Advance Copy of Father Winter!

 .

 

The Locus fundraiser on Indiegogo has moved into its third day and posted as a new perk the third and last otherwise unobtainable Dragonstairs Press chapbook contributed by Marianne and me--Father Winter.

Father Winter is the latest in a series of Solstice chapbooks sent out in the winter holiday season by Dragonstairs Press to select friends of the press. Lovingly crafted, hand sewn, signed and numbered in an edition of 120. As is traditional, last year's remaining copies (of which this is one) will be put up on sale sometime in November or December. When, because there are only 37 copies, they will sell out in the first fifteen minutes. As Will Sonnett used to say: "No brag, just fact."

Last winter's theme was fathers and sons, so it is particularly appropriate that my son, Sean William Swanwick, collaborated with me on this chapbook. In token of which, it is autographed by both of us. Just look at those signatures! One is calm and clever and the other obviously the scrawling of a Bond villain-grade monomaniac.  

If you're curious, you can find the Locus fundraiser here. You'll find a lot of cool perks on offer: autographed books, Zoom meetings, critiques, tuckerizations, a goat naming, a personalized letter from a fictional character, and much more! Take a peek. You might just find the perfect gift for your favorite book-lover.

And since I know you're curious . . .

Here's the first story in Father Winter. It's about my late father, John Francis Swanwick, and I will not apologize for the sentimentality of it.

 

Winter Wonderland

Spring belongs to mothers. It's the time of birth and beauty and kneeling in the garden to plant seeds that will come to fruition in the summer. Summer also belongs to mothers, for it's the time of growth and joy, both qualities that come easier to women than to men. Autumn? Think of hot cider, bright leaves pressed in books, strolls in the woods, jars of home-canned preserves, knitted sweaters. Mom  again.

But winter? That belongs to fathers. Black ice. Snow squalls. Shoveling the walk, rotating the tires and putting chains on them, scraping ice off the windshield, chopping wood and bringing it indoors by the armful if you had a fireplace.

My father was a farm boy. He belonged to 4-H and won ribbons at county fairs. It was important to him that his children could identify the breeds of cows the family car drove past on the highway. But because he grew up at a time when radio was the wondrous technology that computers were only a few decades ago and he was particularly bright, he became an engineer.

Still, he retained a few tricks from his boyhood.

One day, a blizzard came down from Canada, turned the sky black, and dumped foot upon  foot of snow on Schenectady. We children went to bed while the snow was still coming down hard. And in the morning...

Something wonderful! In the backyard, my father had made a slide out of snow, curved at the center so there was no chance of falling off. On the straight-up side of it, he placed a wooden ladder. And over the sliding surface, he had poured a bucket of water, so that it froze solid and an inch thick.

There was never a faster or more magical slide than that. Nobody but our father could have made it.

Nor was there a more lasting one. Okay, sure, when the weather turned warmer the snow melted away to nothing. But in my memory it's still there, gleaming in the bright winter sun, as enduring as love itself.

 

*