When I was a kid, growing up on a farm in the Adirondacks, my father always had a huge pile of wood, stacked around the side of the house. It was a dairy farm that had been in existence since the early 1880s, 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.

The house was built in the late 1800's, when fireplaces were being phased out, to be replaced by parlor stoves. By the time I came around, those parlor stoves had been replaced by a massive iron and sheet metal, wood-burning monstrosity in the cellar. Heating pipes wove across the cellar ceiling and angled up to meet the louvered registers opening from the first floor. On a really bitter night, the only place to get warm was standing right over the registers.

And the second floor, where the kids' bedrooms were? Well, let's just say there were no heating pipes direct to the second floor. What heat you got leaked in dribs and drabs up through more louvered registers in the bedroom floors. All the bedrooms had the old stove pipe holes covered with the old-fashioned, painted hole-covers, but the stoves had been removed. Technology marches on, and the one big wood-burner in the cellar was thought at one time to be more efficient, so out goes the old, and in comes the new. New isn't always better... There was many a winter morning when I could scrape frost off the inside of my bedroom window.

I didn't do a lot with the wood-pile when I was growing up, being the youngest, and having older siblings to do that. I do remember opening the cellar hatchway and tossing logs down against the closed cellar door below. You could stack that hatchway full, and it was always a wonder whether the logs would come tumbling down into the cellar or get stuck in a clump, when my father opened the door below. I did do some chopping, but not a lot — rebellious teenagers usually don't look on 'chores' favorably. And yes, I was a typical teenager — I couldn't wait to get away from the farm and all those chores.

And now, thirty years later, I'm renting an old farmhouse, with a connected shed and woodshed. I have three fireplaces, a parlor stove and a cast-iron cook stove. I'm chopping wood and thinking, "This is great exercise! My doctor'd be proud!" I'm hauling wood from the woodshed late at night, just to keep the stoves going, and lighting a fire in the bedroom when it's really cold. My wife and I are stacking wood by the barn and covering it with a tarp when it rains, and making sure it's uncovered when it's sunny. I worry about whether it will be dry enough by the time it starts snowing again, which around here could be any time now... And with the wood frenzy this year, it was a long time before it could be delivered, luckily, not at an exorbitant price.

I'm doing all things my dad did to get us through the winter. I have become my Dad, just without the rebellious teenagers around... I'm certainly getting his aching joints when the weather changes...

I'm on vacation this week (something my parents only took once in their entire life — to go to Expo in Montreal with us kids, and drive back through Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont in an old station wagon) and the first thing on the list of chores I made for myself is to finish stacking the wood. Then weed the garden, and then sort the pantry to get ready for winter. And then there's those book shelves that need painting and the kitchen chairs that need staining and varnishing. Funny, when we lived in Boston, I used to take time to lay around the house, reading or painting. I think I know why my parents only got to take a vacation once...

Thwack!

The axe bites a little deeper into the trunk of the waste tree cut down near the old barn this past September. It grew in an area where my wife and I will put in a shade garden this spring. The trunk of this small tree lays across the old chopping block we found here in the wood shed.

Thwack!

Deeper now, the length of tree trunk is almost cut in half.  Too green to burn, I'm trying to cut up the trunk, so the sections can dry in the wood shed.  Maybe these green trunks will be ready to burn in the spring.

Thunk!

I'm through, and the two halves of the trunk lay on either side of the chopping block. I'll toss these, along with some other scraps of limbs and small trees, along the interior woodshed wall. It's an old woodshed, with wide plank boards, carved with initials of past families. The dirt floor is lined with bark chips and fragments of wood, remnants of past winters.

Dry wood is stacked deep in one of the bays.  This wood we stacked (for the most part) this summer in neat rows near the driveway, covered with a tarp when it rained and exposed to the sun at other times. We worried whether it would be dry by the fall, or if the times we forgot to cover it from the rain would slow the drying process.  We needn't have worried. It made it fine.

So now I'm out in the shed, chopping up limbs and splitting occasional pieces too large for the stove. Every time I'm in the woodshed, getting the next load in for the stove and fireplace I size it up, this pile of stored-up warmth.  Do we have enough for the winter?

I guess we all must do it — count the months left to the winter and estimate the rows of wood left in the shed.  And week by week, we keep reassessing the burn rate. So, I'll load up the wood cart and distribute the wood in the rooms where it's needed. I see there's snow in the air today but the temperature is near 30, so not a bad day, after all.  I'll keep a weather ear to the radio and an eye on the digital weather station gadget for those really cold nights.  Nights when a few extra pieces of wood end up on the fire.  Nights I hope we don't see many of this winter, but probably will.

