The Sledding Hill

So many of my childhood memories blur together in my head. Summer is one long camping trip where we fished in a river in Montana in the morning and got chased by water moccasins in a Texas lake after lunch and visited the Trail of Tears museum before dinner. I have a hard time separating out what happened when or even where. I see it in my children too. It's the reason that Briton will occasionally start a sentence with, "When we lived in Paris...." We didn't live in Paris, we visited Paris when we lived in Dublin. But to Briton, at 3, a week in a tiny apartment in Paris with his beloved Thomas trains covering the carpet was not very different from every day life in a tiny apartment in Ireland where, again, his trains took up all the available floor surface. Paris, Rome, Missouri, Dublin, Portland... it all kind of blurs together for him, the wheres and the whens.

Like summer, my childhood winters blurs together into one, long, Beverly Cleary-eque day. I don't remember feeling cold or wet from the northern Idaho snow. I don't remember my mittens growing soggy with caked ice or the exhahusting task of keeping the sidewalk of our corner lot shoveled, although now that I've lived in snow country as an adult, I can imagine it. I don't even remember feeling stir crazy with too many days indoors, waiting for spring. No. Winter was all about sledding, and did I ever sled.

My friend Molly lived at the top of the best sledding hill in town and since I spent my afternoons at her house until my parents were done with work, I had the advantage over almost every other kid at school. Apart from Molly and her many brothers and sisters and Hannah, who lived across the street and therefore also had a full time sledding wonderland just out her front door, I got the most sledding hours per day of any kid I knew. We would rush home from school, toss our homework onto the table, gulp down a bowl of ramen noodles from the steaming pot that seemed ever present on the stove at Molly's house and be back out the door before the prime spots were taken by the other kids.

We became experts in reading the iciness of the street, too fresh of snow and the runner sleds, though faster and more controllable, were abandoned for the thin plastic sheet sleds or if we could find one, a smooth bottomed toboggan. Both were alright, but the runner sleds were best. With two or three kids packed on, the pilot holding firmly to the rope with her feet wedged onto the steering bar, the rear position rider would give a good push and then jump on, arms wrapped tightly around the waist in front of them if they were lucky, or sprawled out on the snow as the sled careened downhill away from them if they were not. The road dropped sharply downhill for a block, evened out as it crossed another street and then dipped again until it leveled out finally another block down. More often than not, a run would go awry and dump you into the snowbacks somewhere along the first block. A good run would carry you across the first cross street and you'd crash somewhere in the second block. A great run, only achieved if you started dead center in the road, if your runners were sharp, your passengers well balanced and your aim true, ended in an Olympic ski run finish, slowing to a perfect stop in the flat of the second cross street, arms in the air in triumph. Those were rare and wonderful moments, but they could be achieved. And then, no matter where you ended, the long slog up the hill to start again. A lesser run made acceptable by the fact that you only had a short distance to go to be back at the top, a great run made easy by the lingering triumph of making it to the bottom without a crash. Up to the top, and down again, over and over until the afternoon light faded into darkness and the street emptied until the next day. An eternal winter's afternoon.

                                                       - Gillian

stick season

When I was little, probably not much older than Evie is now, I wrote an essay or a poem or a story on Seattle. I remember this because in my poem/story/essay I said that Seattle had only one season, gray, and someone told me that that wasn't a very nice thing to say. I wasn't trying to be rude, it was more of  a poetic observation. I'd only been to the city a few times and it had always seemed gray when we were visiting. I thought it was kind of romantic, to be honest.

It's not true, of course. Seattle, and Portland do not have one season. They have two. Raining, and Not Raining. The Not Raining season being so spectacular that it makes up for the much longer Raining season. And thank goodness.

Vermont is the complete opposite. Instead of two season, or four, we have six. And I'm pretty sure that anyone who live here, or in New Hampshire, and probably Maine and parts of Massachutses and New York, would agree. We have summer and spring and winter and fall, and then we have two more - mud season and stick season. They are the inbetween season. The not quite one and not quite the other seasons. Mud season streches for the weeks when the snow has gone but spring has not quite sprung. And stick season, where we are now, falls after the leaves but before the snow.

Sometimes I think they are trail run seasons. Nature saying "Are you ready? Are you? You don't seem quite ready, how about a few days of frigid weather and then a few balmy ones to kick you into action on all those winter chores." And so we do. Chop a little more wood, clean up fallen trees after a storm, stuff steel wool and then insulation into crevices to keep the mice and the wind out. And then sit around the woodstove and enjoy the stark light and the snugly animals and children.

In the cold and wind this weekend we finished shingling the new room. Stiff fingers dropping nails all over the place, dashing inside for tea and to warm up by the fire before heading out again. There is still more to do, finishing touches. Paint and stain, if we get a few more warm days, trim and edging along the porch, drywall tape and mud and paint on the inside. But the big job is done. I think it makes the house look more balanced, as though it was always meant to be this way.

We still have a few more weekends, probably, to finish up the out of doors work before we move in and switch modes to winter. There are places that still need insulation, and more down logs after a big storm that need to be cleared. And the chickens need to be moved and the bees need to be wrapped to give them their best chance of survival over the winter.

