Beloved Season

Settled into the darkest days, I find myself wishing for the ability to make them last longer. Isn’t that the way, always wanting more. Who am I to bend the sun’s will to my whims? And what would I ask for? Another week, a month? How much time would satisfy my desire for unrivaled contemplation and peace that only the days leading up to solstice can bring. 

The slow arrival of snow this year has bought us time. We had a fair amount, then rain washed it away. So we've been running new fence to remind Mason that we live here, not in the dirt road that has revealed itself to him since the leaves fell from the trees. Taking down old fence that ran meatbirds over summer. Firewood, still. Had we known we would have this kind of time we would have planned for more to work on, but as it is, we’re neck deep in redoing our kitchen so there is no shortage of work that needs doing. It’s just hard to justify spending time on indoor projects with so little snow on the ground. 

Much has changed for many of us over the last three years, and I am no exception. For me those changes have been difficult to find language for, but they manifest in ways such as waking at two or three in the morning with the immediate remembrance of the 1,000 things broken and burning in the world and my inability to fix them. Attempting to find sleep again is usually fruitless, so I get up and begin my day. Sometimes I’ll attempt to write my way through those early mornings; too often the muscle that once allowed my pen to flow with ease feels fractured, guarded, weary of being cancelled. Other times it flows with the abundance of a mountain stream in springtime. Those are the times I can think of 1,001 things that are perfectly right in this broken and burning yet still shockingly beautiful world. 

Sunday afternoon brought with it the prettiest soft snow. It wasn't much, but with the ground nearly frozen now, it stuck beautifully, brightening landscape and spirits alike. I believe we'll see more snow this weekend, and with that, it feels like we're on our way. Winter is here, welcomed and adored. Beloved season of rest and renewal. 

Helps Keep the Dream Alive

Awakened too early by coyotes again. Hearing every bump in the night could be seen as a downside to sleeping with a window open all months of the year, but my days are flexible enough that a 3am wakeup call is little more than a chance to linger in the gauzy pre-dawn world so few get to enjoy. It’s too soon to stir the dogs. I prefer to not send a premature message that our day is starting. Those coyotes were awfully close after all, and our newest dog, Mason, is just shy of six months old. Not terribly established yet in his place on this ridge. The key to keeping the dogs settled at this hour is to not make eye contact, to move slowly and quietly, and to keep the lights dim. All things that come easily at 3am. 

I slip onto the porch and get the kettle going on the outdoor propane stove. A handy tool that has made the last six months without an indoor stove barely noticeable. We are told the new stove will arrive tomorrow, so I guess my mornings are about to become quite luxurious. With the kettle on, I head back inside to start a fire in the cookstove, which every single time fills me with more than a tinge of gluttony. A kettle on one stove not ten steps away, and now a warm fire in this stove? Gracious. What can I say, I’m impatient when it comes to morning brew and the outdoor kettle is boiling before the cookstove burns through its kindling. I remind myself that I’ll cook indoors over fire for the remainder of the day. It doesn’t make me feel less gluttonous, but it does put a cup of coffee in my hand sooner, and gives me something to think about while I sip away in my rocking chair, watching the early flames cast a warm glow across the kitchen.  

My life feels incredibly simple these days, to the point of mundane, which doesn’t leave me with varied or particularly interesting things to write about, but does feel like the pace I’ve been chasing for a lifetime. I am beyond grateful to be here. I could never want for a more beautiful, peaceful place. I know it’s impossible to halt the encroachment of modernity in these hills, though I don’t mind pretending it’s a possibility. The scent of spruce in the air, so sweet you can taste it, helps to keep the dream alive. 

Seven Months Is Too Long

Last Thursday the power went out ten minutes prior to publishing the week’s lesson in Hearth & Home. This week, ten minutes after. Feeling like that’s a small victory and choosing to revel in it. So here I sit, not a blip of mechanical sound in the house, cookstove fired up so it’ll be hot enough to fry Scout’s eggs when he’s ready to come inside for the day. Might toss some chicken hearts in the pan, too. He likes that. I decided to sit beside the toasty hearth and see if I have any words to share. In the morning we’ll butcher our pigs, and while I hope the power returns for the task, I’m enjoying the quiet right now. 