By April, I'm sure the pile in the woodshed will be dwindling as quickly as the snow drifts shrinking from the base of the house. Then we'll order more wood and start the cycle over again.

All has been wind-stirred around the farmhouse in the last few days. Brown leaves have danced past the windows and piled in pockets along the old stone walls that still define the fields in the area. Other walls snake through the woods nearby showing where old fields, carved over decades of plowing a harvest of stones, have faded back to woodlot.

Through it all, I have kept my eye on the two old apple trees outside the library window. They are very old, with bark rough and gnarled with age. These could be the trees that threw their apples at Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. They are alive with character.

All spring I watched them flower and leaf out, and waited to see what crop would come of them this year. This summer I listened through the open window to the orchard orioles and the lone catbird calling, amidst the leaves.

These are snow apple trees. Said to be some of the first apple trees brought over from Europe, and probably brought to Canada by the French, they are thought to be the ancestor apple of the MacIntosh.

The last of their leaves blew off only days ago in the cold November winds, but the small apples stubbornly remain on the bare branches. They are still yellowish-green, with a blush of red in spots; the interior, where the worms haven't been, are a snowy white — hence the name.

I have tried these apples, these remnants from the past. It's a good-tasting apple; clean in flavor and crisp to the teeth. I can almost taste the flavor that later became the Mac in each bite. Not great for cooking, however; I tried without success.

Watching those dancing apples in the wind, I can imagine a past Fall, long ago in the history of this farm, where apples were picked, amber cider squeezed in large presses, and the apple remains fed to the farm animals. It's comforting to know these trees knew past occupants of the farmhouse, year after year flowering and fruiting, long after generations here have passed away. These trees connect me to what was — and to what will be for years to come...

 Leaves are falling from the maple that towers over the farm house. This tree has to be as old as the house itself and the yellow and red leaves are beginning to pile in drifts.

Soon I'll be raking my own harvest of leaves, muscles aching and gloved hands sore. Piles will form and winds will scatter them away. But I will win in the end.

They will be piled on the bed of invasive Japanese bamboo (a.k.a. Knotweed) that I am trying to kill off from a part of the lawn. Knotweed and I battled all spring and summer, sometimes I won the battle, but mostly it is winning the war. We'll see how well it does with a thick, impenetrable layer of maple leaves next year.

Of course, my wife discovered she loves soup made from the tender spring shoots of knotweed, so I have to leave a patch for future harvesting. But that's another blog...

 The sharp crack of the back-to-back rifle shots just after sunrise near the house nearly made me drop my first cup of coffee. I knew deer season had begun that morning, but it was unsettling to hear gun fire so close.

Now, I'm not anti-hunting, but nor am I pro-hunting. Frankly, I'm not sure where I am on hunting in general. I grew up in the rural Adirondacks in a non-hunting family. We had a special affinity to the animals around us (wild and domestic) and mostly tried to keep our goats in during hunting season for fear they'd be shot. We had good reason for that.

I remember a time when we were young, my brother, sister and I were standing outside with one of our goats. A car approached, slowed and stopped. The window rolled down, and the man driving asked us, "Where'd you get the tame deer?" My siblings and I looked at each other and then proceeded to tell him a tale about finding and raising the "deer". He bought it and drove on. To this day I hope that guy wasn't a hunter and never shot anyone's goat by mistake. But it was pretty funny.

I guess, if I really think about it, I'm not crazy about hunting season. Too many animals killed in their prime. And yes, I'm also aware of the fact that if we didn't have hunting season, many more would die of starvation due to overpopulation. But that's something we humans have caused anyway by killing off wolf populations in New England and restocking deer in the Northeast in the early 1900's after they were nearly wiped out by loss of habitat and overhunting to begin with. That, and the fact I always seem to root for the underdog, (things that can't shoot back, in this case...)

So, I felt a bit of relief the other morning, when I looked out the window and saw the lone hunter, a rifle with massive power scope slung under his arm, trodding up the road past the house. He had obviously missed his shot, and I was glad. Another one lives for a while longer.

All I can say is, "Run, Bambie, run..."

