conscientious service.

For now, I simply wish to extend to you my warmest regard during this winter season. May the quieter hours be gentle company to you and may the small lights along your path — a lamp in a window, a friendly word, a simple kindness — bring you a measure of comfort as the year draws to its close.

With sincere respect,
Clara Thimblewick 
Editor, “The Hearth & Holler Gazette” 

 

 

CLOSING THOUGHTS —

I hope Clara’s note brought a touch of calm to your day. She will be joining us more regularly once the Gazette begins its weekly visits in January, and I am looking forward to the steady presence she will bring to our little corner of Honey Hill Country.

Thank you for reading and settin’ a spell with us today.

— Jim (and Red!)

If you would enjoy a weekly visit to Little Red Bear’s Honey Hill Country, you are already in the right place. A simple subscription to The Writing Pages is all that is required. Beginning in January, the Hearth & Holler Gazette will arrive automatically each week, bringing a small slice of Honey Hill Country to your doorstep.

 

P.S. from Little Red Bear — “Clara is too polite to say it, but I am not — you ought to sign up for the Gazette. Good things are on the way, and I would hate for you to miss out.”

Blessings Along the Way — Reflections on a December Birthday

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A Quiet Pause, a Warm Cup of Tea, and a Few Thoughts at Seventy-Six

Along with the steady accumulation of years, there’s something about December that slows a fellow down a bit, isn’t there? The days grow short, the evenings settle early, and the whole world seems to take a long, frosty breath before Christmas comes shining around the bend. It’s a fine time to step back for a quiet moment, look around, and take stock of the blessings scattered along one’s path — some large, many small, all of them worth noticing.

And as it happens, today is my birthday — another turn around the sun, another year of stories shared, friendships cherished, and small joys gathered up like pinecones on a woodland walk.

Seventy-six of those turns now, which seems as good a number as any to pause for a moment and look back with a bit of gratitude — and perhaps a chuckle or two. I don’t make much fuss of birthdays anymore. These days, there’s more comfort in a warm cup of tea, a cozy chair, and the gentle thought that I’ve been granted one more year to try and put a little good into the world. Isn’t that enough of a celebration all on its own?

As I sit with that thought, I find myself feeling grateful — deeply so — for all of you who stop by to spend a few moments with me here on The Writing Pages and out in Honey Hill Country. Your kindness, your notes, your visits — they brighten my days more than you may know. In a world that can feel hurried and rough-edged at times, this little community has become a place of warmth and neighbourly goodwill. And that is a rare and treasured gift.

If birthdays teach anything, it’s to take nothing for granted — the people in our lives, the quiet mercies, the laughter that catches us by surprise, and the steady companionship of stories. And speaking of laughter, I find myself laughing more freely these days — from those spontaneous outbursts when something just plain tickles my funny bone, to shared belly laughs with friends and family, to the occasional gut-busting guffaw that invites a touch of embarrassment now and again. I’ve learned over the years that not taking oneself too seriously is good for the soul — and for the blood pressure. The world could do with a little more laughter, don’t you think?

And along with laughter, I’ve come to believe something simple but steadfast about folks in general — that if you look for the best in people, you’ll usually find it in good abundance. Will Rogers said, “I never met a man I didn’t like,” and I’ve found that, by and large, to be true in my own wanderings. Left to our own accord, most people are good-natured, helpful, and doing the best they can with the lives they’ve been given. Inside, we’re all more alike than different — hoping for a bit of steadiness, a touch of joy, and a safe, loving place for those dear to us. It’s a thought I may return to in more detail after the new year, because it feels worth lingering on — especially in the times we’re living through.

We each must follow our own wandering trail through life, but it surely helps to have a bit of company along the way. One of my most faithful companions these past years has been Little Red Bear, living rent-free in my head — though he’d tell you he pays his way in stories, laughter, and the occasional good idea.

Red and his friends, and all the kindly souls of Honey Hill Country, are always reminding me to meet the world with a bit more compassion, a bit more patience, a generous helping of good humour, and to be a light for others where we can. Those old, shared teachings — the simple ones about kindness, compassion, empathy, love, and helping others — seem to echo through their adventures. And Red asked me to mention he’s saying hello, but he’s whispering it because he doesn’t want me raising his rent.

