Category: An Ongoing Journal…

Various and sundry writings. This is the page where the most recent posts appear as well.

My Old Home

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I’ve just been snooping through Facebook. I came upon a photo album of the woman who now lives in ‘my home’. While I’m interested to see her children and her life, as I move through the shots all my attention goes to the corners of the frame where I can make out the so-familiar details of what is still, in my deepest heart, my home. I see the raised slate hearth, the jack-on-jack Roman brick wall above it (which my husband and I plotted to cover up when we first peered voyeuristically through the window into the home we knew we would buy, but later learned to love it for the mid-century finery it was), the ratty old kitchen cabinets, the aging window frames, the floor, which I hardly knew, as the owners after us had them redone. I see a post of mine below a photo in which I lightheartedly remarked that I was happy to see the salmon colored, boomerang patterned formica still on the counters, the black plastic tile behind, but saw it wasn’t met with a response. I don’t respond to a fraction of the responses of my own photos, why does my heart cringe the teensiest bit that my nostalgic remark went unnoticed? I search my home for all the details – and my heart almost sighs with relief to see the grand, stunning beams that ran the entire length of the house and that required traffic be stopped when they were brought into Evanston back in 1955… Then my heart stops. And my eyes begin to tear. She writes simply: ‘the glacier threatening to migrate off my roof’. And it hits me. This oh so familiar sight, this roof, those beams, that expanse of glass and sky beyond, it is no longer my house. It is her house. And I cry. I don’t sob, and it doesn’t last long. I don’t cry much these days. I’ve stopped crying about my husband too, for the most part. Not much, not even poverty gets me going anymore. But this, it was too much. It’s MY house, I want to say to her. But it isn’t. And what’s worse, is that I’ve created this woman in my mind to be the sort who might just not get my over-devotion to a house. Who might just think it’s a little creepy that some 6 years gone this crazy woman somewhere across the country still feels such a sense of proprietorship over what clearly is no longer her home.

In fact, the woman who lives there now seems to be a karmically just
inhabitant of that house – at least from my perspective. She is a doula, and she has two young children of her own. She is crafty, handy, motherly. Good energy. And that more than cleanses the rather dark energy of the woman who preceded her (the woman who bought it from me). And it also redeems my failed ‘birth story’. Our beloved cat, Kukla, died in our arms in that house, we were married in the house, and our son, while he wasn’t born (as intended) in our home, he was in fact first sighted there. Close to crowning, Fareed stood at the foot of the bed and said with a smile “I can see the head!”. But that’s as far as that went. After 17 hours of stalled labor, a declining baby’s heartbeat and maconium in my long broken water, it was decided that I would be one of that tiny percent of home births that end up in the hospital. I can remember squatting my way down the front steps when the delivery guy from Dave’s Italian Kitchen was arriving with our bag of dinner. “No, not now, I’m having a baby” I said as I wattled to the doc’s minivan. What happened that day is truly another story. But it weaves me right back into the web of feelings that house created in me. This house, this grand, mid-century home has now replaced the home in which I grew up as my emotional epicenter.

