Zach has fallen asleep in the armchair next to me holding a tall glass of water in his lap. Morning sun pouring through the windows of our cabin blends with the glow of a 500-pound woodstove. The water glass Zach is holding tips slowly as he becomes progressively more relaxed. If I slip the glass from his hands, he will probably wake up. I decide a wet lap is better than no nap. But then the phone rings, with a robot telling us to call our congresswoman. Zach blinks awake, the glass unspilled, tries to shrug off the winter somnolence and slowly, dutifully, climbs back upstairs to work.
Our home feels cozy and peaceful now as we settle into winter’s pattern. We are blissfully happy, enough to make us superstitious that calamity lies around the corner. Outside, in every direction, I see only trees, pastures, stone walls, old wood fences. When we lived in the Bay, some part of my mind was always compensating for the urban grit – but when we ride on these roads, I am soothed by what I see; it leaves me filled instead of depleted. Just as a good massage will uncover places you didn’t even know were sore, places you stored your tension until they became numb, living here has made us realize just how tense and numb we had become in our former lives. We ache a little with that realization, like a foot getting back its circulation.
We had our first home-grown meat last week, a Cornish cross chicken we raised ourselves and roasted in the oven. It was really really good, unlike anything I’ve found in a store or bought frozen from another farm. We have 5 gallons of “Le Fin du Monde” barleywine-style ale brewing in the basement, and two bags of fleece waiting to be washed, dried, carded and spun. We are still eating salad out of the garden, which has endured frost and snow into November. Two cords of wood are neatly stacked on pallets in “shaker rounds.” Our ewes graze on their last day of innocence, unaware that today is the day an enthusiastic ram lamb arrives from Tamworth NH. The guinea hens honk like toys, reminding us that yes, there are still - as they tell us every day - garter snakes hiding in the rock wall. Our turtles swim confused in the sunroom, which now houses all of our wintering-over herbs and our “tiki bar” décor from the boat. Why (I imagine them wondering) are we surrounded by blooming plumeria in November?
We just returned from a self-made long weekend, up to Ithaca to visit my parents. Jonah received a real microscope for his birthday and was beside himself with the excitement of boogers at 400x. We had a lovely visit and some great food. On the way back we stopped at a farm in the Hudson valley with English Shepherd puppies. After waiting weeks, we were finally able to choose a puppy from the litter. We settled on a sable-colored female, neither the most alpha nor the most shy of the pack but one of the most alert. Now that we’ve seen her and fallen in love, we can’t wait for her to arrive. The breeder will bring her North just after Thanksgiving, the day before Zora’s puppy-themed birthday party.
An early snow this year weighed heavily on the trees that had not yet dropped their leaves, bringing down branches on power lines and one on our car. Zach spent the weekend cutting down that willow, which has been an annoyance from the start, and the sheep loved eating the leaves. The kids loved eating fresh snow with cream and maple syrup. Now only one patch holds out on the north side of the hill facing our windows, hinting at the weather to come. We are ready.
