A Taste of Spring

Since mild and balmy days are few and far between we laced on boots, grabbed our lightest jackets and set off for an afternoon in the sun.

The road was wide with few rocks to stumble over and we strode out, eager to feel the warm sun on our faces.  Crossing creeks and narrow ditches filled with half frozen remnants of last week's zero temperature, was a joy.  Clear water shone with crystal sheen and last fall's leaves were mirrored in the flashing light.

Wind blew our hair and cooled our faces as we climbed higher and higher, up the steeper slopes, now out of breath but not wanting to stop for fear of losing the light that poured down, moving ever westward with the waning day.

At last.  At last.  Here we were and stopped to gaze at light drenched hills and valleys stretching as far as eye could see.  Not wanting to miss this chance we ventured on, with speeding pace to find the one notch that could offer us a view we had not seen before.  And there it was. 

Facing east, with searching eyes we saw a sight that made us smile and laugh.  For there was home.  Our little home, shining in the sun.  Not so very far away.  The cedar glowing green,  grass still brown with winter's touch, roof touched with sunset light.

Relieved we started back.  Pebbles on the road cast shadows long as Stonehenge's.  Passing each curve we saw the tree-line shadows striping oak and sycamore.

It was then I noticed the wind shifting to the north.  Surely it couldn't happen so fast.  We knew that this was the last time we would feel the gentle hint of spring for a time.  I wanted to stop and turn and chide the breeze for being such a turncoat.  Unfair.  Unfair.  To tease and tempt us with such a perfect day.

Tossing back my head and laughing at the icy wind I knew that we had won.  Winter may come back tomorrow.  But at least we had a taste, a blessed taste, of spring today.

A Sunday Stroll

The mid-January thaw is on.  This afternoon we took a leisurely stroll down to the east line and back.  Such a difference between this Sunday afternoon and one a few weeks ago.  Truly amazing.

We have a huge flock of meadow larks that spend most of their time in our pasture.  One was singing to the setting sun as we made our way toward the fence line.  I love their song.  It never fails to lift my spirits and make me smile.

A hawk flew overhead.  Andy said he had seen a male marsh hawk a few days ago.  We generally just see females.  I wonder where the males hunt.  Somewhere exotic and dangerous while their mates stick to the common, ordinary routine, crisscrossing our hayfield in search of something to eat?

I spied a small run in the grass.  A tiny creature had tunneled his way across the path, perhaps not realizing that he was exposed to the sky.  I would imagine it was a field mouse or tiny vole.  Our place is alive with little varmints who keep the bigger varmints happy and well fed.

Climbing down the sloping hill we saw where the deer bedded down each night.  We have quite a few of them who keep our carefully planted and watered trees eaten down to the nub.  Some we have saved.  But the deer like anything out-of-the-ordinary and they browse to their hearts' content, wiping out a whole stand of little pines in one meal.

Walking over to the neighbor's fence line I find the faint trace of the old road that went along our southernmost line and down the hill to the creek.  I have heard many stories about this track through the woods.  And if I close my eyes I can almost hear the horses and wagons as they pass by me on their way home.

I guess that is one of the charms of my new home.  It is so steeped in Ozark's history.  It was farmed and tended and walked over by many people through the years.  Some have shared their hunting and adventure stories with me.  And some have added historical notes that I would have never known.  How fortunate we are to have found our place out here where the past comes alive and joins our plans for the future.

I look up and see a jet streaming overhead, its contrail a white streak in the sky.  I wonder about the people sitting in that plane.  They can't see me.  All they see is the blue sky and the setting sun ahead of them to the west.  We are in that part of the country known as the 'fly-over' zone.  Half way between here and there.  To some, we are of little or no account.

I don't know about you, but I am happy to be where I am.  I have no desire to enter the mad dash from coast to coast.  City streets hold no magic for me.

I would rather take a Sunday stroll over fifty acres of Ozark farmland and hear the meadowlark's evening vesper call.  I would rather be here, where day is slowly fading into star-studded splendor.  Owls call.  Coyotes howl.  And tomorrow promises to be another beautiful day.  

 

The Laws of Snow Days

This was the scene from my window a few weeks ago.  Today it is quite different.  The sun has melted all the snow and, thankfully, strong winds and rising temperatures have taken care of the 'mud-issue'.

However, in thinking about the past siege of ice and snow and bitter temps below zero, I have come up with a short list which I like to call The Laws of Snow Days.

1.  Any body at rest will remain at rest until an external force makes it move.

Quite simply, if one sits in one's chair for an extended period of time, it takes a major event such as a need for food, or uncontrollable yawning to make the sit-ee get up and move from that spot.  I found myself sitting....and sitting...and sitting until the only thing that would make me stand up and move was Andy saying ,"Hey, let's have a cookie and some tea!"