For many years I would dream of the house in which I grew up, 154 Maple Avenue in Wilmette. It was a beautiful Tudor house, built in the ’30s, one whose design had won architectural awards. My father was a harpsichordist, and there were two of the instruments in the ‘sunken’ living room (I still just love saying that – it’s just so, I don’t know, decadent?), leaded windows and huge stone fireplace – the place was easy to create a whole fantasy world around. Especially as a young girl on the advent of her adolescence and in the height of the Led Zeppelin years. Every young man looked like either Donovan or Robert Plant, and the golf course on which we lived, the moor. The Bahai temple was visible from all the northerly windows in the house, my bedroom included. I’m not sure where this came from, but I have a dim memory of someone, somewhere saying that anywhere with a view of the Bahai temple was the most romantic place on earth. And while perhaps this comment was meant in a more classic sense of the word and not so much a titillating nod to eroticism, I always like to cite this statement, adding quickly afterward, “and my bedroom has a view of the Bahai temple”. I was always kidding, and I thought it was cute, but it seems silly now. But the view was something. At night I would lie on my left side, and from exactly where my head lay on the pillow, I would see the entire form, glowing white against the black sky, like a giant orange juicer. The branches from the oak trees gently framed it, my translucent, psychadelic-colored butterfly decals flew up to the sky on the windows, and below was an alter-ish scene of a George Harrison poster from his “All Things Must Pass” album flanked by candles on my dark-stained bookshelf. It was perfect in its time. My room, my fantasies, my feelings, all products of the time. And well-loved memories. This home showed up in my dreams incessantly for the decade after I moved out. My parents sold it, and they too moved on. Yet even after I’d bought my first place – that in itself another stunner (on Lake Michigan, 7th floor, balcony view of Chicago) my dreams took me back to Maple Ave all the time. In different aspects, some rooms recognizable, some not, sometimes the whole house was in a different place, but always it was that house, at least in feeling. The feeling was what I sunk into and comforted myself in. I always just knew in my dreams that the lake was to the east, the temple to the north, the golf course and canal to the west, the lights of the city to the south. Those were the cardinal directions of my heart’s compass for half my life. Until I moved to Judson.

So here I am. On a fine piece of land in rural upstate New York. Half a country away. Spent all day making plans for this little plot of land. I’m trying to love it, it has all the potential one could ever hope for, it’s got a view of the Vermont mountains, a storybook footbridge over an almost running creek, it’s got forest, open field, the steepest hill around – it has it all. But it doesn’t yet have my heart. My heart still gets its fix on the world from my home on Judson. But I’m working on it. Looking back, I see that it’s taken me a few years after each move to catch my heart up. When we moved to Judson I still dreamed (and still do often) of Lunt, that city apartment whose orientation was both the vast, inland sea to the east, and the glowing promise of Chicago spread before one to the south. And yet when I reached Judson I felt I was at home, finally. But it wasn’t final. And there’s one more house between us yet, the one in the cornfields. The home in which I’d tried to set my heart up for its midlife story until it changed once again.

I’m trying my best. I’m growing into my home. It’s slow. My intent is here, but my heart is dragging its feet. That it’s really the only home my son has known helps to make it feel more like my own true home. I think about the idea of home a lot. At least I have over the years. There are nights here in my little cottage where I half wake, and think that I see the lights of my parent’s room down the hall at Maple. Then other nights I wake and believe fully that I am at Judson, and I feel relieved to be home, before I awake more fully to slowly realize where I am. It seems my heart has not come to rest yet. I ponder all the changes in the hearts of my own parents through their journeys. My father is starting to show signs of his Alzheimer’s. It will be interesting to see where he feels he is. Already he’s believed that he’s been moved to a ‘house on the lake’. He spent his childhood in a house on a lake. The very house where I was conceived. His lake house must be imprinted deep into his heart. What makes a place feel like home? Is it the age in which we lived there? The events that happened? Do we cease to identify our souls with a home after a certain point? Where is my home? I wonder. I’ve wondered this so many times. I’ve marveled over how home can be everything to one person, and simply a nice place to pass some life to another. I’m a Taurus, I’m of the earth and I need to know where my home is. Then I will dig in and make it even more my own. Guess that’s what I’m doing now. I’m just going to enjoy being here, because it’s where I am now. And I’ll simply have to adjust if there ends up being just another home on my path, because Lord knows things change. Dear old George was good to remind us that ‘all things must pass’.

Working for a Living

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I think I’m a pretty hard working person for someone without a day job. My son is with his father for the week and I haven’t stopped moving since he left. When we moved here over two years ago I had no idea how different life would be. I had romantic notions of off the grid living, of being a robust mother who could do the work of two parents, of creating a homestead filled with the laughter of guests, music around our fire and homegrown produce on our table. As with any new endeavor, one knows so little about the reality of it until one is knee deep.

