Thanks, Guys

November 30, 2013 § 6 Comments

Morning chores, day before the snow

Morning chores, day before the snow

Zero degrees this morning, the temperature of nothingness, thermometer flatlined, the gateway to true cold. I milked while Penny fed out, tucking my bare fingers into my pockets every few dozen squirts or so, trying to stay ahead of the pain. Out of nowhere, I was visited by the memory of Fin as a young boy, how he’d come into the barn on cold mornings to warm his hands in the downy juncture of Apple’s leg and body. Her “armpit,” he called it.

After chores, I took the boys to check their traps; they’re trolling for muskrat in the river down on the flats. For 45 minutes, I stood in the sun and watched as they chopped holes in the ice, dunking their bare hands to retrieve and set traps. They do this every single morning, and far more often than not, the traps are empty. This does not seem to phase them. Their enthusiasm remains high.

Honestly, I did not expect such perseverance from my sons. It’s been six weeks since trapping season opened, and they have yet to miss a day. Not a single friggin’ day. As I stood there shivering and stomping my feet and swinging my arms and trying to stop myself from asking the fellas to hurry the hell up, I considered my sons’ commitment and I thought about how often I draw inspiration from them. And then I thought (and I was recalling yesterday’s post as I did so) now, there’s something to be thankful for. 

So: Thanks, guys.

Hope For Me Yet

November 29, 2013 § 6 Comments

Daisy and Winslow, for Eumaeus

Daisy and Winslow, for Eumaeus

Four degrees this morning, the coldest one yet this season, and the snow creaked under my feet as I made my rounds. The cows’ water was frozen solid, so I tipped the trough on its side and stomped it until my foot hurt and most of the ice had been dislodged. All night, the beasts exhalations had frozen to the hairs along the sides of their faces, and the morning sun illuminated the icy tendrils of their very breath, like some essential truth revealed.

Thanksgiving was quiet, but good. Over the past few years, our home has become something of a repository for friends who for varying reasons have no other place to go for the holiday. But this year, for our own varying reasons, we kept it small: My parents, Penny’s parents, Melvin and Janet. And although I missed the boisterousness of prior years (me being a fan of boisterousness and all), there was something decidedly relaxing about the gathering that imbued me with a sense of knowing precisely how I fit into this world. That’s a little vague, I realize, but I guess I’m not sure how else to say it.

I don’t think I’m very good at gratitude. Or perhaps I’m just not good at expressing it. The other night, at the Rural Vermont story-telling event, a woman told the story of slaughtering one of her lambs, and of how she lay the animal down and chanted and cried and felt such deep thankfulness for the creature’s gift of meat and life. To be honest, I felt a little jealous. It must be a beautiful thing to feel such tenderness and reverence.

But despite being such a coarse, ungrateful clod, I sure do like Thanksgiving. I like cleaning the house in anticipation of guests (darn good thing we have guests from time-to-time, or this place would really go to the dogs), I like cooking with Penny in the hours before the meal, I like gathering around the kitchen and chatting with our parents and neighbors while I feed the cook stove and do the dance necessitated by cooking on wood, and I sure do like eating. We had beef and lamb this year, both of which were born and died on this little piece of land, and they were quite delicious, thank you very much.

So yeah, I like all these things and I suppose, if pressed, I might even say I’m thankful for them. And it occurs to me that perhaps a big part of being thankful is simply acknowledging all those things which grant us a sense of knowing how we fit into this world.

Huh. Maybe there’s hope for me yet.

Might As Well

November 27, 2013 § 16 Comments

Fin reading while Penny milks

Fin reading while Penny milks

My birthday was on Saturday, and it was a good day. Rye and I got up early to go deer hunting, a two-hour ramble through our woods and into Melvin’s back pasture. We didn’t see anything, and we probably should have found a likely spot and sat with our backs against a tree or stonewall, but that’s not what we wanted to do. It was cold and the walking felt nice, the exertion pushing blood into our cheeks, where it bloomed tiny roses. We stopped down at the barn to chat with Melvin and Janet and then we walked back across the fields to breakfast.

We don’t make a big deal over birthdays. We decided, many years ago, to keep them small and simple. If there were to be any gifts of all, they would be of our own hands or the passing along of some natural curiosity or another. For this birthday, my 42nd, Fin made me a knife sheath from a piece of hide once worn by our steer, Cinco. My belt knife – the blade forged by a local blacksmith, the handle I carved from a piece of spalted maple – fits it perfectly. Penny made me hat hook from a piece of birch root. Oh, and a cheesecake. Rye drew me a picture of our dog, Daisy, superimposed over a heart. My fawning over Daisy, who is as noble, regal, and loyal a hound as has ever strode this good Earth, is something of a family joke.

I do not mind growing older. Part of this is because my physical capacities and my general capabilities are still on the increase. At 42, I am more able than I was at 32, and damned if I don’t see any reason why I won’t be able to say the same at 52. At some point, of course, I will cross the inevitable divide between this improvement and the decline of my physical and perhaps mental being. So be it. It is only natural.

