A Winter Tale with Hats

-        Dinner is ready, my darling!

Edith entered the room with alacrity. It was dinner time, 5:50 P.M. sharp. Old handsome Rupert bent his elbows and stretched his fingertips from the inked horizons of his new letter to their daughter, Marjorie.

Dear Marjorie,

It’s -7 degrees Celsius tonight, and you wouldn’t say it’s the coldest day of the year so far. I would say it’s the oldest day of the year, taking in consideration how I, you old father, feels. But alas, Marjorie, I write to you, for I love thee most. We are now here, next to our beautiful old fireplace, and my daughter, I tell you, your mother cannot stand the cold. It is the 7^th of December and snow has fallen over the hills and our sleeves rolled up for new bread in the oven. It’s very unusual for Ireland. But, How are you? This letter is short, but our thoughts are long and fallen as the snow the other day on the ground. They want to touch people’s faces, their hearts, and melt in the horizon, as the sky rolls over the hills every morning. We miss you most. Why didn’t you answer last month? Come home on Christmas. Please.

Signed, your papa, December 7^th, 1802, Cill Airne, County Kerry, Ireland

The smell of ‘blissful soup’ was floating in the air, just as Rupert liked to call it. They haven’t seen Marjorie in 2 years until this point in time; she was still en France. Snow felt like grazing ice over the picturesque village. There was no doubt it was the coldest day of the year. Water frozen to ice, snowflakes?!? That wasn’t normal.

It was undoubtedly, the first time they experienced such strange thing. What in the world was weirder to Ireland than this! Two days ago, time on a standstill was still pretty well furled in white coat and still, as the snow ended its trembling flakes on the tree tops, creating a white world, the images were good for postcards, should have it been 2 centuries later, on our printing, AI world. But, however they tried to warm it up, Kerry was indeed, beautiful.

Now, the temperature fell so low, that their door was coiling, sneezing and cracking adorning the fireplace’s crackling noises under its tempered frost from outside in. It was the first time children in the town got to see the white blanket of snow rolling over the hills. Children of the nearby villages were playing outside like crazy enthusiasts, and nothing was crazier to Rupert than to catch the dragonflies of illusion under his nostrils, as he peeked his thought out to Edith. He didn’t like to breathe the cold air. That was his very warm breath clinging in frost sparkles of frozen steam over his long beard and moustache, the other day.

The old couple was living in a tiny cottage,  

-        I won’t vitiate on you, Edith. I’m not going out. I’m having this soup inside. What.

Edith was staying still in the door’s front. Goose-like neck, big eyes.

-        What, Edith. It’s the third letter so far. I know.

Edith stood still.

-        I couldn’t tell you for two months now. She’s not coming on Christmas ALONE, you know. You know…Christopher proposed to her.

Rupert stood still. The thunderbolt news smacked him right through.

-        Yes Rupert. Our daughter is engaged.

-        With a town boy?!!! What…..how… when exactly did you found that out?

-        I didn’t want to tell you. Marjorie went to Paris to meet our town boy again, by coincidence. She was ashamed of your reaction. She didn’t want to tell you. She fiercely didn’t want to denigrate her decision either. You know, after he proposed to her.

-        Why didn’t you tell me ??!

Christopher was indeed a village boy, not even a town one. They used to grow up together and meet in the town of Cill Airne, when Marjorie was small. But, then paths have parted vastly, Marjorie went on her way and to study outside. It was a luxury only bright people like her could afford. The goose-like demeanor of Edith wanted to stop the purulent actions of Rupert the old, how he used to be called by the town mayor and the very small nearby villages.

-        I’m not sure I understand, Edith.

How could our daughter meet this lad in Paris? He’s from here, he’s from our town.

-        Have you seen him lately, Rupert? Have you seen him for three years, now. Christopher is not a farm boy anymore, Rupert. He is a handsome young man now. He’s into business with hats, said Edith clinging her long fingers to a silver spoon in her hands as to a fan in the summer.

She was serious. She was chic.

-        Hats.

-        …

-        ….

-        Yes, Rupert, hats of haute couture.

-        Lady Hats.

-        Men, too.

-        Men hats.

-        Yes.

-        So. He earns a living making hats?

-        Selling them. He is into bond business with designers de Paris.

-        Oh ….

-        They met accidentally, at a reception. At a dinner party.

-        Just like we will accordingly have, Edith,

said Rupert looking through the living room, and then back again in the fireplace.

A supper at most. A Christmas dinner. But is she coming? Is our Marjorie coming to our own dinner for Christmas in Cill Airne?

-         Yes.

-        I don’t understand this lad anymore. It doesn’t make any sense to me.

If Edith looked like a goose, Rupert had a something between an ostrich and walrus appearance.

-        We need our Christmas, Edith. As we used to have it usually, with Scott, George, Eilish, Sandrina, all brought together. The whole town on the doorbell on a cracker and a carol.

-        We need it yes.

Ireland hath never seen snow during its lifetime. Suddenly, it was a majestic white blanket furled over the horizons, with trembling leaves in frost adorning the matriarchal state of nature. Here and there, the winter rabbits and red robins were sprinkling the atmosphere with lively chirps and squirts. The coldest day of the year was today.

Just when snow was standing still, turned into frost, pledged over the horizons only two days ago, only to drop the temperature of Ireland colder than it ever was before.

-        Good. Then she will marry here. She can marry in the town they met.

Edith gasped. It was a long journey for Marjorie from Paris to Ireland, and Rupert didn’t know they were engaged to marry no more, especially that the vows have taken place already. In Paris. She was coming home with her newlywed, newly married, in new bootstraps and new hat on her beautiful frock head.