Last summer I fought with the sod for days – probably over 20 hours in total – to create a small garden. It was a humble 5’x12′ and yielded little but the zinnias and arugula I bought mid-season already grown. While those few plants gave my 7 year old son true joy as he ran out of the kitchen to check on them first thing each morning, they gave us so little to put in our tummies. I dug the fresh cut arugula’s zingy flavor, but had only enough to add it to store bought lettuce. Our pumpkin plants, it turns out, needed us to intervene in their sex lives; it looks like our neighborhood is bereft of the already dwindling bees to pollinate such plants. Q-tips in hand, Elihu and I swabbed the pollen from the male flowers’ stigmas and carefully dragged them over the stamens inside the shorter, feminine blossoms. I’ve since read many blogs on the topic, and of course there’s always a little snickering about it, but sex aside, when you see a packet of seeds with a lovely photo of the end result, are you even aware that you may be responsible for making sure your plants are properly knocked up? Really – I haven’t seen one package mention the importance of this missing link. Just another thing you learn once you’re already under way. (We did, after many tries, achieve only one pumpkin, and it only turned orange in one small spot by the end of october.)

Today I visited a neighbor to see if I might barter eggs or piano lessons for some plowing. I had begun to realize the scope of such a project, and since yard had grown in place of the one-time gardens on the property, I gave in to the need for horsepower. That, and someone who has the horse. I’m not proud to say that when I see someone’s beautiful and successful vegetable garden, jealousy and even anger grow inside me. First, I think, ‘they’ probably have a spouse to help (grrr), then I think, crap, they probably sank a couple hundred into it too (who the hell has a couple hundred extra dollars to play with?), then I think they probably own some kind of machine. Then I give up, and descend into a good dose of self pity. I think I threw in the towel today – on pride, on envy, on the despair of feeling it was out of my reach to have a garden of my own. True, I cannot do it by myself. So I approached my neighbor, and he was so very kind to come by and check out my hopeful project. This fellow is farming a good chunk of land himself, plus his grandparents built my place, so I feel lucky he’s in the mix. Now I’ll just have to wait and see what a neighborly kindness looks like here in the country. I already feel a little guilty, because I just can’t pay what the task is worth… I guess part of the ‘takes a village’ thing means accepting that you can’t do it alone. It means learning to accept help.

You can’t put in fences alone either. Nor is it so easy to dig a post hole (this town really should be named “Stonefield” and not Greenfield, as thousands of fist-sized rocks lie everywhere just inches beneath the surface). Lucky I’m not on bedrock (or am I?) as many in the area are. That would mean no post holes or gardens. My neighbor was the first person to offer me encouragement about the post holes. While I was unable to dig even a 6″ hole last summer with my shovel, perhaps with a post-hole digger, time and determination, just perhaps, I can do it. I will certainly try.

Onto the coop. It is now a foot deep in the detritus of winter. Poop, hay and wood chips have packed down to make a dense, spongey floor which when loosed with a pitchfork springs forth with the most horrible smell. I’d always heard about how smelly chickens are, yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m thinking, cuz up until that moment when I broke the seal with those long tines, nothin much was all that smelly. That’s perhaps because I ain’t done my proper maintenance. I had clearly opened Pandora’s box. I considered the job ahead for a moment. The day was sunny yet cold, and it rained down tiny droplets of ice all afternoon. It was mid afternoon, and I was already pooped. I just couldn’t make myself address the stink. So I grabbed some more fresh wood chips and covered the open wound. When it’s warmer, I tell myself. Just not too warm….

In fall and spring I try my best to clean up the leaves. With five open acres dotted with mature hardwood trees, this aint easy. I set to work in the transitional seasons making great piles throughout the property and them setting them alight. By the end of the day the place has the feel of a civil war camp, smoldering mounds hither and yon stretching off into the distance. My house is rather leaky I learned, for despite the seasonal cuttings of hyacinth in my kitchen, which usually perfume the whole house so nicely, all I can smell is smoke. Ok. I’m ok with that. I’m ok with a lot of things these days. There’s a teeny mouse poop in the bottom of my olive oil jar. I regard it as the worm in the bottom of the tequila bottle. I sleep in a bathrobe over my pajamas – which are not pajamas but sweats – and then go out to let the chickens out in the very same. I’ll go a few days in the same underwear and socks – and long underwear is part of my wardrobe til May. Am I saying too much? I would have had great disdain for such habits a decade ago. Back then I would have been choosing a hair extension and dress for the night’s gig, my biggest concern being to successfully apply my false eyelashes without incident. I do believe that all is in its time and place. I have no regrets. But I do have a lot more to do, so I’m off to make hay. (Hmm, hay? I wonder if I could actually make my own hay one day?…)