As I get older, I’ve begun to draw a certain quiet inspiration from some of the elders around me. Invariably, I am drawn to those whose lives are not easy, who – whether by choice or circumstance – are at 70 doing much the same as they did at 40. I suspect this is merely a projection of what I wish for myself, but then, isn’t that really what all inspiration is?

It is not hard for me to imagine being old, although I’m sure there will be many surprises, some of which are likely to be unpleasant. But for now, I have the luxury of believing a particular image I hold in my head, of myself walking back across the field in the early morning, much the way I do now. Penny is moving along the cow path at the height of the land, on her way to collect the animals for morning milking, much as she does now. And the boys? Whatever stories they write with their lives are not mine to imagine.

It may seem ridiculous to project like this; it may seem like hubris to assume that, 30 years from now, Penny and I will still be moving across this land the same way we do now. Perhaps it is. But I’ve been around long enough to know that in two or three decades, I’ll look back to the year I turned 42, the same year I first went deer hunting with my sons, the same year my older boy made me the knife sheath that still hangs from my belt, and all those intervening birthdays will disappear. They will be like nothing, a sliver of time that in its passing has become as impossible to hold as smoke from a fire.

This too is only natural. It is the way of things. It is a good, even, because if nothing else it serves as a reminder that all our lives are fleeting things. As such, we might as well live them the best way we know how.


November 22, 2013 § 11 Comments


Crikey, almost forgot: I’ll be emceeing and telling a story at Rural Vermont’s Black Market Bounty Storytelling and Potluck event this Sunday in Montpeculiar. Come on down! 

This morning we awoke to an uncommitted snow, just enough to soften the air and lend a milky haze to everything. I walked up to the barn in a fine mood, whistling tunelessly, the small flakes melting into my skin as quickly as they landed. I love the austere dullness of November, the gradations of color reduced to slim subtleties, beauty defined as much by what is absent, as by what is present.

I am working hard these days, or at least hard as I define it, which means I’m spending the bulk of my time at my desk and very little time out-of-doors, engaged in some brute task or another. My body and mind reject this schedule; both feel at once balky and mushy. It’s funny, but I’ve come to understand that my brain is better exercised by physical labor than by the focused thought necessitated by my paying work.

No complaints. This is merely one of those phases every self-employed person goes through from time-to-time and, as I am fond of saying, “it sure as hell beats working for a living.” Times like these, when I get a sort-of taste of what it is like to be confined to a desk for 40-hours each week, I am particularly thankful for the routine of chores, for the unrelenting needs of the animals under our care. They draw me up and out each and every morning, and again each and every afternoon. They suffer no excuses, and they respect no deadlines but those imposed by their need for food and water.

In a way, I see how our animals’ lives are as uncomplicated and austerely perfect as this very month. Maybe that’s what I love about these creatures so much; maybe that’s what I love about November so much. They’re both a reminder of how little we really need, of how simple life can be, if only we just let it.

Sometimes You Get More

November 18, 2013 § 5 Comments

Playing geetar and making a spoon with fire. Two great things that go great together.

Playing geetar and making a spoon with fire. Two great things that go great together.

I have much to say and write, but for the time being am focused on finishing one book, beginning another, and keeping up with the multitude of going’s on around the home front. In all likelihood, posting will be somewhat less frequent than normal over the next couple of weeks. Thanks for your understanding and remember: Ya get what ya pay for. And sometimes, you get more!

When in Doubt

November 14, 2013 § 16 Comments

Ice up

Ice up

If you want to hear some great music, tune into VPR at about 12:30 and again this evening at 7:30-ish. Kelly Ravin, the lead singer/guitar hero of Waylon Speed, is playing on Vermont Edition. He’s got a new solo album. 

Our friend Erik was here the other day; he spends one morning each week with Rye, usually accompanying him deep into the woods to explore some previously uncharted vale or basin, some small corner of the world that harbors more secrets than the human mind can fathom.

As has become habit, after he and Rye rambled, Erik joined us for lunch. Lunch is our big meal of the day; we tend to eat lightly at dinner, so as not to retire with overburdened bellies. Besides which, it’s mighty nice to take a midday break, to lay down our respective tasks and gather ’round the table for the noonday feed.

Also as has become our habit, we talked with Erik for some time about our respective challenges and triumphs. For Penny and me, one of these challenges has been how best to go about sharing our accumulated (and admittedly esoteric) store of knowledge and experience. For reasons I don’t fully understand, but am nonetheless heartened to witness, there has been of late a tremendous surge of interest in the practices and skills we employ in our smallholding. This is a wonderful and humbling thing, but as I mentioned a few posts back, we are struggling a bit with how to navigate this reality. Anyway, and particularly because Erik works for an organization that is also trying to determine how best to share the knowledge and experience it holds, this struggle became the chief topic of conversation.