Another year older? Yes. But also another year of trying to notice the good along the way, appreciate the simple, and share a bit of light wherever possible. In the end, aren’t those the things that carry us through the years and seasons?

So thank you, truly, for walking this path with me. For reading, for caring, for sharing a portion of your own days here. The road ahead is sure to bring its share of hills and hollers, but travelling it with good company makes all the difference.

Here’s to another year of shared stories, hope, kindness, and whatever small wonders and adventures we may enjoy along the way.

— Jim (and Red!)

P.S. from Little Red Bear —
Little Red Bear says he’s happy to walk this winding path with me — but he wants everyone to know he’s the one carrying the snacks.

 

 

 

Welcome to Honey Hill Country!

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A Gentle Orientation for New Friends and Longtime Neighbours

There is a certain quiet that settles over the hollers when December takes hold — a quiet you can almost feel, the way you might feel the weight of a warm quilt laid gently across your shoulders. The wind comes down off the ridges a little sharper this time of year, slipping between the bare branches and rattling the porch boards just enough to remind you that winter has indeed arrived. And if you happen to look out across the valley at dusk, you may notice a lantern glowing in a window here and there, yellow and soft against the early dark, as though each home were setting out a small welcome for travelers on the road.

It seemed to me, while watching one of those lanterns bobbing along the path the other evening, that it might be time to offer a word of welcome myself — especially for anyone new wandering into The Writing Pages, or for long-time friends who may be wondering about this place we so often visit together and the changes you have been seeing. I realized that the sights and sounds we describe — these lantern-lit evenings and soft-spoken neighbours and wood smoke rising in the hollows — may not make much sense without knowing where — and when — we are standing.

So let me pull back the curtain just a little.

In these pages, when we speak of Honey Hill Country, we are stepping into the world and time of my main story character, Little Red Bear, as it was in December of 1903, and soon, as we come to the gentle turning of the calendar page from 1903 into 1904. Automobiles exist but remain a curiosity; electricity flickers in the cities but has scarcely reached the countryside.

Here in Honey Hill Country, life is still measured by the seasons, not the seconds. Lanterns guide our evenings. You can hear locomotives huffing and chuffing through the countryside, ribbons of smoke unfurling behind them clear to the horizon. And along the wide rivers, the old steamboats travel slow and steady, paddlewheels turning like great clocks while calliopes lift their bright notes over the water. Folks talk face-to-face because there is no other way worth mentioning. A pot of beans on the stove counts as good hospitality, and neighbourliness is something you do, not something you merely talk about.

Why 1904, you might ask?

Well, it is a year standing right on the threshold between the old and the new. The St. Louis World’s Fair, “The Louisiana Purchase Exposition,” is on the horizon, promising wonders from every corner of the globe, yet here in the hills and hollers of Missouri, daily life remains close to the soil — simple, practical, familiar. There is a charm in that moment of balance, a gentleness, as though the whole world were taking a long breath before rushing onward. It feels like the right place to set down our stories — far from the noise of modern life, but close enough to recognize ourselves in the faces around the hearth.

Honey Hill Country isn’t on any map, of course. It lives somewhere between memory and imagination — a small, steadfast corner of southern Missouri and the Ozarks Mountain Region, where the kettle always seems to be singing, the porch is always open for settin’ a while, and kindness hasn’t yet gone out of fashion. And yes, it is “settin’,” and not “sitting,” around these parts. Settin’ is something folks in the Ozarks and Honey Hill Country do — we “set.” City and modern-day folks “sit.” And there is a difference. Many readers have told me they come here for a bit of comfort, a chance to slow down, to reconnect with a gentler pace of living. And truth be told, I write for the very same reason.

Now, as to the neighbours who populate these parts — Little Red Bear most of all — I should confess that I never quite know when he’s going to show up. Sometimes he arrives with a story to tell, sometimes with a question, and sometimes just because the cookies and biscuit tin are within easy reach.

In fact, as I was here writing this welcome, there came the sound of boots — well, paws — on the porch, followed by a brisk knock. The door swung open and in stepped Little Red Bear himself, brushing snowflakes off his fur and carrying a lantern that threw warm light across the room.

Red leaned over my shoulder like he owned the place.