The cold is coming. Although I enjoy stick season, enjoy spotting houses and views that are hidden when the trees are leafed out, I'm looking forward to the snow. But not yet. I'm not quite ready yet.

little fox, little fox

My oh my, these mittens have been a long time in coming. If you're not a knitter, well, sorry, this is a knitting post. Over on Birch Hollow Cottage I've (finally) released my Little Fox Mittens pattern. While the pattern was a lot of work to get polished and perfected, the knitting itself is easy, fast and fun. I hope some of my knitters friends give them a try!

barren

I think this is the first week since we moved to Vermont where I've looked out and not admired the landscape around me. This week, unlike the nearly year of weeks before, it is not particularly beautiful. We started with a thaw and mud and perpetually having streaks of dirt on the back of our pant where our legs hit the edge of the (very dirty) car while climbing in and out and now are in the midst of another cold snap. The sap is frozen in the buckets. The mud has turned to icy ruts. The kids are back in snowsuits. The wind whips the trees around and stings out cheeks when we go outside for another armload of logs from the dwindling pile.

I was listening to a local poet on the radio yesterday talking about April being a month of hope. But not hope in the "spring is here" kind of way. More of a hope that spring will eventually be here. Of patience that if we wait a little while longer, there will be flowers and buds on the trees and warm days. I know it will come. We were here for it last year. Gloriously balmy days, hydrangias blooming all over town, kids leaping wildly off the big rock and plunging into the river. It will come. I keep telling myself it will come.

And then I put another log on the fire. Because it's not here yet. Burrrr....

here comes the sap

I was starting to panic, just a little, about the whole sap flow thing. The magic three or so week window where the trees will give up their sap before healing up has pretty much passed but other than one warm week before our first boil, it's been too cold for the sap to rise. Not that we can't live without more of our own syrup, but...yeah. (I want syrup!)

So yesterday, when the temps were warm enough to drive with the windows down I hoped, hoped that there would be just a leeetle sap in my buckets. But low and behold, in one day we collected 3 gallons of sap. Holy cow. And yay! And HOLY COW! (Because my big bucket only holds 7 gallons. I need another!)

I need a bigger pot. 

march snow day

A snow day in March! And not just March but the second half of the month. Amazing. I find it hard to believe that there are places out there where it is already starting to get hot, even though I know it's true. Our little seedlings are reaching up toward the white bright windows, except it's not sunlight today but a near white out.

We've dug out all sorts of half finished projects, pot holders and boxes of stamps and art not quite finished to keep ourselves busy today (and probably tomorrow if it keeps snowing as hard as it is now!) Thank goodness for a stocked refrigerator and an old but steady woodstove. And oatmeal. Thank goodness for oatmeal. It's the kind of day where oatmeal (with fresh maple syrup, of course) is a must.

sweet and cold and bright

The temperatures have dropped again, way way down to below zero once more. I keep telling myself that it will warm up. After all, we visited here in April last year and it was warm and lovely and sunny, without a trace of snow. So I know it will warm up. And with the warm will come more sap, and planting the garden and more boiling and chickens and bees and all we have planned.

This weekend we finally got down to the business of boiling our first run of sap. Not, as we had hoped, a homemade evaporator. But the small amount we had was easily done on the side burner of our barbeque. The next go round we hope to have something a little bigger up and running. While I boiled away in the cold (and knit with mittens on and drank lots and lots of hot tea), and the animals stuck close to the fire, and Will, with a little help from the kids, worked on the chicken coop, cutting and fitting pieces together. It's not quite done, but well on it's way. We ended up with one pint of syrup plus a pancake dinner's worth and a few spoonfuls to drizzle over fresh snow. It's delicious, light and mapley and wonderful. I'm paranoid about it spilling and have it hidden up on the highest shelf in the pantry. Maybe I should transfer it to small bottles so that if (when) we have a spill or an over zealous pancake dousing, we don't loose all that precious, lovely syrup.

The seeds are starting to sprout in the sunniest window and something very exciting should be arriving in the mail later this week. Spring, spring. Come on....We're (almost) ready for you!

sugar snow

From mud and rain then back to snow again today. I just finished reading Evelyn the chapter of  Little House in the Big Woods (part of my yes we ARE reading at bedtime again campaign) about maple sugaring and wondered if we too, would get a cold snap and a sugar snow. This morning we woke up to two fresh inches of grainy, icy snow. And since it's gone from white out conditions to sunny and bright. Strange, strange weather.

We have, so far, about 3 1/2 gallons of sap ready to boil which, I think, isn't bad in what seems to be a slow sap kinda year. If all goes well that should be a whole 2/3 of a pint of syrup. So let's hope all goes well when we finally boil this weekend.

What's the weather like in your neck of the woods? I must admit that I'm about ready for springtime. How about you?

birch leaves

As much as I love to knit (and knit, and knit) I've never been much of a scarf knitter, which is odd because I am a dedicated scarf wearer. Picking out a scarf for the day goes right along with picking out a shirt or pants. The thing with scarves is that they take soooooo loooooonnnnggg. And they tend to be boring. Back and forth, back and forth. The last time I knit a scarf was back in college when I taught myself to knit and I've been avoiding them ever since, sticking with cowls when I want something scarf-like.

