When at last the morning comes, Iam not unlike the little child atChristmas. Having tossed and turnedin anticipation, through all the dark-est hours, at first light I throw backthe blankets, slide into clogs, slitherinto a heavy sweater and tiptoe downthe stairs.

For days, I’ve been stockpiling formy friends. I’ve corncakes stuffedwith cranberries and pine coneswrapped in peanut butter. I’ve suetballs to dangle from the boughs, andlittle bags of birdseed, just smallenough to stuff in all my pockets. I’vea jug of fresh water for all to drinkand splash before it turns to winter’sice.

It’s time for a Christmas treasureall my own, one I unwrap every year.

My walk of wonder takes me nofarther than the patch of earth I callmy own, a rather unassuming tangleof hope and dreams and heartache(for what garden doesn’t crack aheart, at least once a season?), in myleafy little village.

I carve out this hour of Christmasmorn, before the footsteps slap acrossthe floorboards up the stairs, before Icrank the stove, and kindle all theChristmas lights.

It’s my hour of solitude and near

silence, as I tug open the back doorand step into the black-blue darknessof the minutes just beyond the dawn.

It’s my chance to take in the wintergifts of my rambling, oft-rambunc-tious garden plots, and all who dwellamong them — the birds, the squirrelsand fat-cheeked chipmunks, the oldmama possum, and, yes, the stinkyskunk who sometimes ambles by andsends us dashing in all directions.

And, best of all, it’s my early Christ-mas moment to reciprocate the manygifts that all the seasons bring me.

I am nearly humming as I make myyuletide rounds: I fill the feeders,scatter seed and stuff an old stonetrough with what I call the “critterChristmas cakes.”

At this scant hour, the black-velvet

dome above is stitched still with silverthreads of sparkling light. And limbsof trees, bare naked in December,don’t block my upward glance at allthat heavens offer.

This is where my prayer begins, asI whisper thanks for all the chirpsand song, for flapping wings and littlepaws that scamper — all of nature’spulse beats that bring endless joy, andteach eternal lessons.

As light brightens in the southeastcorner of the sky, the architecture ofthe wintry bower emerges. The blackof branches — some gnarled, othersnot unlike the bristles of an upturnedbroom — etch sharp against the ever-bluer sky.

Exposed, the silhouette reveals thesecrets of the trees — the oak, themaple and the honey locust that rus-tles up against my bedroom window.

As I come ’round a bend, gaze upand all around, I cannot miss thenests not seen till late in autumn,when the trees disrobed and shookoff their blazing colors.

In murky morning light, the nestsappear as inkblots of black among thelacy boughs. Only in winter do werealize how many dot the arbor.There is the contour of the squirrels’shoddy leaf-upholstered hovel highup in the maple, and, down low in aserviceberry, the robins’ tuck-pointmasterpiece of twigs.

Whenwonder

comes forChristmas

By Barbara MahanyTribune Newspapers

In early light, a garden’s gifts cannot be missed

CHUCK BERMAN/TRIBUNE NEWSPAPERS PHOTO

PHIL VELASQUEZ/TRIBUNE NEWSPAPERS

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