“Whatcha writin’ there, Jim?” he asked. “Looks serious. One of those times when you’re tryin’ to sound like that Mark Twain fella again?”

“Red,” I said, “Mark Twain had more wit and wisdom in his little finger than I’ve got in my whole body. I’m just trying to say hello to the good folks stopping by.”

He squinted at the page. “Mmm. Coulda fooled me. That line there’s got a little twang to it. You plannin’ to grow yourself one of those big mustaches like his? Get a white suit, too? ’Cause if you do, I’m headin’ straight back to my cabin till spring.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “The holler’s barbers have nothing to fear from me.”

Little Red Bear teasingly pulled my ponytail and nodded in agreement.

Red then mumbled something good-naturedly about poor starving barbers and hung his lantern on the peg. “Long as you don’t start smokin’ cigars or tellin’ riverboat stories, we’re probably safe.”

“No cigars, so safe with that,” I replied. “But the riverboat stories… well, we’ll see.”

He settled into the chair across from me, paws spread toward the warmth of the stove. “So what are you tellin’ the folks?”

“Well,” I said, “I thought they might like to know that it’s December 1903 in our world, and that we’re headed into 1904 together.”

Red nodded, satisfied. “That’s good. Clara will like that. She’s been fussin’ over the Gazette press like a hen over a single chick. Wants folks to know what they’re steppin’ into. We’re all steppin’ into 1904. ”

Ah yes — the Gazette.

Beginning toward the latter part of January — Saturday, January 24th, to be exact — the very first edition of the Hearth & Holler Gazette will be inked, folded, and carried out into Honey Hill Country, dated January 24, 1904. Clara Thimblewick, our esteemed editor, has been preparing diligently, sharpening pencils, straightening proofs, and setting type with all the quiet efficiency of a woman who has newspaper ink running in her veins.

Between now and then you will likely catch glimpses of her at her desk by lamplight, hunched over columns and headlines. The Gazette will bring stories from around the holler, local doings, humour, recipes, sketches, and whatever else the week happens to blow in over the ridge — a weekly visit meant to offer a little comfort, a little company, and perhaps a smile or two along the way. It is 1903 stepping soon into 1904 here, remember, and things are about to get exciting as the “Louisiana Purchase Exposition” is scheduled to open in St. Louis soon!

Clara has already begun assembling a most curious and capable little staff for the Gazette — a cast of neighbours whose talents are as varied as the holler itself. A collection of characters so diverse and unexpected that even Little Red Bear shakes his head sometimes. You’ll be meeting them soon enough.

And here, in the modern world where we share these tales, it will arrive each week as a gentle reminder that not everything has to be fast, loud, or fraught with urgency. Some things — the best things, perhaps — are meant to be savored. A story. A kind word or gesture. The rise and fall of seasons. A lantern in the window. A visit with an old friend. A little bear named Cinnamon Charlie, who asks hard questions at the most inconvenient times.

So, whether you’ve been following along for years or have only just wandered in, please know you are welcome here. Truly welcome. Honey Hill Country is meant to be a resting place, a quiet corner in a noisy world, a weekly ramble down a simpler path. And if you choose to subscribe to the Gazette when it launches, you will be joining us not only in reading the stories, but in living a little with us each week — stepping into 1904 with Clara Thimblewick, Little Red Bear, Cinnamon Charlie, and all the neighbours who call this place home.

All of this — Honey Hill Country, the Gazette, the neighbours you will meet — is fictional storytelling through and through, shared freely every Saturday morning to offer a little rest for the mind, a gentler way to breathe at week’s end, and to ease you into the quieter hours of the weekend. All that’s necessary is a little imagination and the willingness to wander along with us each week — a small gift from our corner of the holler to yours.

Little Red Bear rose from the chair and took up his lantern again. “Well,” he said, “I best be goin’. Snow’s pickin’ up and I promised Jeffrey, my rabbit gardening friend, that I’d help him cover the herb patch.” Then he turned back with a small smile. “Just be sure you tell the folks they’re welcome here anytime. You can do that without soundin’ too much like Mark Twain, can’t ya?”

“I’ll do my best,” I said.

And so I will.

Welcome, friend. The lantern is lit, the door is open, and the path into Honey Hill Country lies just ahead.

