A PROSPEROUS TURN

Demand for wool in the first three decades of the 19th century shaped the boom years of agriculture in New Hampshire, at least until the invention of the cotton gin allowed for a cheaper clothing alternative – a condition that was accompanied by a changing American workplace and economy.

The brief but prosperous boom financed many of the Granite State’s landmark large farmhouses and barns as well as the nearly ubiquitous stone fences that are still visible, some in the most unexpected remote forests.

Pay attention while driving along country roads, and you’ll often notice stretches where each house seems to be an evolution among the others. I suspect that what happened was they were all built by one craftsman carpenter and his crew – perhaps itinerants who would stay for a season of erecting a house before returning home – who were invited back in another year to build another, each one to customized specifications. The chimneys, for instance, reveal a progression away from the massive central fireplace of the Colonial era to the use of multiple chimneys after the Revolutionary War – something that has me thinking of how much firewood these houses must have consumed through a winter.

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It’s possible, of course, that the carpenters and masons and others came to live in the neighborhood as well. But one thing I feel certain: the resident commercial farmers, faced with the demands of their flocks and fields, did not have the time or perhaps even skills to build houses like these.

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Here are some of the fine examples found in a village along a ridge in the town of Deerfield, a neighborhood known as South Deerfield. There are more, I should mention, than I could capture in this outing. Meanwhile, I’d like to know more about the site of the popular Mack Tavern, with its fiddler’s throne to protect the player from the wild dancers.

NATURALLY, SHE HAS REASON TO WEEP

You may remember my writing of the wildlife we have in our yard, even though we live in a city. Maybe I was even bragging, a tad.

Meanwhile, our garden was looking better than ever. Some of it was likely a consequence of all the seaweed we’re using for mulch, plus the compost. Some of it a matter that we got just about everything transplanted on time, and some a reflection that my being free from the office has allowed a little more help with the weeding and harvesting.

On top of everything, the weather has been uncommonly cooperative. There were no late frosts in May, though there were nights we had to bring plants under cover as they “hardened off” before transplanting. We largely avoided a wet June, which kept the garden slugs under control and meant the strawberries didn’t get waterlogged. (They’ve been very tasty. The berries, that is.) July has brought rainfall as needed and also stayed out of the tropical range of oppression.

And then, about a week ago, disaster struck. A groundhog (apparently dwelling under a shed three houses down the street).

We had some near misses in the past, but nothing like this. One year, in fact, a band of possums evicted the groundhogs from their burrow. My wife’s always like opossums.

Overnight, half of our Brussels sprouts and a half-dozen heads of lettuce were obliterated. The rest were wiped out a day or two later, despite our efforts to fight back. Without the possums coming to our rescue, my wife’s taking this personally. For that matter, so am I. What about all that teaching about peaceful coexistence, anyway? What if the other side just doesn’t care?

Living in the city, we can’t resort to the usual line of defense, either, the one many vegetarians no doubt practice. No, a .22 is not an option here. You can run down the list of other weapons and strike them off one by one. Children and pets, after all, live in the neighborhood.

So here we are, mopping up and hoping the cantaloupe slices in the Hav A Heart trap do the job. And wiping our tears.

At the end of Round One, the big trap came out, along with some impromptu fencing. The Brussels sprouts at top right had been capped, which means they're done growing for the year. The lettuce, as you see, was leveled. What we did discover is that groundhogs can read, when they want. Mark's garden was also hit.
At the end of Round One, the big trap came out, along with some impromptu fencing. The Brussels sprouts at top right had been capped, which means they’re done growing for the year. The lettuce, as you see, was leveled. What we did discover is that groundhogs can read, when they want. Mark’s garden was also hit.

 

 

 

 

THIS OLD HOUSE DISILLUSIONMENT

One of the downsides of owning an old house is an awareness of just how expensive any repair is. (And it’s always more than you’ve planned.) Add to that just how many repairs are needed. (Remember, most of them are for things you don’t even see.) And that’s before we get to any upgrades.

The awareness has also afflicted many of my dream-house observations, especially when I’m nearing the ocean. Where I would have admired a stone retaining wall under construction or a long pier from a private boathouse or deck to the mooring, what I now see is dollar signs. Often, more than I would have made in a year. It’s crushing.

It can make you wonder what people do for that kind of income. Or what kind of wealth they were born into. Or how long it will last.

One thing I know is that fishermen used to live in some of these coastal communities. But not anymore. Not by a long shot. Some of them live closer to me.

 

IVAR’S PAINT QUIP

I wish he hadn’t said it. My former landlord in the Yakima Valley, visiting us here in New England, remarked on how many of the houses he saw that were in need of new paint. That was before he saw ours, too.

