Thoughts on a Winter Day
I am solace . . .
As I write on this cold winter morning, several thoughts of yesteryear poetically simmer.
Simone Signoret wrote a book, “Nostalgia Isn’t What It Used to Be.” Well, it is for me. I live in the world of nostalgia, my emotional resource that connects me to the past.
By re-creating the experiences, I feel a sense of belonging, as I was absorbed in a support network of no equal.
Days of my youth
The Kodak Brownie camera
Postcards.
I wish someone would send me one.
Our four-party phone line
Busy signals
Paying the electric bill at the drugstore
Pay phones…
what would Marconi think?
what do we think of Marconi?
Two newspapers every day
My paper route
collections every week
The Olivetti-Underwood Typewriter
Walking to school
Taping a baseball
Walter says, “Let’s play ball. I have two new baseballs.
I just taped them today!”
Did God make a baseball?
Narragansett beer commercials
A unique Christmas tree ornament
My Flexible Flyer
Watching snow fall,
traipsing to every window in the house.
A Rocket Royal Bike
Jelly donuts
Bread and oil, Italian bread
Rubber boots
too many buckles
Tucking pants
Banks of snow
Lots of snow
fights
ice houses
ice skating.
Chapped lips
A stuck tongue
on the metal of the cold sled.
The cold that dried
my nose and lips
ice skates
Chapstick or something like it.
maybe Vaseline
I find peace in solace
I find solace in nostalgia
I find nostalgia every day
I am solace.
What poem can yopu share with me today?
© 2026
What a beautiful road I just traveled reading your poem, Ed. Grazie Tanto! There is so much buried in the wonderful days of yesteryear that seem to quietly dissipate. Many of us spend time focusing on what’s ahead of us rather than remembering to revel in what was behind us. So thank you for that moment of “wake up and remember”. It’s so important to savor the past.
THERE'S a certain slant of light, On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the weight Of cathedral tunes.
Heavenly hurt it gives us;
We can find no scar, But internal difference Where the meanings are.
None may teach it anything,
"Tis the seal, despair, —
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the air.
When it comes, the landscape listens, Shadows hold their breath;
When it goes, 't is like the distance On the look of death.
Emily Dickenson