So please consider this your invitation to join us each week. And if you haven’t already, please feel free to tap that little ‘Subscribe’ button over on the right so our weekly visits from Honey Hill and the Hearth & Holler Gazette find their way straight to you every Saturday morning. We’d be honored to have your company.

Thanks for settin’ a spell with us.
— Jim (and Red!)

“The Lantern in Clara Thimblewick’s Window”

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A Short Christmastime Story from Little Red Bear’s World

INTRODUCTION —

There is a certain way winter settles over Honey Hill — not with fanfare, but with a soft hush, as though the whole forest is catching its breath before Christmas.

On mornings such as this, Little Red Bear likes to take an early stroll, merely to wander through the quiet and listen to what his heart might be trying to tell him before the day unfolds. And every now and then, something small and unexpected offers a gentle reminder of the kindness still humming through the hollers.

This little story is one of those moments — a simple winter vignette featuring a neighbour you’ll soon be seeing more of in our Hearth & Holler Gazette.

“The Lantern in Clara Thimblewick’s Window”

by James Milson

A soft snowfall had drifted through Honey Hill in the night, leaving the world brushed in white. The morning felt quieter than usual — the sort of quiet that invites you to walk slowly and listen. Little Red Bear bundled up for his stroll and stepped outside, his breath rising faintly in the frosty air.

As he came round the bend near the edge of town, a warm glow caught his eye. There, in the window of Clara Thimblewick’s cottage, a lantern flickered against the early dawn.

It surprised him. Clara was an early riser, yes, but the lantern wasn’t usually lit so long after the sun had pushed up over the ridge. Little Red Bear paused a moment, then decided to stop in — just to make sure everything was all right. Kindness, after all, begins with paying attention.

Clara opened the door before he could even knock fully.
“Well now, Red,” she said, her smile warming the morning even more than the lantern’s glow, “aren’t you a sight of winter cheer.”

“I saw your lamp burning,” Little Red Bear replied, “and thought I’d better check on you to make sure everything is okay.”

“Oh, that,” she said, waving a gentle hand. “Every year when the days get short, I keep a lantern in the window. A bit of welcoming light can make a world of difference for someone lost and wandering in the cold.”

They chatted for a few minutes — nothing urgent, nothing dramatic — just neighbourly warmth shared over the doorway. Before Little Red Bear turned to leave, Clara reached for a neatly folded scarf from a basket near the stove.

“Take this along,” she said, reaching up and slipping it over his shoulders before he could protest. “I made extra this year. Winter is too long a season not to keep someone else warm when we can. You really should dress warmer when you are out in this cold, Red.”

Little Red Bear thanked her — though he insisted he already had a perfectly good scarf — and set off down the snowy path again, the new one settling warmly around his shoulders as he walked.

Halfway home, Little Red Bear paused beside an old fencepost overlooking the lower meadow. The wind, cold and steady now, was picking up across the open stretch. Little Red Bear thought about Clara’s lantern burning in the window, and how she had lit it not for herself, but for anyone else who might need to feel its glow.

Carefully removing the scarf from around his neck, Little Red Bear tied it gently around the fencepost, letting its soft red wool flap a little in the breeze. Maybe someone would come along who needed it more than he did, he thought. Perhaps a traveller, or a creature searching for a warmer night to shelter from the cold.

Kindness, he remembered, has a way of echoing. And Clara would like that, he figured.

Little Red Bear took one last look at the splash of red flapping in the breeze against the snowy field, and then headed home, feeling even a little warmer now.

Closing Reflection — 

It’s not always the grand gestures that make a difference, is it? More often than not, it’s the small, everyday kindnesses — a lantern in the window, a warm word at the door, a scarf left for the next passerby — that help us feel less alone in the world. As we move nearer to Christmas, may we each find simple ways to brighten the path for someone else. Sometimes that’s all the season asks of us. And we can certainly do that for someone, can’t we?

Little Red Bear and I hope Clara’s lantern brought a touch of light to your day, and that a bit of warmth follows you along your own winter path. From our little corner of Honey Hill to yours, Little Red Bear and I wish you warmth, kindness, and a peaceful path as Christmas draws near. Thanks for settin’ a spell with us today.

— Jim (and Red!)