Well, it's hunting season in Maine. That's not what's funny here, at least not for the game animals anyway. What got my attention the other day was a sign hanging outside a country store: "Budweiser Outdoors Hunters Welcome." In the middle of the sign is a sketch of the elusive buck with the nice antler rack.

Now, please understand, I'm not pro- or anti-hunting. When I was growing up in the Adirondacks, my family never hunted, but we occasionally took some offering of venison from those neighbors who did.

What ticked us off about hunters were the ones from down-state (you know, from that city that rhymes with New Fork), who would come to hunt in the Adirondacks, shoot a woodchuck and drape its carcass across our pasture fence. They thought they were doing us a favor. They weren't.

[Note to hunters: don't do farmers this kind of favor — it may not always be appreciated.]

No, what struck me as funny (odd) here was the concept of Budweiser supporting hunting activities. Somehow, I never thought of guns and alcohol as an acceptable combination. Both in excess is just not smart. Is this really a great marketing ploy on Budweiser's part?

What's next? Johnny Walker signs welcoming race car drivers to Daytona? NRA signs over supermarket shelves of wine and beer welcoming shoppers to stock up?

No, there are some things that really shouldn't be associated in human behavior. Makes you wonder where marketing departments come up with these crazy things.

Hmmm... maybe I shouldn't give them any ideas....

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.

Thanksgivings past always seem just under the surface of memory — seen through the filter of childhood. Roasting turkey, potatoes, and pies — aromas that still bring memories back.

For a time, we raised a few turkeys on the dairy farm where I grew up in the Adirondacks. There was always a flock of three or four hens hanging around the front yard, escorted by the protective tom. We came to really hate that bird.

Step out of the house without looking for him and you could be met with a painful wing-slap against the legs. The sting would last for the longest time and the occasional bruise would appear later on your shins. Running for the school bus in the morning could be an experience if he was in the yard.

One Thanksgiving-eve, I remember my older brother and father talking about the turkey we'd have for that Thanksgiving. Now, I've mentioned before how we didn't slaughter our own animals on the farm, but this was one of those exceptions. They had decided they'd give it a try and off they went to the barnyard looking for Old Tom. I didn't go along, and neither of them said much of the experience, but I think it wasn't one they enjoyed. I remember my mother plucking away at the pin feathers with a set of pliers, and me relishing the turkey that year...

Which reminds me of another of those holiday traditions around our house, one which, as a kid, I never really understood. As an adult I've come to appreciate it as a gift from my mother.

Many Thanksgivings and Christmases were passed with my mother and sister cooking the night before and the morning of the holiday. Aroma of turkey filled the house, and dinners were prepared on plates, covered tightly with aluminum foil and delivered by my dad to neighbors who were elderly or fallen on hard times. All before we sat down to eat, sometimes late in the day. Even in years when we were barely making it. I remember that family tradition more this year, with the bad economy we are all going through. My parents both lived through the Depression, and that experience never really left them.

So, this year may your bird be a crisp golden-brown, your potatoes smothered in gravy and your apple pie piled high. And may we all find something to be thankful for...

It's that time of year again: snow is falling, the Thanksgiving bird is on its way to becoming soup, and cars pass you by, topped by the perfect Christmas tree, trussed up tighter than that turkey you had last week. The hunt has begun.

My wife and I will be getting a tree for the farmhouse, here in Chesterville, this year. We moved in last year in mid-December, and things were too hectic with the unpacking to think about a Christmas tree, so this will be our first since moving to Maine.  Come to think of it, this will be the first Christmas tree we'll have had in many years together.  Small apartments in Boston with (then) four cats isn't very Christmas-tree-friendly...

Of course, in the Adirondacks, hunting down our Christmas tree on the family farm when we were young became a year-long event.  My brother and I would note the best-looking trees all spring and summer when we went to gather in the cows that got into our woodlot or when we brought them in for milking in the evenings from the pastures.  There was always one that we were sure would do for a really nice-looking tree, but come winter, with snow-white fields as a backdrop, we'd always find fault with those trees that looked so good surrounded by the greenery of summer.

So, off we'd go hoping to find something better at the last minute. We always did, but sometimes it could be a challenge. For the brothers that is.  We'd slog on through snow drifts, dusk coming on, debating the merits of the newest tree. It was too tall, or not tall enough, or it tilted to one side or had too many bare branches down low.  Being the youngest, I'd be willing to take the last one we'd found as a 'possibility', but my brother was sure there was a better one on the next knoll.  So, off we'd go searching for one more tree...