Erik is only 28. Or maybe he’s 29 by now, but whatever the case, the fellow is far too wise for his age, and as is so often the case, he managed to distill the whole shootin’ match of our discussion to a handful of memorable words: “So long as you always act from a place of generosity, you’ll be fine,” is what he said, or something close enough to it. Penny and I looked at one another across the table, and I could see it written on her face as plainly as she could see it written on mine: Yes. 

Now, as so often seems to be the case in my life, which I have come to view as being ruled by serendipity as much as anything else, the boys received a letter from their friend Nate, who has become something of a trapping mentor to them. It is not my place to quote from such a private communication in such a public space, but I do feel comfortable reprinting the line most pertinent to the subject at hand. “Our first task is to treat each other well, for when we learn to always offer respect, kindness, and generosity to those around us, it spreads outward into our relationships with the rest of the world, and the Earth opens up to us in ways we never imagined.” 

This could be a good place to talk about the role of mentors in our sons’ lives, which has been nothing short of profound. But the truth is, the positive influence of these mentors is itself the result of exceptional generosity: Were they not willing to give of their time and experience, this influence would not be realized. So I will not allow myself to become too sidetracked.

I’m still not sure precisely how to fully manifest generosity in a world that is not always so generous in return, but I believe that both Erik and Nate are correct: When we act from a place of generosity, we will be ok. When we act from a place of generosity, the Earth opens to us in ways we never imagined. And not merely the Earth, but the people and animals that inhabit the Earth. To me, the very fact that Erik and Nate are in our lives is proof of this.

Yet there remains an unpaid property tax bill on my desk (don’t worry: We have the money to pay it, we just haven’t done so). Yet our truck is at the shop, undergoing some procedure or another that is not likely to be inexpensive. Yet our health care coverage is about to expire, and the new mandates will make it more expensive for us to remain covered. And so we must find ways to strike that balance between generosity toward others and a certain generosity toward ourselves, to be sure that we can still afford the fundamentals of modern life.

What does that balance look like? I cannot say for certain, but I can say that these serendipitous events – our conversation with Erik, the letter from Nate – which seem to have come at precisely the time we needed them to come, are pointing us in one direction: When in doubt, be generous.

I will close with one more line from Nate’s letter. It’s not even a full line, just a piece of a longer sentence that grabbed me and, for some reason that lies beyond logic and intellectual knowing, made me feel even more certain of my path in life. “The easiest thing to do is what everyone else is doing.”

These are the beautiful struggles of our lives, the ones that are worthy of our full attention and respect: To not always do what is easiest. And to always, always act from a place of generosity.

Try It

November 13, 2013 § 16 Comments

Fleshing a muskrat hide

Fleshing a muskrat hide

It was a dozen degrees this morning, the coldest of the season yet, and I knew it the moment I awoke in the thick dark of 5 a.m., because I could feel the tendril of frigid air snaking through the window opening. We’ve always slept with a window open; I can’t remember a night we haven’t, and it wasn’t so long ago that I thought it folly, just another of Penny’s quirks that I, with my enormous reserve of good nature and general kindness, deign to accommodate. But damned if the habit hasn’t snuck up on me. There’s something about waking to an immediate small understanding of the world beyond the sheltered protection of home and fire that reminds me of my place in grand scheme of things.

It’s not winter yet, but it might as well be. The animals are off pasture, and we’ve been feeding hay for the past two weeks. Already, there’s a sizable dent in our stores, but that’s ok. We know how much is there, and it’s sure enough. We’ve handled each of those bales twice already, once off the baler chute, and once into the barn, 75,000-pounds or more of lift and stack and push, and our knowledge of that hay could only be more complete if we ate the damn stuff ourselves. Which, in a way, we do.

The other night I went out with my friend Michael, a bit of a going away get-together, since he’s heading to Hawaii for the winter with his partner and year-old son. He’s a little nervous, I think: He’s maybe not so much a stick-in-the-mud as myself, but he knows the comfort of home as well as anyone, and maybe a little better. As we were talking, I got to thinking about just how much I have come to depend on winter. And not merely winter, but that deep sense of security and satisfaction that comes of knowing you are prepared. Hay in the barn, wood in the shed, and so much food in the pantry, root cellar, and freezers that you might literally be able to go a year without venturing to the grocery store.

There’s a certain urgency to making these things happen that’s maybe a bit addictive, a jangled-tired feeling, the weight of all those bales in your bones, or the way a splitting maul becomes an extension of muscles and will. These things have become my comfort zone, and as unflatteringly unadventurous as it makes me sound, I can hardly imagine giving them up, even if for only a year. “Honestly, I don’t know if I could leave for a winter,” I told Michael the other night, and he nodded. He’s put up his share of hay. He’s split his share of wood. He knows the feeling, too. But he’s braver than I, which means he’ll spend the next few months in shorts and flip flops, whilst I spend it waking up to ribbons of single-degree air sliding across my face.

Go ahead, try it. It feels real good.








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