One last chance at summer: a steamy morning, sung in by an
insect crescendo. One last chance to swim, run barefoot through grass, and
enjoy the shelter of green leaves. We had threats of frost a few nights ago and
the frost will soon return to stay. But for one more day, like the last rally
of lucidity in a death-bound creature, this summer is ours to love and hold.
Our little “wheel of the year” calendar, a kids craft
project from Summer 2012, has spun around nearly one full rotation since I last
updated this blog. The little arrow in the middle slid past Thanksgiving, sheep
breeding, Chanukah and Christmas, maple syrup time, lambing, chick hatching,
strawberry time and then blueberry time, landing squarely back on apples.
Nowhere in those months did I find time to sit and write, the longest stretch
I’ve ever gone. I try to reckon
what has changed since I last blinked. Like the view from a car, those things
farthest from us (the world’s many quagmires) seem to be moving slowly, while
the things close at hand (bills, birthday parties) are whipping by.
An account of what has changed in one year:
The kids are both a foot taller, while we are greyer. Zora
has started coming home on the school bus. Jonah can play guitar and is making
new friends more easily. I began
performing fiddle in a band, which corresponds roughly with when I stopped
having time to write. Zach is self-employed. The barn and the love shack
(re-named “Carmen,” after its most frequent occupant) both have a new roof. We
have 25 poultry, 10 sheep, and our biggest garden yet. The bedrooms finally
have proper window treatments. There is a “blob” pool in the yard. Our
northeast corner has been logged free of gnarly pines, leaving room for the
oaks. And the two new bee hives in
our yard brought us apples for the first time, making this a particularly sweet
Rosh Hashanah.
For much of the year I have been considering how to spend
less time “doing” and more time just “hanging out.” In the summer we had wonderful
visits from friends and family. But in the colder months, few visitors come to
Maine and I can’t help but ponder our relative isolation. So does my sociable
daughter. Over the winter holiday, riding in the car with my sister and her
boyfriend, Zora chirped from the back seat:
“When I am grown-up and I want to
get married, I will just go sit on my lawn - on the edge of the lawn - and wait
until I find someone to marry.”
The major flaw in Zora’s plan is that our lawn can’t even be
seen from the road. To actually meet someone, Zora would have to go all the way
down to the edge of our property. Near
one corner is a little white church; she could possibly hang out in the parking
lot. Our other edges, which border a horse pasture and a swamp, don’t offer any
hope of social engagement except perhaps with a passing Turkey hunter. We
bought our house from a short person who relished its privacy; our neighbor
says he never saw the house’s elusive occupant, and that when he looked out to
see who was driving the snow blower, it appeared to be driving itself around in
a haze of snow. Even earlier, the place was a B&B frequented by wealthy
escapists who landed and departed by helicopter. So I told Zora that that is probably her best shot: wait
until her true love lands in the sheep pasture. Hopefully that will hold things
off for awhile. I can’t even take her to the grocery store without her charming
the checker.
