Stillbridge’s New Year, 2026: Resolutions, Pie, Ducks, and Love

By the first Wednesday of January, Stillbridge had officially made it through the holidays, which is no small achievement for a town that prefers to linger. The wreaths had come down—mostly. A few remained, now looking less festive and more determined, like guests who hadn’t quite realized the party was over. Christmas lights still glowed faintly on two houses along Elm Street, blinking less out of celebration than muscle memory. It seemed unkind to unplug them just yet.

New Year’s Eve itself had passed in the usual Stillbridge fashion: quietly, carefully, and well within town ordinances. The bells at the Congregational Church rang at midnight, rung by volunteers who took turns warming their hands between pulls. A handful of sparklers—modest, and closely supervised—fizzed briefly on the common, producing more smiles than light and startling the ducks at the pond just enough to remind everyone who really ran the place.

The ducks registered their displeasure the next morning by refusing to vacate the icy shoreline, standing in a tight formation that suggested unity, resolve, and a strong position on property rights.

The new year arrived with hopes intact and resolutions freshly made, though already showing signs of strain.

At Parker’s Diner, Roy worked the griddle with the steady patience that had carried him through decades of breakfasts. He had made a New Year’s resolution—shared quietly with himself and no one else—to eat less pie. This was not a moral resolution. It was practical. Roy liked pie very much, and pie had a way of finding him.

The complication arrived shortly after opening in the form of two full pie carriers delivered by Ms. Mabel Cunningham, June’s mother and a woman widely regarded as both generous and unstoppable. Mabel believed the holidays should taper off gently, like a good conversation, and had declared that January was still “pie-adjacent.” The pies—apple, blueberry, and one labeled only “trust me”—were for the patrons.

Roy had broken his resolution by 8:12 a.m., depending on how one defines “just a taste.”

June said nothing. She poured coffee, slid plates across the counter, and observed that resolutions worked better when treated with patience. “You don’t undo years of habit in a week,” she said. “Especially not in a diner.”

Around town, other resolutions fared about the same. Someone resolved to walk every morning and discovered the sidewalks were icy and unsympathetic. Someone else vowed to read more books and fell asleep before chapter two. A sincere effort to organize a garage was postponed by a light snowfall that arrived just in time to make procrastination feel reasonable.

Stillbridge was easing into the year, the way it eased into most things—carefully, without fuss.

One subject, however, continued to resurface: the ice rink.

Traditionally, the town set one up on the common each winter, though “traditionally” in Stillbridge meant “eventually.” By January 7th, the rink was fashionably late, which only added to the conversation.

The duck pond, frozen smooth and inviting, had once again been suggested as a possible skating surface. This idea usually came from people who valued efficiency and had not recently been hissed at.

The ducks were unmoved.

A small group gathered near the pond that morning to discuss the matter. Hank Whitman stood with his hands in his coat pockets, surveying the ice like a man who trusted winter only in short stretches. Walt Higgins explained, once more, how they’d done it back in ’82. Miss Clarity Finch pointed out that ducks had excellent memories and little interest in compromise. Pastor Vogel mentioned safety. Father Alvarez raised an eyebrow and said nothing, which carried weight.

The ducks stood their ground.

The decision was postponed, which in Stillbridge is not the same as abandoned. The rink would happen. The ducks would be consulted, or at least acknowledged. Someone would bring hot chocolate. Everyone would later agree it had been handled just right.

What many were still quietly talking about, however, had already happened.

On New Year’s Eve, just before the bells rang, Ethan Miller and Grace Sullivan stood near the front pew inside the Congregational Church. Snow pressed softly against the stained glass. The sanctuary was full, though not loud—people lingering, warming themselves, waiting for midnight.

Ethan, visibly nervous, began to speak.

He had planned words. Thoughtful words. Meaningful words. Unfortunately, they arrived out of order.

He stumbled, paused, started again, and lost his place entirely.

Grace said yes before he finished.

There was a moment of silence—just long enough to understand what had happened—and then the church erupted in applause. Someone laughed. Someone wiped away a tear. Someone hugged someone they hadn’t planned to hug. The bells rang, the year turned, and Stillbridge welcomed January with something solid and good already in hand.

By Friday morning, the news had spread the proper Stillbridge way—not quickly, but completely. At the diner, congratulations were offered quietly, warmly, and accompanied by refilled mugs. Roy slid a slice of pie across the counter “on the house,” which he did not eat, though he considered it.

As the days settled in, the town found its rhythm again. Decorations were stored but not forgotten. The churches returned to ordinary time, though the sermons still leaned toward hope. The inn welcomed fewer travelers and more neighbors lingering longer than planned.

The bridge creaked faithfully under passing cars. The river moved beneath it at its own pace, unconcerned with calendars. The common stood ready—for skating, for ducks, for whatever came next.

As evening fell, lights came on across town, steady and familiar. The ducks tucked their heads beneath their wings, satisfied for now. Somewhere, someone resolved—again—to do better tomorrow.

And that’s the news from Stillbridge, where the new year arrives without fireworks but with warmth, where resolutions bend but don’t often break, where words don’t always come out right but love has a way of finishing the sentence, where pie remains persuasive, where neighbors look after one another, children are gently steered toward what’s good, and even the ducks—firm in their convictions—are allowed to believe the pond is still theirs.