Borscht Belt comes to Greenfield

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Elihu and I knew he would perform at his school’s talent show. I wondered what he could do; my first choice was his busking-inspired djembe bit. That was too informal for his taste. From the start he knew what he would do. He wanted to play drums and sing. A snare and a cymbal would get the point across just fine. He knew all the polkas well… Roll Out The Barrel and The Happy Wanderer were good choices. And the embedded one-liners were his choice too. Clad in an Austrian peasant shirt his father brought back from a European tour, he belts out the tunes and jokes without missing a beat – in spite of failing microphones. This kid is a showman, and his mama is proud indeed. The Catskills got nothin on the Adirondacks!

The New Seekers at 4:20

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I can’t sleep. Nearly every night, the same thing. I awake around 2, and am up for several hours. Not up enough to do dishes or file, to do the things that need getting done. This would be the perfect time, but I just can’t seem to summon the resolve to do anything.  Before I admit my defeat to insomnia and commit to getting out of bed, I just lay there for a while and follow my thoughts as they traverse my life again.

Sometimes it seems the better part of my life was ‘back then’. When exactly was back then, I muse? While there was a long and happy window, I decide I know when ‘back then’ was. I was in my early 30s, in three bands I enjoyed, and was busy. Playing every weekend, rehearsing all week, had lots of side recording jobs. Lots going on. Felt great, looked great. My current life with chickens just doesn’t compare. I spend a lot of time trying to sell myself on my new country life, but when my mind wanders like this at 2 am, I just miss it so.

Here begins the monkey mind. Tonite’s perigee moon had prompted me to show Elihu a vid of Starbuck performing “Moonlight Feels Right”. He dug it, I dug it. Who were those guys? And the marimba player wore a unitard open to the waist. He had chops; was he like this skinny North Texas music major in a jumpsuit who only in that moment had became remotely cool? What were the stories behind the band? I remember so many of my own… then my mind wanders, turns a corner, and I’m reminiscing about the gear of my past.

It started with a red and black Farfisa combo compact with a knee reverb when I was 17. My mom was surprised when I told her I’d also need an amplifier with which to hear it. So came the Peavey duece with that crazy spring reverb that sounded like a thunderstorm when you moved the amp while it was on. My mind flashes forward. I’m at the Wild Hare reggae bar in Chicago. It’s a sunny afternoon, and I’m rehearsing. I took pride in my setup then. I remember I had structured soft cases for my keyboards which fit just so into the trunk of my boxy 80s Corolla. Hmm, what was that one that played the great (in its day the absolute bomb) piano sound? Ensoniq. Yes, an Ensoniq EPS. I remember how we’d all have to stand around and wait for that piano sound to load. And if I didn’t have enough room on board for the set’s ‘patches’ (yes, it’s all coming back – that’s what we called sounds!) then you’d have to re-load it, and usually during a song. Or in between songs, and the front guy would have to know where in the set that happened so he could rap a little to the audience, buying you time to load. I remember at that rehearsal saying how one day we’d tell our kids it took 3 minutes to load a piano sound and they’d just laugh at us. No one but me thought this was interesting. I remember being surprised at that. Imagine, a piano sound which took up nearly an entire 3″ floppy disc and took 3 full minutes to load. Hmm.

“You’ll love them, the vocals are so compressed” my girlfriend enticed after I turned down her invitation to see a show. That got me. I liked punchy vocals you could really hear. I ended up going to the show with her that night. Had a good time. The scene just pops into my head as my brain scans the past for tidbits. I remember Conley. I’ve never had real girlfriend. She was one of the few who kinda came close I guess. Always liked her name. Sounded like she was from the South, with a first name seeming more like a sur name.  And I liked that she actually knew what compressed vocals were. She and I had a lot of the same issues. Insecurity, being a cute woman in a man’s world (music, gear, shows, etc. – even 20 years ago it was much less a woman’s place) and yet needing to be taken seriously, as a peer. Yeah, I remember all that. You want to be sexy, but you also want them to know you know. Are we FB friends, she and I? Yes, I remember, we are. But I have never communicated with her. Maybe now I will…. maybe…. here goes my monkey mind, hopping up to the next branch….

