The first real coating of snow that lasted a few days fell in
Chesterville over this Thanksgiving weekend. The old farmhouse, even
with its K1 heaters, fireplaces and cast-iron stoves, can feel a little
drafty in the middle of a windy storm. With a new delivery of kerosene
and a full tank of propane for the stove, we're as ready as we can be
for another Maine winter.
Thanksgiving is upon us. Another year has gone by and the holiday
season is here. Catalogs and fliers stuff the mailbox and immediately
fill the recycling bin. This year Christmas sales seem to have begun
before Halloween. The recent cold and wind and stormy weather around
here just reminds you real winter is coming.
When my wife and I first moved to the farmhouse in Chesterville,
winter was just setting in and the snow was beginning to fly. We didn't
have a lot of time to look around the house to see what might grow
here, while we were unpacking endless boxes.
Growing up on a farm and then moving to an old farm house in Maine
keeps you thinking in farmers' terms. "Milking the cats" is one of
them. Now, before you get a bizarre image in your heads of tiny milk
pails and scratching cats, let me explain.
I have a confession to make: sometimes I think I'm living through a bad remake of Green Acres. Why? Mainly because of my wife.
Autumn is here and the leaves are at their peak of fiery reds and
muted yellows. The garden is in the clean-up stage, with beds to be
turned and weeds still to be routed out. Nights have been turning
colder, with the promise of frosts and snow to come. But we're ready
for it as I have been storing away my harvest in a well-stocked pantry.
OK, we've all heard the story: a driver installs a new GPS in his
car and while following directions in detail, drives into a river when
the road dead ends at the river bank. Ah, technology.
I've learned a lot from my cats over the years. Play hard, sleep
often. Nothing is so important it can't wait until after a nap. When
you are really comfortable, purr loud. When someone ignores you, purr
louder.
It's been almost a year since my wife and I (and five cats) moved to
the farmhouse. As far as work goes, we both went from commuting to
work, to a new life telecommuting from the house, which we never seem
to leave. Ever. I now know why people work in an office outside the
home.
We moved from Boston in mid-December, last year. It was misting on
and off while the movers hauled box after box, after bureau after
steamer trunk from our small apartment. It was roomy and spacious when
we first moved in 11 years before, but we slowly outgrew it. Too much
stuff kept coming in and nothing ever went out.
When I was a kid, growing up on a farm in the Adirondacks, my father
always had a huge pile of wood, piled around the side of the house. It
was a dairy farm that had been in existence since the early 1800's,
perhaps even earlier. As any good farm had in those days, there was a
good portion of it reserved as the wood lot. Self-sufficiency has
always been important to any farm, and maintaining your heating source
is essential. My dad did pretty well maintaining that wood lot, as his
father and grandfather did before him. Not that the house stayed any
too warm in the winter, no matter how much wood you burned.
I have to say I am amazed at my ability to work full-time from western
Maine over the Internet with my workplace in Massachusetts, testing
software and leading a team of testers in Ireland, India, and Canada.
It makes you wonder why there is a need anymore for any centralized
office. Especially with gas prices the way they are now (and no real
change in sight for lower prices any time soon.)
We bought a canoe once spring arrived this year and the anticipation of all those endless trips around Egypt Pond forced us into it. My wife, Donna, saw it for sale in the yard of a neighbor and we had to buy it. With all the lakes, rivers, ponds and streams in Maine how could we not have a canoe? (My idea of a true boat is anything without a motor on the back end. I like to hear the world as I glide along, rather than ripping through it at a rock concert noise level...but just my opinion..)
OK, I admit it. I hate bats. They're cute, they eat bugs, they are absolutely an integral part of our environment. And yet, when they are in flight, in my house, circling my head... I hate 'em. I'd never hurt one, but I want them out of my house. And yet, they have taken up residence. And so far this season, a number of them have entered the house -- with interesting results for us all.
-- You call it the recycling center, but everyone else calls it the dump.
We live in an old farmhouse in Maine. We have mice. We have five cats. What mouse problem, right? Wrong. When we moved to this farmhouse, surrounded by a large lawn and open meadow, I figured we might be visited by a few mice, especially in the old pantry off the kitchen. What self-respecting field mouse wouldn't go for a nice morsel in the pantry when it's below zero outside? But I knew my cats would take care of that problem.