Somehow, every year, we'd finally pick one, drag it back to the house and stand it up against the porch while we wrestled the old tree stand on the trunk.  I'm sure you remember the old metal stands, the ones with the spike in the bottom you'd hammer into the base of the trunk and then tighten the bolts (like something Frankenstein's monster would sport), hoping the tree would stand up straight.

But it never would, so we'd wrestle with the tree some more and spin it around to hide the bare spot toward the back, against the wall. There was always a bare spot... Then we'd tie it up to the wall for good measure to make sure it wouldn't fall over.

Then, a day or two before Christmas, we'd haul out the boxes of decorations — some from the late 1800s (glass birds that clip to the tree limb), some from the 1950s (remember the 'bubble lights' and the big, round painted bulbs?), some the more modern strings of small blinking lights.  Up would go the strands of garland, and handfuls of tinsel would be tossed on the limbs as a last affect. That tree we looked all year for always looked grand to us when we were done.

So, this year, I think it's time to have our own tree again in this farm house and start a few of our own traditions.  We'll search the tree lots for the best one we can find, strap it on to our own car and decorate it with all of our old ornaments.  Then we'll see how soon the two youngest cats will race to the top of the tree and knock it over.  Hmmm... where'd I put that ball of twine?  Time to tie up the tree to the wall...

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.

Winter brings its own adventures and its own visitors. All last winter, we fed the snow buntings, nuthatches, blue jays and mourning doves, along with the occasional squirrel. The squirrel, most of all, drove our cats crazy:

Another visitor we got to know soon after moving in to the farmhouse is the neighbors' cat, who loved the high snow banks last winter so he could look in and say 'hi' to our cats. This is also the same cat who stared down the snow plow driver and made him plow the road around him last year:

So, we'll get ready for the occasional bad weather with the nice days for snowshoeing and photography in between. There's even the odd chance I'll be on a pair of cross-country skis this winter. (The last time I strapped on a pair of downhill skis I was all of 23 and nearly wrecked my knee on the bunny slope in Blue Hill, Mass.... But that's another story...)

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.

You see, my wife has an affinity for clothes — "fashion", as she would call it. Personally, I'm just baffled by it. We live in a farm house in rural Maine. The only fashion needed here are blue jeans, warm shirts, good boots for mud season, and one sensible coat you can wear most of the winter season.

My wife has dozens of coats. A few sensible, most just (well, let's face it) bizarre. There's the ones that have no buttons (from the 1950's, called a 'clutch' coat, for obvious reasons); the tapestry coats that could double as a floor rug, and the faux leopard fur from more recent vintage.

And don't get me started on the jewelry. Rings for every occasion or no occasion. Pins and earrings and necklaces to match. All to be coordinated before a trip anywhere. Case in point:

There we were, returning from a trip to the dump, recycling bins and empty paper bags piled in the back seat of the Mazda. I'd been raking leaves all weekend and needed a break, so I suggest going out to brunch. She quickly agrees, but wants to change her pants (sensible but worn pants she'd rather not be seen in public wearing.) Sounded good to me, so we return home, and she runs in to change while I empty the bins from the car.

I decide to put on a pair of more respectable shoes; the ones I was wearing were the most comfortable pair of old leather loafers, but they had seen better days. So, I'm all set in blue jeans and blue work shirt and an old, fuzzy, fall jacket. I'm still waiting for my wife to reappear.

So, I call my brother out in Iowa and we chat for about 15 minutes. My wife has yet to show up. I hang up and go looking for her. There she is fully changed, wearing a crisp white shirt, black pullover, black pants, new rings, a matching brooch, and a wooly black coat (unbuttoned of course.) Lisa Douglas, eat your heart out. I shake my head, put on my Audubon cap, and head out the door.

Did I ever mention the time my wife and I were visiting friends in the Adirondacks and we all ended the day climbing a mountain trail there, and she made it up and back... in clogs?

I'm sure we'll be meeting Arnold Ziffel any day now...

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.

The mist had cleared by the time we loaded up our two cars with the last of the stuff and five cats and drove the five hours it took us to get to the farmhouse in Chesterville. [Note to self: never drive anywhere with five cats for five hours again!] We turned off the headlights and were stunned when we looked up and saw the entire Milky Way blazing overhead. We were tired, but happy to finally be in Maine.