I just got it – the guy in Starbuck singing “Moonlight Feels Right” looks like Joe Zawinul. I remember meeting Joe in a cave-like restaurant in Perugia, Italy. His wife/manager was sitting next to him. My husband presented me, and Joe looked down at my boobs. I remember thinking 1) you dirty old man, and 2) you must be disappointed. Not much to ogle. Yeah, the guy in Starbuck looks like Joe Zawinul.

My mind stops. I get out of bed. I watch a Japanese cartoon on TV. I eat jalapeno soy cheese and flax pita bread. I pour a glass of wine. I look at the perigee moon for a bit. Then I post my link to the Starbuck video on Facebook. I play the video again, then proceed to choose a related video from the list that pops up. I enjoy a Starland Vocal Band performance. Next up, The New Seekers. “I’d Like To Teach The World To Sing”. Hmm. I was how old then? Man, they had a Coke endorsement back in the day. Pretty big. I search images and see them now. I ponder the changes in them. I ponder the changes in me. I am no different. I am aging. My ‘day’ seems to be a decade in my past. I wish I had a cigarette, I really do.  Man I want one right now. I’m restless, I’m unsettled, what can I do? I sit to write. So many other thoughts fly through my mind. The to-do list, the money situation, The Studio, the divorce… It will all keep. I take 4 over the counter sleeping pills plus a homeopathic pill too, just to make sure. I finish my post and I’m still not remotely sleepy.

Maybe I’ll FB Conley (look – it’s become a verb!) and then go see where the members of Starbuck are today. There’s still time – the full moon has a few more hours in the sky before she sets….

Whoop Dee Doo

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Elihu was born to polka, apparently. When we get into the car each morning to drive to the bus the first thing he says is: “Polka?” Now it’s bedtime and he’s singing along to his “Favorite Polkas of All Time” CD. I left the room briefly and when I came back he was trying to sing the tuba part. He said he was planning to be a really good tuba player by the time he was in fifth grade, as he was allowed to start in fourth. (I sure hope he’s big enough for the instrument by then.) “And you know in polka bands it’s not really the drums keeping the beat, it’s the tuba” he says to me as I write this. He is mesmerized by this particular style of tuba playing; short, punchy notes with a lot of groove. Really, some of these tuba parts are pretty swingin. After all this up energy, how do we end this polka jag tonite? Is there such a thing as a gentle, good-night sort of polka? Hmm, we have “She’s Too Fat Polka”, “Clarinet Polka” or “Ta Ra Ra Boom De Ay”? I just gotta pull the plug… now he’s singing in Polish. Wow. Whoop De Doo – who knew?

Roll Out The Barrel

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Ok, so our driveway is still too narrow for the fuel truck, but some good did come of our day.

Elihu loves polkas. A lot. And so, he will be singing “Roll Out The Barrel” for his elementary school talent show. Only problem was he wanted to actually roll out a barrel on which he would then stand and sing. Finding a barrel proved more daunting a task than we’d thought. En route to teach my continuing ed class at the high school tonight, we ran across some men making sets for the high school musical. I inquired if they might know where we could get a good, old-fashioned oak barrel. When they learned our mission the fellow in charge gave us the number of a woman who could supply us just such a barrel – and since it was for use in the school district it would be free! How bout that.

So we don’t have heat yet, but we do have a barrel. So we got that goin for us. Which is nice.

Horsepower Needed

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I’ve been told that the mounds of snow flanking our driveway need more oomph to move than usual. What to do? I don’t know. This is a good way to meet neighbors… I’ll just keep knocking on doors til I find someone with the machine for the job. I’m not upset, in fact it is kind of adventure. I am convinced that some interesting surprises await. I feel I must mention, however, that I am rather done with a chilly house. There’s no thrill to a cold toilet seat first thing in the morning.