It’s been so long that I feel a brief update is in order. Life has been good and sad and beautiful and heartbreaking and hopeful and lived more reverently than I can ever recall. I have a feeling you understand. 

Once the rhythm of harvest and hunting and the holidays came to a close, and we settled in for hibernation, it took a few weeks to figure out what felt so different about this winter. Finally, it was crystal clear. I have a history of ceremoniously hunkering down during the winter months. I don’t know that I excel at many things in life, but true and proper hibernation is one of them. Self-employment coupled with homeschooling has allowed for it more easily than the alternatives. Still, this year felt different, deeper to the point of almost embarrassing luxury. As January neared its final days, it finally occurred to me: This is our first winter with a truly empty nest. No more teenage years, no more college student coming and going. Our daughter now lives in another state with an address of her own. She has a career and a new life, and we are as done with our job of parenting as any parents could be. Maybe I needed time to think about that. Maybe I’ve needed time for other reasons. 

They say you shouldn’t write from your wounds, you should only write from your scars. I think I’ve reached a point where if I don’t write from my wounds I may never write another word again. The daily pain of looking out on such a broken world feels impossible to navigate, yet navigate we must. So each morning, a new bandage with a salve of hope, and yet, no visible healing by day’s end. Maybe tomorrow. If not, carry on anyway. 

Sure, I keep busy on Instagram, but it’s different. A few sentences about my day or this neat thing I made or these cute pigs does not lay the soul bare. Over there, I feel like company’s visiting. I’m careful. Here, I think I’m still careful by nature, but I don’t spend any time anticipating how a reader might interpret my lived experience then explain back to me what my words really mean, according to them. It’s quite a phenomenon in our fast-paced, thumb-scrolling world today. The writer reveals their life, their heart, their worries, their dreams, and the reader tells them what it is they mean. It forces me to wear armor over there in a way I don’t tend to wear here, which I suppose makes the wounds of the last 2+ years feel all the more tender in this space. I guess that’s why I haven’t shown up.

Gosh, what a downer. I don’t mean to be! Life is good and bluebirds are landing on perches outside the kitchen window. Seeds have sprouted and new trees are being planted. We had a wonderful sugaring season and I secretly took note of the way my husband silently pats the side of each tree in gratitude every time he empties a bucket. He emptied hundreds of buckets this season; that’s a lot of thanksgiving. The best part is I’m not sure he realizes he does it. The steelhead are running and soon there will be nettles and spruce tips to harvest. In two weeks we’ll gut our entire kitchen and rebuild it in our own way, rustic and unconventional. It will surprise no one that knows me. I’m looking forward to it. 

I am grateful you stopped by today, I’ll try not to be such a stranger. Seven months is too long. 

On the Eve of October

Confused and out of step is how I’d describe myself over the last several weeks. The extended forecast, which takes us to October 14th, offers nothing below 40 degrees for our overnight low. This places us at more than a month past our first average frost date. Myself and those around me do not feel in sync with our normal rhythm of the season. I wonder how early hunting will be this year, as it is typical for deer to not be on the move in warmer weather. They bed down and ride it out which sounds familiar to my own habits. Bow season is always warmer than rifle, but even more so this year. There is just so little chill in the air. 

A neighbor stopped by to assist Adam in designing the roof for the covered porch we are building. He is a retired master carpenter, a one time creator of the most beautiful timber frame homes and barns. Now he enjoys spending days on the farm with the pigs, cattle, chickens, gardens, and hemp fields. We are grateful for his willingness to lend his expertise; we have built many small structures in the past, but nothing that we felt needed to look just right.

A while back I noticed his wife’s baskets for sale at our local Agway, and being the owner of a few myself, I was pleased to see such a nice selection of goods offered right there beside the bird seed. Erik shared that he’d built many birdhouses for the store’s shelves during the holidays last year; with supply chains interrupted and bare inventory, he was happy to contribute. And truly, don’t birdhouses make the most wonderful gift? My father gave me one years ago and I still enjoy it to this day. I was also amused by the idea of a retiree tinkering away on birdhouses for the local feed store. How quintessential. 

I’ve been trying to think of a way to thank him, as he would not accept payment for his consultation, but living here is tricky in that most people provide for themselves the very things I have to offer as a thank you. I settled on a basket of homegrown goods that would do well in storage, so they would not feel any pressure to use or process them right away. 