The next day, the snow started. For the next three months, I'm not sure it ever stopped. It could have been the same storm, circling slowly all winter, dumping piles of snow in the western mountains, heading out to sea, gathering moisture and then turning back west to dump on us again.

At first, it was wondrous — the white Christmases of childhood, when school was out and the sledding was good — real good. Then, Christmas was over and New Year's was upon us, and the snow was still falling. Still, it was magic snow.

Now, I've never lived in a house with a metal roof before, but I do remember the tin roofs we had on our barns when I was a kid. When a little heat from the sun on the cow barn warmed that tin, look out below! Rumbles of snow would avalanche off the roof, burying everything. And it would pack in good and tight.

Well, this farmhouse has a metal roof. A few inches of snow piles up mighty quick when it all slides off at once. And pile up it did. Lots. In drifts. Over the top of the lower window sashes around the house. It was getting dark in the house in the middle of the day. Only one thing to do: strap on the old snowshoes and walk around the house, shoveling out the windows.

But the snow kept coming last winter. Only a week after I shoveled the windows out, I had to do it all again. The winter wonderland was losing its novelty. Fast. The last time I hired some guys younger than me to go around and shovel out the windows one last time. Luckily, the snow stopped before they had to be shoveled again. Even the guy who plows our driveway (who we got to know quite well) was sick of it by the end.

Somehow, my wife and I made it through last winter, when record snowfalls were set. We both work from home and only ran out between snowstorms for food and other essentials. More amazing, we didn't reenact the axe scene from The Shining, ("Here's Johnny!") But I couldn't figure out why the axe was always missing when I went to chop wood...

Spring finally came, and luckily little mud season. Black Fly season came next (I swear I still itch from those bites even now,) and then Bat season, followed closely by Tourist season (a season waited for with anticipation for some and dread for others...)

So, it's getting on to Fall around here and some of the trees are starting to turn. I'm harvesting tomatoes by the armful and pumpkins are starting to color up nicely. Soon, we'll be raking leaves and closing up the house. Wood will be stacked in the woodshed and we'll settle down for the first snowfall. This year, may the snow be very late in the season and the temperature be very balmy to boot...

Well, at least I know where the snowshoes are...

 I've written earlier blog mainly about the four-footed visitors to the farmhouse. This time of year, the opportunities abound to observe the two-footed kind. The bitter cold this year seems to be driving more birds to the feeders.

We've been accommodating them as best as possible by expanding our feeding stations and variety of seed. Cracked corn and sunflower seeds; bell-seed feeders and plenty of suet in feeding stations around the house. Multiple stations across from the kitchen windows and a more concentrated station outside the library window, in among the bare branches of a very old hydrangea. We've been warmly rewarded with wonderful birds. 

Blue Jays are heavy visitors, and a bit aggressive to the other birds. They have been frequent feeders on the suet, their body feathers puffed up against the wind and deep cold we've had over the holidays. Watching them up close, it's interesting to observe them wait their turn for a chance at the suet. 

Their strongest rivals for the suet feeders have been a pair of Hairy Woodpeckers that seem to feed at first light, first the male, with his red spot at the back of the head, and then the female, swinging on the suet cage. The Blue Jays gather around them on the branches of the hydrangea tree, but the woodpeckers take little notice. After feeding, they move off to an old branch, tap-tap-tapping a few raps on the dead wood. 

Then there are the Black-capped Chickadees, fluttering among the branches, finding the cracked corn and sunflower seeds in the large metal bird feeder nearby, waiting their turn swinging on the suet cage. These black, white and grey balls of feathers are some of the most energetic birds around the feeding station. Their wings flutter at the approach of a Blue Jay, but by mid-afternoon, the Jays have moved on and the chickadees feed unmolested. 

Still other birds find their way to the feeders: Mourning Doves clean up the seed that falls from the feeder at the base of the hydrangea; Nuthatches climb head-first down the tree limbs, as juncos visit at first light. 

And then there was an amazing sight the other morning. My wife was on her way to the post office, and as I opened the kitchen door, I saw it — a male Ring-necked Pheasant, strutting slowly past our cars and heading to a ground-level feeder filled with cracked corn and sun-flower seeds. This is a beautiful bird, with the long, trailing tail feathers and a bright-white throat band. It fed for a few minutes, and then sprinted across the snow to the old barn across from the house. Next morning, I saw it in the dim morning light on the other side of the house, heading across the ice-crusted snowy fields. We hope he keeps coming back often this winter... as well as our more common feathered friends.