You’ll be seeing more of Clara Thimblewick soon — she has a gentle way of adding light to the hollers, and we’re excited to feature her in an upcoming Hearth & Holler Gazette story next week.

And if you’re wandering back through Honey Hill next week, Little Red Bear and I hope you’ll join us again on Tuesday, December 16th. We’ve got a special birthday post waiting — and we’d sure love to share it with you.

“Christmas Lives On Honey Hill”

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A Christmastime Poem from Honey Hill Country

There’s something about this time of year, isn’t there? When the evenings grow still, the air turns crisp, and the world seems to lean just a little closer to the heart. Christmas has a way of stirring memories long tucked away — quiet moments, warm gatherings, and the gentle light of home.

As we move through December together, I thought I’d share a little holiday verse from Honey Hill Country — a simple reminder that Christmas isn’t found in the rush or the noise, but in the places and people who help us feel rooted. Perhaps you’ve known that feeling, too?

Please enjoy this Christmastime moment from Little Red Bear’s world.

“Christmas Lives On Honey Hill”

The moonlight drifts through the walnut trees,
Soft silver on Honey Hill,
And something familiar keeps whispering there
In the quiet, deep, and still.
Down in the towns the lamplights glow,
And wagons roll through the square —
But my heart keeps turning to holler paths
And to all my friends who gather there.
For Christmas lives in these winding woods,
Where the creek runs slow and mild,
And stories rise like chimney smoke
From every home-bound child.
I’ve walked through cities dressed in lights,
And felt the winter’s bite —
But nothing warms a wanderer’s heart
Like a hearth fire burning bright.
So, I’m heading back through the frosted pines,
Where the evenings smell of tea,
Where Little Red Bear keeps an extra chair
At the table — just for me.
Where neighbors stray in two by two,
Old tales are passed around,
And laughter spills like fiddle tunes
Across the snowy ground.
Where the young and old lean shoulder-close
As the carols rise and fall,
The golden glow of candle lanterns
Shining hope for one and all.
And I’ll remember those gone on ahead,
Their love still here to guide me —
For love still lingers in these hills,
And guides my spirit home.
Yes — Christmas lives on Honey Hill,
In every heart and hand.
A place where the season’s truest gifts
Are easy to understand.
So let the moonlight drift through the walnut trees —
It knows where I long to be —
Back among friends in the quiet holler,
Where Christmas comes gentle and free.

Thank you for sharing a few quiet December moments with me today. Isn’t it comforting how a simple poem can call up warm memories when we least expect it? Wherever you may be this season, I hope a little Honey Hill spirit finds its way to your home and heart.

— Jim  (and Red!)

If this poem brought a little warmth or comfort your way, I’d be honored if you shared it with someone who might need the same.

And this Saturday, I will be sharing a brand-new Little Red Bear Christmas vignette — “The Lantern in Clara Thimblewick’s Window.” It is a gentle story of light, kindness, and the spirit of the season. I hope you’ll drop in and join us for it.

Pen-and-ink illustrations created with the assistance of AI and lovingly styled for Little Red Bear Land.

Accepting Winter’s Welcome

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There is a moment every year when Autumn quietly hands the reins to Winter. No trumpets, no grand announcement, just that subtle shift you feel more than see. The air turns sharper on your cheeks, the last stubborn leaves skitter across the yard, and you suddenly notice that your favourite jacket has become a necessity instead of a choice.

Have you felt that little turn of the season tugging at your sleeve lately?

Winter has a reputation, of course — cold winds, long nights, and frosty car windows that need scraping when you’re already running late. But there is another side to it, a gentler, kinder Winter that comes to the door not as a hardship, but as a welcome guest. That’s the Winter I like to greet each year, and maybe you do, too.

It’s there in the simple things.

In the warmth of a mug of hot cocoa cupped in cold hands after coming back inside from raking the last of the leaves or filling the bird feeders. In snow boots by the door and a little trail of dried leaves that somehow hitchhiked in with you. In the quiet satisfaction of tugging off your gloves, your fingers tingling back to life as the house wraps around you like a familiar quilt.

Outside, if you listen, you can almost hear Winter humming to itself. Wood smoke lingers on the air, drifting from chimneys as neighbours coax old stoves and fireplaces back into service. Maybe you have taken that early morning walk with the dog — bundled up, breath frosting into little clouds — watching thin ribbons of wood smoke curl lazily into the pale sky. The streets seem softer, somehow, as if the whole world is padding around in thick socks, speaking in a whisper.

