Following the distribution of Agent 86’s aerial video of Hoopers Island last week, our division on nearby Taylors Island wrote to the Spy to ask ‘What about us?”  Management thought this was an appropriate ask and dispatched 86 to Taylors to do surveillance.  His report is attached.

This video is approximately two minutes in length.

The year I turned nine, Granny dresses were everywhere. For Christmas that year, I had received my first hip hugger skirt in blue plaid with a patent leather belt and white “go go” boots. I had discovered fashion by watching American Bandstand and Hullabaloo on TV. In fourth grade, girls floated down school hallways in soft cottons and pale florals, most made by hand in accordance with the new hippie trend that I dreamed about after reading my sister’s Seventeen magazine. My Mom and I chose the Dotted Swiss, light as breath, the lantern sleeves trimmed with eyelet lace.

On my birthday morning, the dress smelled faintly of my Mom’s Bellodgia perfume, warm from the iron. When I slipped it on, I felt transformed, I was wearing a dress of my own design. Little did I know that the “Hippie” aesthetic would be a big part of my personal style for life.

That spring, we had traveled to Los Angeles for spring break. Olvera Street, a favorite of my Mom’s since her childhood days living in Southern California, was alive with color and sound. The block-long market, with bright papel picado fluttering overhead, showcased huaraches with leather soles wrapped in pairs with bright jute, and stalls with papier-mâché animals and dolls in serapes. While my parents browsed, I studied the small treasures laid out before me. I chose tiny straw party hats, their brims barely wider than a teacup, imagining them arranged just so on a table that would soon belong to me.

My birthday tea party unfolded quietly as my friends and I walked to my house after school. The party table was set with lit candles in the candelabra, a crisp white linen tablecloth, place cards, fine china luncheon plates with desert forks, tiny straw hats, and balloons with streamers. Tea steamed gently, carrying the faint bitterness of leaves softened by milk and sugar. There were small bites on tiered serving trays; savory finger sandwiches, dainty cream puffs, shortbread cookies, and tiny cherry tarts.

My party guests and I pretended to be our Moms at their weekly Bridge club, with their voices and mannerisms. We held our pinkies out as cups clinked against saucers. Tea, I discovered, was not just something you drank. It was something you experienced. It asked you to sit up straighter, speak more softly, pay attention. From that day on, tea became a thread woven through my life.

Years later, while visiting my grandmother in New York City, we went out for tea together. The city hummed beyond the windows, but inside, everything slowed. Porcelain was warm beneath my fingers. My grandmother’s voice carried stories between sips, her pauses as meaningful as her words. Tea became a way of listening.

When my daughter, Cece, requested a birthday tea, I pulled the teacups from the cupboard once more. The familiar clatter of china echoed in the kitchen. We made tiny cucumber sandwiches, cool and crisp, and arranged petit fours with their glossy icing and delicate sugared flowers. The party guests’ small hands wrapped around cups, careful and proud. Watching her host her own tea party, the feeling of déjà vu was strong, past and present sharing the same table.

Years later still, my husband and I took tea at both Liberty of London and Fortnum & Mason. The rooms were elegant, the service precise. Linen napkins, silver teapots, the deep amber glow of perfectly brewed tea. And yet, what I tasted most clearly was memory. A dress sewn with love. Straw hats chosen on a warm afternoon. A table set for a nine-year-old learning how to savor.

Tea has remained with me, not as a luxury, but as a ritual, a happy rhythm for a peaceful, quiet moment. A pause. A way of honoring moments both ordinary and extraordinary. In a world that moves quickly, tea reminds me to slow down, to notice warmth and texture and taste, to sit with what is good.

My husband and I enjoy tea so much that we have a tea garden. Matt is a magician at knowing which leaves blend beautifully together. I have a couple of favorites that I reach for in the afternoon after a busy day. We sit quietly and sip slowly, really enjoying the moment, usually in front of the fire, embracing winter hygge.

It began with a dress, a birthday, and a table set just for me. And somehow, it has followed me ever since.

Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling.

Agent 86 has been complaining of cabin fever lately, what with all the cold weather, wind and rain. Management identified a favorable weather day and suggested that 86 head to Hoopers Island to see what he could find. As an inducement, knowing that 86 was big on crab cakes without filler, management offered to fund his lunch at Old Salty’s. 86′ surveillance report is attached.

This video is approximately three minutes in length.

Spiritually, winter is often described as a sacred pause, a time for deep inner reflection, rest, and renewal. It is the season that invites us to slow down, shed what no longer serves us, and quietly build inner strength beneath the surface. But for many of us, winter has never felt like an invitation. It has felt like an obligation.

I grew up in Wyoming, where winter stretches on for eight months of the year. There was no gentle easing into stillness; only long, cold days that demanded resilience. When winter is constant, it ceases to be symbolic. You don’t rest when winter is your default; you celebrate it. You keep moving because stopping isn’t an option, there are too many trails to ski.

Later, as a family running a restaurant, winter carried a different kind of threat. Cold months and snowy days could mean empty tables, tight margins, and constant worry. Winter wasn’t a time to reflect, it was a time to hustle harder, to compensate for what the season might take away. Rest felt irresponsible. Slowing down felt dangerous.

So the spiritual narrative of winter as a season of introspection and renewal felt abstract at best, irrelevant at worst. It belonged to people whose lives allowed long pauses, whose winters were measured in weeks, not survival.

And yet, something has shifted.

Recently, I have found myself slowing down almost without effort. I’m reflecting, noticing, celebrating the cold rather than resisting it. I leisurely walk my dog and look up at the sky, checking for snow, not with dread, but with anticipation. Snow no longer feels like a burden; it feels like permission. It softens the world. It quiets the noise. It creates a landscape where nothing is expected to rush.

Inside, my kitchen tells the same story. I’m cooking pot roasts, chili, soups, and chicken pot pies, meals that simmer slowly and nourish deeply. These are foods meant to warm you from the inside out, the kind that “stick to your bones.” They speak of abundance rather than scarcity, of care rather than efficiency. Cooking this way feels like an offering to my family, to the season, to the idea that warmth can be shared.

My mornings are quieter now. I knit hats and mittens, I write in my journal and practice yoga. I paint tiny vignettes, small enough to be completed without pressure, intimate enough to feel personal. These are not acts of productivity; they are acts of presence. They don’t demand urgency or perfection. My reward is in the process.

Even my reading has turned inward. I’m drawn to books about women who practice herbal medicine; women who understand cycles, patience, and the intelligence of the natural world. Herbalism requires listening: to plants, to seasons, to the body’s subtle cues. It feels aligned with this moment in my life, as if I’m learning a language I studied but was never given time to practice before.

What I’m realizing is that I didn’t miss winter’s wisdom, I was simply never allowed access to it. For years, winter asked too much of me to give anything back. Now, for the first time, I am experiencing winter as it is meant to be: not a test of endurance, but a time for rest and self-care.

Tuesday as I begin to pack away the Christmas decorations, I plan to replace the green and red garlands with softer wool garlands and candles, textures meant to hold warmth. I’m not saying goodbye to the holidays, I’m settling into winter coziness.

This slowing down doesn’t feel indulgent. It feels corrective. It feels like reclaiming a season that once belonged to survival and allowing it to become something softer, something truer. Winter is no longer something to get through. It is something to inhabit, to honor, to listen to, to learn from.

And perhaps that is the deepest renewal of all: discovering that rest is not something we earn after hardship, but something we are finally safe enough to receive.