2.  Any body in motion will continue in motion until it meets an immovable  force stronger than that motion.

When you put on your boots, bundle up your body until you resemble something from an Artic horror movie and go out on the ice, you will fall.  You will fall and continue to move over the ice and snow and rocks hidden in the grass until you hit some small hidden bush or random branch and then, and only then, you will stop suddenly.  It will rattle your teeth and make every bone in your body take notice.  The effects will last for days.

3.  Any plans that you have made of things to do when you are held captive in the house by bad weather will not be done.

I like to call this The Law of Inertia.  When I was making the big move from town to country I had a box made up of "things to do when I can't go outside."  I have a quilting frame, I have several paper projects and journals, I have knitting and sewing plans.  And did I do any of them?  NO.  I did not.  Instead, I read, did crossword puzzles, word finds, and rummaged around to find recipes to cook that were full of sugar and spice and lots of good things.  I cooked.  That is one thing I really excelled at during that time.  And my waistline shows it.

4.  If you try to warm your house with wood during sub-zero weather, you can really, actually, get it too hot.

Hard to believe.  We are not novices in terms of  heating with a wood stove.  Our trusty Warm Morning circulator is thirty years old.  We set it up when the cold weather started in.  The first day we built a fire we had to open up the doors and windows to get the room cooled down to below the 90 degrees it showed on the thermostat.  There is a learning curve here.  We now have a house that is approximately one quarter the size of the house we heated with wood in town.  Consequently, we only needed a fire that was one-quarter the size of the previous ones we had built.  We now have it down to a science, even though we do occasionally get it a little warmer than we like.  And, of course, there are always doors and windows available to moderate the sauna-like temperatures.

5.  You can always dream of spring.

There is a reason why seed companies stuff your mailbox with catalogs showing flowers and vegetables and all manner of growing things in the dead cold of January.  When you are looking out the window at a gray and windy day, the ice and snow and slush do not seem nearly as daunting when you have the vision of blooms and berries and bird song in your dreams and plans.

Spring is just around the corner.  Hold on.  It will come. 

And more snow....

This picture was taken in the early '60s.  It shows our house on Horseleg Road just up the hill from East Madison, New Hampshire.  We usually were there in the summer for camp and extended vacations.  But we very rarely got the  chance to go there in the winter.  Our Christmas break from school was long enough that year for us to make the trip from Wisconsin east to New England.  We planned on lots of skiing and fun.  What we didn't count on was snow, and more snow and more snow.

The house was not suited for winter use.  We had shut off the water and drained the pipes that fall.  But we were tough.  At least we thought we were.  What an adventure we would have.

The selectman had been kind enough to plow the road.  And a neighbor had ordered the oil for the heating stove in the kitchen and wood was stacked ready for the three fireplaces.  The house was built in the 1820's but the previous owners had added a modern kitchen and bath and had redone the fireplaces and chimney so they were in tiptop shape.

We moved into the living room and shut off the rest of the house.  After skiing all day we would come home, heat up the split pea soup that my mom had left on the backporch in the cold, change out of our wet snowy clothes and bask in the warmth of the fire.

Things went fine for a few days.  And then the storm hit.  It blew a gale.  We made it down the hill to the slopes that day but barely made it back before dark.  Entering the kitchen with a full pail of water from the outside well, my brother Paul sloshed some over the side.  As soon as it hit the kitchen floor it turned to ice.  That should have been our first sign that things were going to get dicey.  We heated up our soup and got ready for the evening in front of the fire.  But no matter how much wood we burned, it was still definitely cold in the house.  Surely, we thought, things will be better in the morning. 

The next day we were snowed in.  Paul went out to draw water.  The bucket banged on thick ice.  We brought in pans full of snow and melted them on the heating stove.  Around noon we noticed ice forming on the huge picture window that looked out over the mountains to the west.  Our first thought was what if the glass cracked and exposed us to the blowing wind?  We huddled in the living room, feeding the fire and hoping that the fuel oil for the stove in the kitchen would last. 

The next day was no better.  Was this what our long-awaited vacation was going to turn into.....locked in by snow and wind and no way to get out?  I mean, we were hardy and resilient and up for a challenge.  Just not this challenge.

Finally friends who lived nearby got worried about us and managed to make it up the hill to see what was going on.  We put on a brave front.  Oh yes, we were fine.  Nothing would budge us from our warm and cozy fire.  But the longer we talked the more they insisted that we  abandon our winter-wonder adventure on the mountain and come and stay with them.

And so we did.  It wasn't a very hard decision after all.  The prospect of a nice warm bed and a shower were very appealing.  And besides, we were all tired of  split pea soup.