scamper

Birds becoming more active in the morning. Squirrels scamper along stone fences and out in the road.  Haven't smelled a skunk yet. That's a sure sign of spring.

March 25, 2008
A couple of revealing moments about life in a cold climate. This morning on our morning walk we ran into Barb, and we all remarked about how it was getting light out. About two minutes later we were walking by the Dufner's house. I heard a high pitched repetitive sound. I couldn't figure out what it was it was. It sounded like maybe a squeaky fan running in their basement. It finally dawned on me what it was. It was a solitary bird, singing to the rising sun. In a few weeks there will be hundreds of them. It has been so long since I heard that sound. It seemed like a miracle!

To a lesser degree, I experienced the same feeling yesterday walking to production. The snow on the front lawn has been receding, and it disappeared completely over the weekend. That which had been covered with snow and invisible for so long was revealed. Again, it seemed like a miracle.

On the one hand, there's something a little pathetic about living in a place where a singing bird is considered a miracle. On the other hand, it's a gift. Complacency is one of the great killers of the joy of living. Living in a cold climate continues to offer opportunities to appreciate and savor the small miracles of life. In many ways that is the heart of this daily journal. Opossum seen along the road in West Rutland last night.

Good Oak

There are two spiritual dangers in not owning a farm. One is the danger of supposing that breakfast comes from the grocery, and the other that heat comes from the furnace.

To avoid the first danger, one should plant a garden, preferably where there is no grocer to confuse the issue.

To avoid the second, he should lay a split of good oak on the andirons, preferably where there is no furnace, and let it warm his shins while a February blizzard tosses the trees outside. If one has cut, split, hauled and piled his own good oak, and let his mind work the while, he will remember much about where the heat comes from, and with a wealth of detail denied to those who spend the week end in town astride a radiator.

Good Oak
February
A Sand County Almanac
Aldo Leopold

sugaring

Saturday I went up into the woods to check on my trail camera. Tubing for sugaring ran all over the property on the top of the hill. On the way back, I came across some tubing that actually showed the movement of the maple sap down the tube.

It slowly snaked down the tube in a stop/start, stop/start fashion. It reminded me of the movement of an inchworm. I don't know if it always moves like that.

Saturday night I went down to the sugarhouse of Nathan Hewitt who is the fellow who taps the trees on our land.

He was in there boiling with two of his children and two other kids from across the road.

Going into an active sugarhouse is truly a feast for the senses. Usually the weather outside is cold, dark, damp, and gloomy. Inside it's warm and light. The first thing that hits you is the smell of the steam from the evaporator. It is indescribable. Nathan gave me a taste of from freshly made syrup; hot and heavenly. You can't beat it. Sugaring is a family affair in his household. He said that he really didn't have much to do during the boiling process anymore, his kids have taken over.

Maple syrup is a miracle really. How could something so wonderful come from old and gnarly maple trees during the gloomiest time of the year? This is something that really deserves a spot on everyone's bucket list.  

As I was leaving the sugarhouse the other night, I turned around to look for possible photo opportunities. Sparks were shooting out of the vents at the top, like bright stars on a dark night. Vermont is still the epicenter of the maple syrup industry. Throughout the world, when people think of maple syrup they think of Vermont. There are at least a half dozen small, family-sized sugarhouses within walking distance of my house. I count myself fortunate, indeed. 

dripping

Sound of water dripping off the rood onto the front walk. Huge piles of snow in parking lots slowly getting smaller. Rounded corners on snow piles. Pot holes deepening.

The snow falling
All morning-
One crow after another.
Basho

stop signs

One final story from Brazil. I got to drive around with Erin a lot when I was there. It didn't take too long to see that stop signs were basically ignored by her and all the other drivers in Brasilia. After a  few days I said to her that it sure seemed that people didn't pay very much attention to the stop signs. She said that stop signs in Brazil mean that you might want to look around and see if there are any cars coming. She said that if you actually stopped at a stop sign, you'd probably cause an accident.

home

There are a lot of twists and turns in the road when traveling from Brazil to The Other Side of the Creek. I started at the airport al fresco in Brasilia, flying to Miami, to Boston where I picked up the Dartmouth Coach bus line to Lebanon, NH. The pick up spot outside of terminal B had busses stopping to pick up travelers heading all over New England. As the pick up time drew near, I started to try to pick out the people who would be traveling with me on that bus. As we boarded the bus I found that I was correct more often than not. The men and women seated on that bus were generally, quiet, centered, polite; maybe a little introverted. I felt I was back among my  people.

After the bus ride to Lebanon, I picked up the car for the ride home. Crossing the Ct. River into Vermont, I relaxed a bit. I was home. The next morning I went to the Winter's Farmers Market in Rutland. The usual crowd was there. Women in parkas carrying food in canvas bags. Old men with wild white beards. Young women without makeup, wearing boots and carrying small children. I was happy to be there.

We're going through a warm stretch now. The temperature today is supposed to be almost 70. It is welcome, but also brings with it the usual difficulties of thaws this time of year. Kahle Road has turned to soup. The sump pump is running in the basement. Yesterday I was out digging out the ditches between the house and the hill, attempting to deflect some of the snow melt away from the house.

Life is not always easy here on the other side of the creek. It certainly doesn't remind one of the Garden of Eden like Brazil can do.  But my life here with Allyn seems simple, human and genuine. I honestly don't think I'd want to live anywhere else. I guess that is part of the reason I continue writing this blog.

Manga

I dearly love my granddaughter Eliza, but she is the most brutally honest person I know. I remember a visit to Chicago last summer when she was in the living room playing with Allyn. I was also in the living room and said something to Allyn. Eliza looked my right in the eyes and said, "I'm playing with Manga now. You should leave."
I moved to the kitchen where Erin looked at me and laughed. "Did you get kicked out, too?" she said.
I recounted this incident to my son-in-law, Andy, and he said, "Oh for sure, nobody can measure up to Manga."
Allyn/Manga actually got her unusual nickname from Eliza. It was as close as Eliza could get to Grandma  a few years ago. Among Allyn's many fine qualities is patience. She is able to engage with Eliza through all of her lengthy and byzantine narratives involving bunnies, elephants, Baby, The Three Little Pigs, and others. Eliza loves her for that, and much more.
I have returned from Brazil, but Allyn is still down there. Today is her birthday. Eliza has been singing Happy Birthday to Manga for days now. So Happy Birthday to the world's greatest wife, mother and grandmother. Happy Birthday to Manga!

Flowers of Brasilia