“The Killing Season” is not a spoof television show–it’s an eerie phrase used by Mongolians who live on those grassland plains called steppes. It’s not hard to imagine which season exactly is the killer. These nomads usually lose half of their herd (of camels, yaks, sheep, horses) during the brutal windswept winters. Since their herd is their livelihood, the death of the herd is a kind of death of human existence.
I don’t depend on a herd, but I am anticipating living in a cold unlike any I’ve experienced, partially because I’ll be living in a yurt. Winter blasted into Montana the first week of October with 1° temperatures, a foot of snow and icicles hanging like daggers from homes. The snow has melted and left us some semblance of fall, but aspens and cottonwoods never had a chance to turn golden yellow. The leaves froze into a mottled purple color; now they flutter like strange ghosts casting a strange purpley hue in the valley.
A friend of mine hates summer. I love summer. Maybe for her, summer is the killing season, a killing of some piece of her, but I’m not sure anyone reading this blog or using a computer (like me) can understand what a killing season actually entails.
I would love to hear why someone hates summer if you are out there, friend. I too, like Molly, love summer. As a native Floridian and lover of sun rays and thick southern air, true winter is a challenge for me, but I definitely do not hate it. I battled depression each winter season of my three Vermont winters during college and looked with longing out my window for the day in spring when we could finally sprawl out on the grass lawns again. But I had the warmth of my over-heated dorm room most of the time. I anxiously await tales on this blog of bearing a true Montana winter, a “killing season,” in a yurt on a high plateau beneath the, what are they, the Absorkas?
Fill us readers in on the killing season’s wrath and sweetness as it comes . . .
I thought so much of this concept last winter, as I sat with my ailing grandmother who did not make it through winter. Although the sun beat strong upon my face as I went outside of her room to take in some air, I wore sweaters and scarves to brave the brisk air. She did not make it through the winter, and a friend, in one of his many efforts to console me and help me view this as another part of the natural system of things, reminded me that winter is the time when that system gives the weak even more of a reason to let go. It was comforting.
Summer seems a time of bloom and life. Winter a time of turning inward. It is all fascinating. Here in California, I just sat and finished my book in the 73 degree sun wearing a tank top and shorts. I had a thought, a desire (and this, coming from a girl whose favorite season, by far, is summer)… a little bit colder would feel right. I think you are brave, Molly, and I, too, can’t wait to hear these stories. I imagine an amazing book to come of them, and find myself coming back to one of my favorite stories as I imagine your winter… Dancing at the Rascal Fair. Talk about the killing season. As sheep farmers, those two Scottish homesteaders had their work laid out for them in the Two Medicine country. The stories of their winters were heroic.
This was a beautiful short little blog, Molly. I must admit, that when I first read the title, I thought that you referring to the end of fall hunting season. The days, starting about now, when hunters gather ducks, deer, and other birds to hoard away for winter. Guess my Alaska subsistence days are shining through. Right now on Kodiak island, all of the grasses have started to turn brown yellow and the last of the silver salmon are being netted up and smoked for winter. When I visit my uncle in Wisconsin this time of year, the woods are so crowded that both my dog and I have to wear bring orange vests. I imagine there is a pretty good elk season coming up in the Montana area. Let me know if you eat any game.
Hannah, Kate and Laurie, Thank you for all these thoughtful responses. True that being cozy and reading in the heat of summer is almost an oxymoron. And that death in winter seems appropriate.
Interesting to hear about all these other “killing seasons” around, and especially the hunting one. According to my neighbor, the elk come down from the mountains and winter in the fields behind our house. Haven’t eaten elk yet, but I’m into bison burgers, which isn’t technically game, though for this vegetarian, it feels epic!