The catalogs are arriving in a flurry each day. The trek from the old farmhouse down to the corner mailbox is an adventure, bundled against the cold that bites cheeks and nose. Heavy boots, heavier coat, muffler, gloves and hat cover all against the biting cold and wind. Stirring out of the house on days when the temperature hovers around zero can be a challenge. But, oh the rewards of the gardening catalogs!

They come beginning every January, when thoughts of first winter snow and Christmas sale catalogs are a faded memory. Daylight is still the lesser part of the day and cold, gnawing cold down to the bone, keeps you hovering about the wood-stove most of the time. There's little to get you to stir out of the house on days like these, but the thought of the seed catalogs tucked in the grey mailbox at the foot of the hill keep you going. January turns to February — nor'easters come and go, snow piles deeper at the door, but thoughts of spring are never far away. 

The catalogs pile up on the table next to your favorite chair. You browse through them slowly, reading the caption under each plant photograph. Some are photos of plants you grew in the garden last year, but you can't seem to remember the plant looking so lush and green. No matter. This is a new year, where hope, at times, is all we have. It'll grow fine and tall and green this summer, with no bugs and well-mulched and abundant rain. Our gardens are always perfect in the planning stages. 

Then the lists begin. There's the seeds from this company that are a standard for your garden, a must-have. Add them to the list. That company's catalog offers varieties untried in your plot — select a few for the list. A large part of the mental gardener is about experimentation. The new catalog offers more exotic plants, the kind your rational side says don't waste your money on, as it's likely never to survive the rigors of Maine. (Banana trees anyone?) 

Out comes the garden journal you kept last year. There's the list you kept for what plants worked well, what ones didn't. There's the plants you decided not to grow next year, but there they are on your seed order list again. Better scratch those off, rather than be disappointed again. (But then, you never know. OK, one packet of seeds rather than three — we'll give it one more try.) 

And then there's the garden map. Decisions are made where to rotate the crops and where the new, untried plants will go. Generals envy you on your cool, calculating manoeuvres in the battle of the garden to be. This will be the best garden ever, and planning it is half the struggle, and three-quarters the fun. 

Catalogs closed, you sit in your chair, watching the puffy flakes of snow fall past the windows. There's the garden, buried in snow — waiting. A new nor'easter is coming today. Doesn't matter. It's just a matter of time before the orders are placed, and seeds delivered. Just a little more time before the earth is turned and sprouts appear. And only a little more time after that before the first of the lettuce is picked and beans snapped.

Spring is coming. You just have to keep hoping a little longer — while thumbing through the seed catalogs for a dose of tonic against the winter blahs.

It's been too cold this winter to really enjoy the great outdoors, here in Chesterville — for me, anyway. Not that I'm a warm-blooded southerner, used to swaying palm trees and soft ocean breezes (by the way, doesn't that sound great right now?)

No, there weren't many palm trees in the Adirondacks where I grew up. Just lots of snow and bitter cold days, like here. But, when the weather cooperated I still liked to go sledding, building snow forts and, later as a teenager, ice skating with my brother on a frozen pond.

When I caught the photography bug later in life, hiking in the woods in eastern Massachusetts became a part of my winter activity. With a higher density of people there, trails in winter were often walkable in a good pair of hiking boots, if the trails weren't actually plowed in spots. Nice for the leisure hiker. 

Maine's a little different in that respect. Taking a hike in winter here takes on a whole new experience. Snowshoes are a must. Now, I like old things, and having a degree in Anthropology, I like to experience first-hand how people lived in the past. So, my snow shoes were bought at an antique store and are of wood and sinew construction. I'd used them on unbroken trails in past years in deep snow and they worked quite well. Not so, this year. 

There's a wide trail near the house that goes to the top of a hill, with a nice view of the surrounding country. The cold this year had kept me too long in the house, and a couple of weeks ago, when the temperature was finally able to get into the 20s, I decided to strap on the snowshoes, sling my camera bag over my shoulder, and climb to the top of that hill. 

Getting to the bottom of the trail was pretty easy, as it was plowed road all the way. Starting the ascent, however, I started to notice something odd. The snow this year was like a fine powder, the kind you find covering that doughnut you know you shouldn't eat but always do. The snowshoes were sinking in quite deep, and moving through the snow was difficult. Each step was a challenge, lifting one wooden snowshoe from behind to the front, shaking all the powdery snow through the gaps in the lacings. Climbing the hill became a focus of step-shift-lift-shake-step — repeat as needed.  