And then I was at our local yarn shop last week and came across a lone ball of fluffy gold bulky yarn that I couldn't resist. After months of winter white, I must be starting to crave color. It reminded me of the birch leaves this fall that covered the trail down to the cabin. I know it's supposed to be the maple trees that everyone loves in the fall, but the yellow birch leaves were, I think, even prettier.

I'm on a little bit of a cable kick lately. I'd forgotten how much I love cables, they add a little excitement to otherwise mindless knitting. So I've been playing (and ordering more of the yarn) with  cables and swirls and big bulky yarn to come up with a scarf that reminds me as much of the shape those leaves as the color of them. It's working up quickly - the yarn is so nice and thick that it would be hard for it not to, I suppose - it may just have changed my mind about knitting scarves. Finn likes it too, she trails me when I'm working on it and rolls up in the finished end of it. I don't really blame her, I kind of want to curl up in it's smooshiness too.

What about you, what are you working on?

sugaring

As soon as we bought our house, I told Will I wanted to try making maple syrup. It falls right in line with my desire for bees and chickens and a huge garden and (at some point) sheep or pigs or goats. I remember being fascinated by the descriptions of maple sugaring in Little House in the Big Woods. Of course, I also wanted to try my hand at making a pig bladder balloon. And I have a strange fondness for John Seymour's Guide to Self Sufficiency and all those BBC/PBS live-like-pioneers reality shows. I'm odd like that.

But that was all in theory. In theory we will get tap the trees and buy buckets and build an evaporator. In theory we will sit outside all day on Saturday and boil our sap into syrup. In theory we'll be sending out bottles of our own maple syrup next year for Christmas (with, in theory, our own honey). In reality I have no idea what I'm doing. But the temperatures for the coming week look promising and although I have no evaporator, I have been promised the building of one next weekend. So with a little faith that the evaporator will appear in time, four used buckets and taps and a vague idea on how to identify and tap a sugar maple, we have jumped feet first into sugaring.

Honestly I have no idea if it will work, or even if the trees I chose are the right ones. We could get no sap, we could be overflowing tomorrow morning (and I have not gone to pick up that food grade barrel for holding the sap yet. Eek! So if better not!) but either way, I'm excited. We are all excited. After six months of refusing to buy fake syrup (we live in Vermont! I will not buy it even if they like it) the kids have finally become maple syrup converts and they are just as eager as I am to have our own jars full. And also to try making sugar snow. And maple candy. And to spend hours poking at a fire.

Some day our life seems pretty ordinary. Wake up, take the kids to school, go to work, do the laundry, make dinner, go to bed. Same old, same old. But then on other days it seems quite extraordinary. To think about clearing woods and bees arriving in the mail and sitting around a fire in the snow making maple syrup. To go our and chop wood for the fire and hike through the snow or the leafy paths in summer or to stand in the kitchen cranking out jars of jewel colored jams to fill the pantry shelves. Is it terrible to be so content with life? I hope not.

good morning from narnia

I'm sure C.S. Lewis wasn't thinking of the Vermont woods after a snowstorm when he described the winter forest in Narnia, but really, it's a perfect fit. All day yesterday we had heavy, wet snow falling and this morning we woke up to an even whiter world than usual. It's breathtaking, truly. My photographs don't do it justice.

While Briton played with a friend yesterday, Evie and I had a sewing lesson. Her first using a pattern and the machine. She picked out (bright, but oh so Evie) fabric at the store the other day and a pattern and asked me to get enough extra so that we could make Eliza a dress to match (naturally). So with the boys banging around upstairs we ironed and cut out the pattern and the fabric and read through the directions. She doesn't love the ironing part. I got a sign that read "Why do I have to?" when I told her we couldn't start sewing until everything was pressed. Not surprising. I hated having to wait while my fabric got washed and then ironed before I could start too. Actually, I still hate that part, I just do it because I know I should.

Today (at last!) we start the sewing. Her goal is to have it done in time to wear it on the first day back, which I think is attainable.  It's a pretty easy pattern other than the zipper. But it is our first try. So we'll see.

We are trying to grow an avocado plant. I don't know why but I never have good luck with that. This time, however, something is definitely pushing up through the top of the seed. Fingers crossed it will work this time. I'm also on the hunt for a really good, soft, honey wheat bread recipe. Something like the one they make at Great Harvest. Yesterday I made a pretty good one with this recipe, but the top didn't rise very well. Maybe I need a different shaped pan. Anyone have good tips on making wheat bread that white bread lovers will like? Or a recipe they love? I'm sick of white bread. Plus I'm going through a bread making phase. It's nice to see it rising away next to the woodstove.

I can't quite believe the week is almost over. Where did it go? We still have two more days off next week, although one of them will be taken up mostly with the town meeting. I must admit that I'm kinda excited to attend my first town meeting. So very Gilmore Girlsy! I didn't think that actually happened, but it seems that it really does.