Good News, Bad News

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“So what’s the story with the heat?” Elihu asked me when I got off the phone. “Well,” I answer, “You’ve got a sense of humor, right?” Ok. I’m finding this amusing this morning. Maybe I should be bummed, but it’s all ok. So. The almost ex agrees to send me $150 for oil, the oil man agrees to front me the oil til the money comes in, and it’s lookin good. Then the truck guy wants to know if my driveway is plowed. Oh. Kind of.

The huge dump of snow we got two days ago closed schools and caused the plow guys to sigh with the rest of us. We had all thought it was over. My plow guy (we call him dumb Mike because he’s called me Lisa for years in spite of my having written him checks with my actual name on them) was done with the season too and so just barely cleared a path for my vehicle. But a huge tank truck? No way. As it is my side mirrors are barely clearing the three foot banks of snow. Sigh. One more thing to do before our house will be warm again.

All Out Again

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Thankfully, it happened after dinner, after our house-bound snow day was over. I swear I’ve been economical about our use of heat; the house is kept at 60 during the days, lower at night. Having been through this now three times this year, I knew well what was going on when the thermostats began to drop. Phooey. We’re out of oil again.

I checked the oil just day before yesterday, and it seemed we were experiencing a Biblical type of respite; it looked like we had nearly six inches left. My frugality had paid off. I figured that I had til mid week to face the dilemma – I would find some oil before we ran out cold. But no. I must remember that the four inches on the bottom of the tank lies below the intake pipe – it counts for nothing. Six inches really means two.

Thankfully, Elihu wanted to sleep with me tonight, in my bed. While we have finally found our way into our own beds these past six months, Elihu pouted uncharacteristically about sleeping alone tonight. “It’s scary in my room” he’d said. “And there’s a big owl on the ceiling”. Geez. His owl kite was scary? I didn’t say anything. He was feeling a bit clingy and melancholic tonight, so I agreed without any discussion. Usually he’s a happy, bouncy kid with a quick wit and a Monty Python-esqe take on things. Although the dark and angry attitude of an unsatisfied artist lurks not too far below the surface, he is not a child who needs too much coddling or intervention. He knows himself, and his needs pretty well. (He’s often more honest with himself than I am about this.) While I refuse to debate the hot topic of ‘co-sleeping’ I will however offer that our situation – living in a tiny house far off the road, just the the two of us – makes sharing a bed feel very natural, cozy and reassuring. Good that he chose this sleeping arrangement tonight, because now, once again, my room is the only warm one in the house. God bless our portable electric heater.

I fight with myself to keep my mantra an upbeat one. We don’t live in a war-torn country. We’re not hungry. (My dark side rises up – we’re still one day away from food stamps and we’re out of milk and produce.) Oh, be quiet! I say to my dark voice. “I am supported. I am supported” I say, guided by the advice of a counselor I knew in my first, frightening year here. I must remember that the universe always supports me. I must not succumb to negative thoughts. Shit, I’m out of everything. I’m out of toilet paper, toothpaste, milk… and heating oil. Crap. No – be positive. Maybe all my years of over-tipping waitstaff and rounding up will manifest in some assistance now. I’d had a couple of old friends offer help. But how do I accept it when I have no ability to pay them back? And what about my husband? How does he expect us to live on $750 a month? Round and round. The voices battle.

The snow has resulted in hundreds of lost dollars in piano lesson income. Just today I lost another $55. Last year my ‘buffer’ – the extra bit of money that helped us pull through each month –  had been social security income for Elihu’s ‘disability’. But since the court had allocated our monthly support all for him, (rather than for me, the head of household) he was disqualified, and we lost our extra $220. That hurt. But then the new students made up for it. Now, with both sources gone this month, it’s been very tight indeed. I remind myself that I have a house in which to live. The mother of one of my students has very kindly offered me the job of feeding her horses while she vacations in Florida. That will bring in some money, just not soon enough.

The chickens lost their heat today too. When I went out to shut them in for the night I smelled burnt plastic. Kinda wonder why it hadn’t happened before this. Yup, the heat lamp had shorted out in the muck. Not sure how, but the plug was melted and just gone. One more thing to fix, to buy.