And then, as it always does this time of year, Winter begins to guide us indoors.
The cold stays on the other side of the windowpane, and the house takes on that warm, lived-in feeling we somehow forget until the season reminds us.

Inside, the kitchen becomes its own small refuge, full of the little rituals Winter invites back into our lives. There is a certain relaxation — a kind of peace of mind — that comes from kneading bread. The steady, rhythmic stretching and folding, the gentle push and turn. It all feels like something our hands were meant to remember. After a few minutes, the world quiets down a little. The dough softens, your thoughts soften with it, and the simple act of rounding and working it smooth becomes its own kind of comfort.

I don’t bake much bread in the summertime anymore. It’s too hot to turn on the oven most days. But come Winter — well, Winter is prime time for homemade bread. The house is grateful for the extra warmth, and there are few scents that say “home” quite as quickly or as surely as the smell of a fresh loaf baking in the oven.

That’s the heart of Winter, isn’t it? A season that encourages us to gently ease back into ourselves.

Inside, the house starts to change its clothes. Sunlight throws longer shadows across the floor in the late afternoon. A favourite throw blanket migrates from the back of a chair to a permanent spot within easy reach of “your” corner of the sofa. Perhaps a crockpot on the counter simmers a stew, or a pan of something comforting bubbles away in the oven.

And oh, that smell — not just something baking, but something becoming home.

Winter is really good at that, isn’t it — inviting us to slow down, look back, and look around? To breathe in, and savour the moment.

Maybe, in the warmer months, we rush from one thing to another, mowing lawns and trimming hedges, running errands under a hot sun. But Winter has a way of gently closing a few doors and whispering, “Stay in tonight.”

The early darkness nudges us to pull out the puzzle we’ve been meaning to start, to open that book waiting patiently on the nightstand, or to finally write a letter — yes, a real one on paper — to someone we’ve been thinking about for far too long.

In the soft glow of a table lamp, the wind a muffled moan against the windows, home feels a little more like a nest. We snuggle under comforters and warm blankets on chilly evenings, maybe with a crackling fire or the soft hum of a heater doing its best. A simple cup of tea or cocoa becomes a small ceremony. A favourite sweater feels like a dear old friend.

These are not grand occasions, yet they are the quiet stitches that hold a season together. That hold us together.

Of course, Winter isn’t always easy, is it? There can be loneliness tucked in with the long nights and worries that don’t simply vanish with the first snowflake. Sometimes the world outside our front doors feels a little too loud, a little too uncertain. All the more reason, I think, to be intentional about creating small islands of warmth and welcome wherever we can.

We may not be able to fix everything “out there,” but we can light a candle on the kitchen table. We can stir a pot of soup and share a bowl with a neighbour. We can check on someone who lives alone. We can watch the birds at the feeder for a few extra minutes and feel our shoulders relax just a little.

Maybe a Winter Welcome isn’t a big event at all. Maybe it’s simply an attitude — a quiet decision to meet the cold and the dark with warmth and light. To greet this season not with dread, but with a gentle sort of hospitality. To say, in our own way —
“Come in, Winter. Wipe your feet and sit a spell. Let’s make the best of things together, shall we?”

So as the days grow shorter and the nights draw round your house like a soft wool blanket, I hope you will find your own ways to welcome Winter this year. Light a lamp a little earlier. Put on the kettle. Bake that loaf of bread, even if it’s from a mix. Pull a favourite story off the shelf. Reach out to someone who might need a kind word.

After all, Winter doesn’t just bring cold winds and bare branches. It brings an invitation — to slow down, to draw closer, to remember what truly warms us.

And that’s a Winter Welcome worth accepting, don’t you think?

What little rituals help you welcome Winter each year? I’d love to hear how you make the season warm and comforting where you are.

And come Thursday, December 11th, I hope you’ll join me again for something special — a fresh holiday poem titled “Christmas Lives on Honey Hill,” capturing the spirit of Christmas as it wanders through our woods, hollers, and warm kitchen windows.

Pen-and-ink illustrations created with the assistance of AI and lovingly styled for Little Red Bear Land.