A quarter of the way up, I stopped and rested. The quiet of the woods was broken only by my panting (ok, it'd been a while since I'd done this kind of exercise...) I just kept telling myself: I can do this. 

Half-way up, after a few (ok, many) stops along the way, I came to a large ridge of snow across the trail. Shouldn't be a problem, I thought, I'll just go over it and keep going. Wrong! Little did I know I'd found the equivalent of snow quicksand. 

Starting over that ridge, I realized the cold weather had produced small flakes all winter and no thaw and high winds had created some hazards you don't normally see. My snowshoes hit that drift and sank out of sight, and I was in up to my knees. As I struggled to go forward and pull the snowshoe behind to the front, I sank deeper, feeling the shoe I was standing on go sideways and sink to the bottom. I was now almost up to my waist and, balance gone, I toppled over backwards. 

Snowshoes are great for walking on top of snow, but sideways, two feet into a snowdrift, they were lead weights anchoring me in. Not good. I had snow in places I never want snow again. I was literally swimming in snow, trying to get out. No luck, every move just pulled my snowshoes deeper. I was wet and cold and getting colder. At one point, I stopped the struggle and thought I heard a dog bark. Was that the Saint Bernard with the brandy barrel strapped to it's collar, ready to pull me out? Unfortunately no. 

It was a slow process, but I finally twisted my body forward, and along with a few twisted knee tendons, got to a place where I could grab a small tree at the side of the trail and pull myself upright again. Then it was only a matter of pulling those snowshoes to the top of the snow and slowly make my way back to the path I created coming up the hill. Cold, wet, half-frozen, I made my way back to the house. Not a single photograph taken that day. The wood stove heat felt great though. 

Now that we've had a few thaws and there's a bit more of a crust on the snow, I may try that climb again soon. Then again, my next trip up that hill may be after the first robins of spring are spotted.

Ah the power of a simple, 19th century Japanese haiku. What could better describe Maine in the last 24 hours?

Snow fell at a dizzying rate around the old farmhouse last night, and we discovered just how drafty these old houses can be. Still, with a roaring fire in the library keeping the front of the house warm and the wood stove cranking out heat in the living room, we were comfortable enough.

This morning, after sleeping in late and enduring the tramp of the cats across the bed as they desperately tried to get me up, I stoked the wood stove again and opened the curtains.

Snow. White, blinding, drifting, wind-carved sculptures of snow. Beautiful.  The only word to describe it. Magical even. Especially this close to Christmas. Of course, I'm sitting in the wood-warmth of the library as I write this, with no reason to have to go anywhere today. I have the luxury of waxing poetic about the swirling snow sculpting hollows around the base of the old apple trees.

As a young child, I loved snow, especially good, steady storms.  Especially those that hit on a school night.  There was always the anticipation, watching those fat flakes slam against the window pane as you drifted off to sleep, that school might just be cancelled the next day.

Next morning, up at the regular time, getting ready for school slower than normal, one ear on the radio announcer while he ran through the lengthy list of school closings for the day. Nothing was more agonizing for us than waiting for the name of our school to come around.  They were read alphabetically and our school name began with a 'W'...  The wait could be almost painful, but oh, the joy when our school was finally among the list of closings for the day!

Then, as soon as the snow stopped, (and we always wanted it to stop as soon as possible after the school closed), my brother, sister and I would be bundled up tight against the cold and off we'd go to build snow forts or go sledding on our own version of Rosebud or a sliver saucer. I suppose if I was a kid today (physical age of course, as I'm still a kid, mentally) I'd plop down in front of the TV or computer to play video games. Oh what I'd be missing if I did...

Then there was a year when winter wasn't so kind, and bad drifts blocked the road below our farm and snow plows couldn't get through.  High banks along the old country road in front of our house meant the school bus not only couldn't go past, it couldn't even turn around after picking us up.  So, for a good part of that winter, (as I remember it) we had to hike out about a half a mile to the main road to catch the school bus.  Not only did we have to tramp through the snow and cold, we had to get up even earlier than usual every morning, just to catch the bus!

Makes you wonder how children did it every winter, hiking miles to the rural schools.  My hat's off to all the past children who made the trek for an education, and to the teachers who often did the same, just to teach those children.