Though I cannot imagine a bad foliage year in Vermont, this one seems weary and muted in comparison to years past. I think of the woeful sugaring season earlier in the year and cannot help but worry about the strength and health of our trees. They have endured so much. I know many humans feel the same, and I wonder who will rise from the ashes first. 

The garden is mostly harvested with only carrots, kale, Brussels sprouts, and potatoes remaining. Well, there is also my experimental raised bed of fresh greens in the greenhouse. This is a first for me and I’ve kept my expectations low with my hopes high. I am excited to discover how far I can take fresh greens into late autumn or even winter. If gardening has taught me anything through the years, it is that you can read all the books in the world, but until you try something for yourself (sometimes in a few different ways), you’ll never know the best systems for your individual location and soil. Our garden was so good to us this year and provided all the vegetables we’ll need to see us through winter and early spring. There is an undeniable comfort in that. Grateful is not a big enough word. 

The sounds of late September carry across the ridge in the form of geese flying south, combines in the distant corn fields, and finally, on the eve of October, a crackling fire to warm our bones. 

Slow Down and Notice

On our way home, we took the road that travels by an Amish farm because even though I am among those guilty of romanticizing their very human and imperfect culture, I always ask Adam to drive that way. Especially during gardening season. It appeared services were not held at their farm on this particular day, evident by the absence of the more than a dozen buggies we’d seen parked on a previous Sunday. Barreling down the dirt road toward us, three young boys dressed in crisp handsewn garments held up by suspenders, heads covered with straw hats. All three squished into a single radio flyer wagon, steering as well as anyone can steer one of those things on a hilly dirt road, reserved glee on their faces and a courteous wave for us English-folk passing by. A barefooted young girl aged three or four, dressed in a royal blue cotton dress and black head covering, stayed up on the grass jumping and running alongside them with less restrained glee as three year olds are so good at demonstrating. I hoped she would have a turn on the wagon. 

Our garden is winding down for the year. There is still much harvest to be done, but the inevitable die back of annual vegetables is happening quickly. The last few weeks I’ve been busy with corn and tomatoes, finishing up our bush beans, and just getting started on pole beans. Carrots have reached jumbo stage and early digging of potatoes indicates we’ll be set for winter eating and spring seed, with plenty to share, too. I’ve been tempted to pull our onions because they are so beautiful I cannot wait to see them all lined up curing, but they have another week or two to go before it is time. Cabbages and Brussels sprouts still to come, as well as winter squash. We could really use another two to three weeks without a hard freeze for the squash to fully ripen, but the patch looks promising so far. Overall the garden has provided far more than we could ever expect or need, and I will ease into hibernation knowing that by the sweat of our brow and strength of our tired backs, we are provided for. 

I recently sewed curtains with my daughter for her kitchen and got to thinking that maybe I’d like to sew some for our dining room. I struggle with curtains because they have a way of blocking (partially at least) the very best part of any room: seeing outside. On the other hand, I love beautiful fabric and curtains do provide texture and coziness. And with cozy season ahead, I might just have to go for it. Now the question is do I make them cafe style with a valance or two full panels per window? 

A few nights ago a pack of coyote barreled through the woods at a such a fast clip it was as if they knew their unimpeded, free-running days are numbered, with snow arriving soon than later. Nothing inhibits easy movement through the woods like snow. Unless you’re a moose, I suppose. Can’t imagine they are too bothered by it. It was fun listening to the coyotes; I attempted to imagine how many there were but was unable to. I will say it was more than I’d ever heard in one group before, especially with such an active, full-speed-ahead yelping and howling display. It sounded like the Iditarod was passing through! Adam and I both felt it was such a treat to hear, and we were glad that our own critters had already been locked up for the night. Turkeys have been back in the yard and Scout keeps escorting them back to the woods. Bear dogs can be heard in the distance and unfamiliar trucks have been seen on the ridge looking for unposted land to hunt. 

The weeks roll on, one into the next, and I try my best as I do with each turn of season, to slow down and notice the fleetingness of it all. Something about autumn though… I can hardly believe I get to witness the arrival of yet another one.