I will not succumb. Or will I? (How did I get here? I’ve always been a good person!) “The universe supports me. I am supported” (How can this be happening?) “I have everything I need right now”. (I don’t deserve this!) “I bring to my experience what I give energy to.” (Seriously, does Jill have to go without toilet paper and heat?!) “I choose to feel supported”. (How is it that Fareed is in Indonesia staying in a five star hotel and eating out every day when his son has no milk for breakfast?) “We have what we need in this moment”. (You’re right. I give.)

Hookay. I guess I do have what I need for right now. My heater is purring along, the room is comfortable. I am thankful that we played board games inside rather than make snowmen outside, because Elihu’s coat and snowpants will be dry tomorrow. I will regroup and re-assess after he’s safely on the school bus. For now, I will be thankful for what I do have. And I will climb into bed beside my dear son, and be grateful I’m not alone.

Coop Duty on a Snow Day

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As my son and I happily made our way across the wet parking lot, hand in hand, he said ‘I can smell Spring. I can just smell it. I smell dirt.’ I did too. And we two had a new, hopeful kind of joy beginning to grow within us, just like the seeds we were starting in our living room for our garden. We were ready for spring. Were not all our neighboring residents ready? That was day before yesterday. And today, it is a snow day.

Last night, as I walked to the coop to close the chickens in for the night, the wind blew so strong it made that enormous sound of a menacing engine approaching. A loud, dark groan wove its way through the forest. Wet matter, a cross between rain and snow, was coming down nearly sideways. I liked the drama. I felt like a pioneer woman securing her farmstead, taking care of things, making it safe. In our language here, I was being ‘Mommy-Daddy’. With my farm coat, western-style hat and bare hands (it was just a quick trip to the coop) I enjoyed my role. I found it was less poetic when I collected eggs, some covered in fresh, unfrozen poop, and had to wrestle with the catch on the coop door, which was covered in ice.  In fact, I was a little tired of it all. It really was unending. With chickens, one must always be around, both morning and nightfall, to let the chickens out or in. If you are tired, and let yourself off the hook – just once – you may lose a bird or two, and even the whole flock, to predators. I have my new groove, and I don’t mind. Most days.

Today it is March 7th, and it is a snow day. I’m glad I fashioned a little lean-to structure over the platform bird feeder outside our kitchen window before our last big snow, for there is a puffy pile of snow atop it, some 8 inches high. The titmice (oh-so-cute with big, black ‘love me’ eyes) and friends come in under the shelter and find seeds easily. I wonder, why don’t they stay longer? Why don’t they take a load off? I would like to see them gather, as if around the water cooler, to eat and chat and rest awhile. But no – they dash in and out again, many flying with their seed to crack it on a branch of the maple tree above our house. And the squirrels – the bane of so many feeders of birds – I don’t begrudge them their seemingly greedy behavior today. I see a squirrel, biting off large chunks from the suet feeder, and I stay myself. My knee-jerk reaction is to shoo them away – and truly, if there weren’t a foot of snow on the ground, I might. But today, my heart feels for them. How can I shoo away a creature who is just trying to feed her empty stomach? I can’t. In fact, I grab a block of suet, chop it into pieces and place it outside the kitchen door.

I’d come in to dry off, to rest and get ready for the coop walk. Today it’ll take some doing. The muck around the door sill is no doubt frozen, and I may have to whack at it with a sledge hammer before I can open it. The bedding in the nesting boxes is tired and wet and needs to be changed. The overall smell of the coop begs for a good spring cleaning. While that will have to wait, I need to do my best to dry up the place. It’s getting full – of, well, you know…. I have been adding bedding material – straw, wood chips – during the winter, and now the floor of the coop is raised up so high it spills out when I open the door. I must find a new routine for the next wintry season. But for today it’s the band aid approach. More wood chips, some tasty alfalfa on top. I can hear Bald Mountain, the mixed breed rooster, crowing. I can hear him from inside the house. (Sometimes I must use ear plugs if I’m wanting to linger in bed a few, peaceful minutes.) I’ve rested enough. It’s not spring yet. I’m off to the coop now, and this time I’m wearing gloves.