Well, I guess it's time get bundled up and go clean off the car, and then come back in to thaw out at the wood stove.  I wonder if this snow's any good for making a snow fort?  Hmmm...

Well, it's been a couple of days since the "big storm" and digging out is still happening around the Chesterville area. Around 28 inches of new snow fell here, and snow banks are dangerously high all around the roads. More than ever, signs of life around the old farmhouse seems to be waiting for a far off spring to come.

Except for the birds.

All through the remnants of the storm Tuesday morning, the birds continued to flock to the suet and seed feeders. There's the usual crowd of year-round locals: Blue Jays wait their turns for their chance at the suet, while black-capped chickadees and nuthatches hang around for their chance at the feeders later in the day.

 There have been some more exotic visitors to the feeders as well. While we have our share of hairy and downy woodpeckers this year, (who have the habit of rapping on the house whether or not there's suet in the feeders) the one that surprised me is the red-bellied woodpecker.

While the Cornell Lab of Ornithology website (a great bird information site, by the way) states this woodpecker has been expanding its territory northward in the last half of the 20th century, their map still shows its northern range into Massachusetts. The same map is seen in all of my bird books. Makes you wonder how accurate these bird range maps really are. It's a fascinating little bird to watch, pecking methodically at the suet to get the good parts — fruit, nuts and seed.

And then there's the Ring-Necked Pheasant. Not a regular in this part of Maine, this one seems to be surviving well. He's taken up residence under the old blacksmith barn here and on early mornings, just as the sun is coming up, I watch him fly a short distance and glide to a stop under the seed feeder. He's been surviving on the scattering of seeds on the ground as the other birds user the feeders. Healthy and young, we're hoping he hangs around and entices a few females to take up residence around the farm. We'd love to see a little brood of chicks in the old fields around here this spring. And with posting the land against hunting, we hope they'll stay around where it's safe.

Well, it's been a while since I lived through this kind of a cold snap for so long of a period, certainly not since I moved to Boston with my wife in the mid-1990s. So far this winter, we've dealt this frozen pipes to the kitchen at least four times. Personally, I'd rather be battling snow.

The danger of this kind of bone-numbing cold came through this morning, when I woke up from a sound sleep at 4:30 am, trying to listen for something. I wasn't sure what I couldn't hear for a minute, but then I figured it out — the K1 Monitor heaters had stopped running. Not good on possibly (hopefully?) the coldest night of the year. 

My wife and I were up and moving, stoking the wood stove in the living room and lighting the old wood cook stove in the kitchen for the first time this winter. The 60 degree room temperature stopped dropping as the stove warmed up, and lighting the library fireplace took the chill out of the front rooms of the house. The cats were more concerned about their daily allotment of half & half. So, the fires were lit, the rooms were warming nicely, and the cats were milked — all before 5:30 am. And all before either my wife or I had a drop of coffee. I think that was the worst of all. 

We figured we'd run out of K1, (we knew the guage read 1/4 of a tank, and we'd had a fuel delivery scheduled for early next week) so we called our delivery company, and I went to work in the library, telecommuting to the warmer climes of Massachusetts. Let's just say a fireplace in an old, 1820s house tends to only keep the chill off on the best of days; -20 degrees just creeps in everywhere, and unless you're sitting in the fire, some part of you just stays cold. 

And I learned something about my electronic weather station this morning — anything below -20 degrees just makes it go wacky. At one point this morning, the outside temperature registered "OF", which I interpret as "Off the scale! Stay inside!" Or "Take the first flight to Florida and don't come back until March!" Obviously, I need to upgrade my weather station to be more compatible with Maine weather (or Antarctica.) 

The delivery truck came. Doug, the driver, and I had a nice talk about why we lost our heaters when there was still a little less than a quarter of a tank (think long feeds and not enough pressure when the tank gets low) and an even nicer talk about our cats, especially the "little" kitten we took in this fall. She decided to get in Doug's face and introduce herself. She's very curious, and very round; the word "butterball" was tossed around a bit. 

So, the alternate heat source is back on, maintaining a constant minimum temp in the house of 64 degrees. For that extra warmth, the fireplaces and wood stoves keep it nice and toasty during the waking hours. We'll cross our fingers the pipes to the kitchen thaw out again, but we'll keep washing the dishes in the utility sink, where the water still works. Once again, this old house keeps proving a challenge and a boon — it really is the best of both worlds. You just have to accept what comes along, and be prepared to enter survival mode occasionally. Not so bad, really.