The book is called Cosy, and was recently reviewed in the Sunday paper along with three other books extolling the benefits of what seems to be the lost art of coziness in our modern world. This is not news to me, nor is it probably news to those of you who are of my generation. Some of the fondest memories of my childhood are of those quiet family moments in which the world and all its chaos was outside the front door, barred from the activities going on inside.
I remember lying on the floor in front of the radio on a Sunday evening listening to no longer remembered, but cherished, Sunday evening programs. My grandmother would be in her comfortable barrel chair knitting, and my grandfather would be at his desk dealing out his nightly game of solitaire which he played only until he won, when he would put away the cards for the evening. Dinner would be finished, outside it would be dark, and I would be in my pajamas the nightly bath finished, my crayons busy drawing a masterpiece.
Or there were the evenings when I was older sitting with the same grandparents on the patio of their retirement home. Summer dusk would be descending on the garden surrounding us, a garden carefully tended by my grandfather in his retirement. On the table in front of our redwood chairs would be a tray with tall glasses filled with ice tea, a sprig of freshly picked mint peeking out at the top, a slice of lemon from their lemon tree showing brightly through the glass.
Then there were the winter evenings in our living room, a fire crackling in the hearth, throwing shadows on the walls. Both my mother and I would be sitting in front of that fire reading, with a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the table between us. It would take a lot of parental pressure to evict me from my chair and into bed at the appointed time. It was hard to leave not only the book, but the comfort of it all.
Integral to all these settings was the fact that we created those moments out of our own little world, with the door shut against a day which might have brought an unkind friend, a harsh word, or some small fall from grace. In that time of warmth, flannel pajamas, afghans, woolly socks, and a good book all that existed was the closed world of home, safety, and love. The next day would come with all its challenges, but for that interval all that mattered was the peace which was allowed to flourish and grow in those cozy moments.