Now, in this seemingly picturesque location, everywhere I turn, I see houses with peeling paint. Or worse.

I wish he hadn’t said it.

At least he said nothing about roofing.

FUN-DRAISING

Looked up as I drove by a big green lawn the other day and saw it was dotted with pink. A bright pink unlike any flowers we grow in these parts.

Then I smiled, realized the house had just been flocked – there was even a note stuck on a stick.

In a flash, even at a distance (this was the kind of place that has a small pond between the house and the highway), I sensed the two dozen flamingos were all uniform, likely brand-new, unlike the motley band we “quarantined” for our own use all too many years ago now. Why, ours even multiplied in the course of their service – some of the dads were making new ones from plywood, rather than plastic.

Flocked, you ask? Oh, I was sure I’d told that story, somewhere.

 

A FEW THOUGHTS WHILE SIFTING COMPOST

Come springtime every year, there’d be a predicable domestic spat. I’d say the compost was ready. She’d look at it and retort, “No, it’s not: you can still see bits and tell what it’s made of.” (Actually, two shes – mother and daughter.) “Then you’ll have to wait another year for it to finish to your specifications,” I’d shoot back, only to be told we couldn’t wait that long. And so on.

Part of this seemed to question my very manhood. I was, after all, the one doing all the work, from collecting the bags of leaves around the neighborhood and dumping the kitchen garbage in the covered bins to changing the rabbit cages, in large part for their precious, nitrogen-intense pellets.

Well, most of the work. The red wigglers would also do a large share.

Still, I suspected that if we waited as long as they wanted, all of our organic matter would evaporate.

At last, I had a flash of genius. I’d slowly sift the pile, trowel by trowel, and whatever came through the screen turned out beautiful. They approved and used buckets of it on the square-foot garden beds as fast as I could provide them. The part that didn’t fit through the screen was also beautiful, along the lines of woodland detritus with flecks of brown eggs.  I put that aside to decay further, perhaps to be spread as mulch in July or August.

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The motion of sifting itself can become a kind of Zen practice as you admire the material before you and the thoughts flitting through your awareness.

This movement’s like panning for gold, as I found washing my dishes in the glacier-fed river below Mount Shuksan. Back and forth, back and forth, with all that matter getting smaller and sparkling more in each round of swirling.

All the peach stones are tokens from our cheap peach bonanza after Hurricane Irene ruffled nearby orchards.

The squirrels plant a lot of our wild black walnuts.

Listen to all the cardinals and mourning doves.

Plastic, in flecks, is inescapable.

How loud, those geese overhead! Me, I’d be more stealthy.

We eat a lot of eggs.

FORSYTHIAS

Spring yellow, for Easter. I cut branches of forsythia, bring them indoors, find an appropriate vase with water, if Easter’s falling early. And then they open, with a profusion of yellow. Sunshine.

Some, soon adorned with suspended eggs.

Happy Easter!
Happy Easter!

A MEDITATION, OF SORTS

At the beach the other morning, observing the beauty of the blue surf at low tide on a crystal-clear day, I realized my mind and heart were not in oneness with the postcard view before me. Yes, I was there, but on a mission, and I was all too aware of a desire to be home before my wife left for her afternoon and evening obligations.

My oneness, however, was with the seaweed before me as I put it into buckets and transferred these to black bags in the trunk of my car. The drive home was also a meditation, as was spreading one of the bags over our asparagus bed.

The goal, of course, is to be fully present where I am. Rather than off somewhere far ahead or far behind me.

BIRDS OF OUR YARD

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feeder, especially:

  • goldfinch
  • purple finch
  • house sparrow
  • black-capped chickadee
  • junco
  • tufted titmouse
  • nuthatch
  • mourning dove
  • pigeon
  • pheasant
  • cardinal
  • blue jay
  • catbird
  • cowbird
  • mockingbird
  • starling
  • purple grackle (such a funny word!)
  • cedar waxwing
  • downy and hairy woodpeckers
  • phoebe
  • pine siskel
  • rufus towhee
  • hummingbird
  • robin (as an afterthought!)
  • blue-gray gnatcatcher
  • Peregrin falcon and/or Cooper’s hawk or sharp-shinned hawk
  • common grackle
  • grosbeak
  • bluebird

report of one wild turkey one November

overhead:

  • geese
  • hawks
  • crow
  • gulls
  • raven
  • bald eagle
  • swallows

*   *   *

someday maybe I’ll know by song
all the birds that stay hidden in our treetops