January 30, 2007

After what has been an unusually open winter, the fields are now covered with snow. When I was a kid we called a winter with little snow an "open" winter. I believe the term was used because little snow meant the trails that ran through the woods were not blocked by snow, but rather were open, so it was easier to gather wood and to hunt.

This summer we were pleased to have the farm Certified an Organic Producer. The Certification is granted by the New Hampshire Department of Agriculture under a program certified by the United States Department of Agriculture. The obtain and maintain the status of an Organic Certified Producer we must comply with the rules of the National Organic Program.

In September, Carlton started restoring the old well house and attached milk house. The 7-by-9-foot well house was built to protect the spring-fed water tank. The milk cans were kept in a concrete tank in the milk house until the man from the creamery could pick up the milk. The milk was kept cool by spring water that from the water tank in the attached well house into the concrete milk tank.

When Carlton removed the pine shake on the well house, he found copies of The New York Weekly Witness that had been collected over the winter of 1895 and early spring 1896. Under the cedar shake on the milk house, Carlton found copies of The Manchester Union from the late spring of 1935.

Much like an older person who loses height with age, over the past century the well house had sunk more than a foot on its rotting sills and corner posts. Before putting in new sills, Carton had to jack up the two buildings.

The well house and milk house are now more than a foot taller than they were a month ago and they have a new skin of cedar shake. We think originally the roof of the well house had been shingled with wooden shingles, so after removing four layers of asphalt shingles, Carlton reshingled the roof with ones made out of cedar.

We also think the two openings on the south side of the well house were provided so the animals that roamed the property could reach in and get a drink from the water tank.

The front of the well house and milk house in May before the renovations were started. The shake at the bottom had folded out as the building had sunk into the ground.

Because of the excessive amount of rain which turned the fields muddy it was not until late May that the cows returned to the pastures.

This year Arend decided to put out 20 cows and 20 calves. When they returned a few of the calves, had been born put most of the cows were still pregnant. Over the summer all the cows produced healthy calves.

Pictured to the right is one of the calves, just a few days old.

Today I got stuck in the mud. It was not my truck, or my car, or one of my tractors that got stuck, it was my two feet.

According to New Hampshire's state climatologist, David Brown, all time records for monthly rain fall have been declining across the state. While the records continue to fall, so do the rains. Over the last few weeks I have begun to refer to those brief periods of time when it is not pouring as "windows of opportunity."

Sunday when I awoke to relatively clear skies, I decided to plant my sprouting onion sets. As I made my way down the row pushing a set into the muddy soil every few inches, my feet sank a few inches into the soft soil. Sinking in a few inches made moving down the row difficult, but it was not a problem that concerned me. Then without warning, I planted my left foot into some particularly soft loom. With a sucking sound, my foot sank until my high boot was below the level of the ground. For several minutes I pulled on my foot. I leaned forward and back, right and left. I tried rotating my foot and could not believe mud could be so heavy and hard to move in. When I tried to press my hands into the ground to get some extra lift, my hands sank into the mud. After giving up on lifting my left foot out of its muddy hole, I worked on getting my right foot onto firmer ground. Finally, with my right foot on the firmest piece of mud I could find, and my body in a very contorted position, I was able to lean right and work my left foot out of its sink hole. I am now out of the garden and back in the house.

The onion sets have been planted; I hope they don't rot. My muddy boots are outside. My muddy clothes are in the wash. My knees and hips hurt. And yes—it's raining again.

Nelson DeMille, in the Introduction to Best Short Mystery Stories—2004, said the stories he picked were those he wanted to reread. There are a few foods I never tire of retasting. Last week I had the opportunity to enjoy two of those foods.

On Wednesday, Ronny, a friend of one of the workmen who had helped with my renovations, pulled his pickup into my drive about 10:30 in the morning. When I wandered over to his truck, Ronny said, "You said you like trout. I just caught some and was driving by. Do you have some newspaper?" Without hesitation I got yesterday's papers. With practiced hands, Ronny cut off the heads and gutted five brookies; each one tried in its own way to wiggle out of Ronny's tight grip. Yesterday's paper quickly became yesterday's fish guts wrapper.

When I headed to the house with my plate of fresh trout, I planned to cook the fish for dinner. With thoughts of how much I enjoy trout caught in the cold swift brooks it became harder to wait. By 11:30, I was heating the pan and shaking the trout in a bag with flour and a bit of corn meal. They were delicious. If you have eaten really fresh trout caught in a cold New England brook, you will know why I never order trout in restaurants—I'm spoiled.

Sunday morning I enjoyed a second favorite food. When I was loading the truck for my weekly dump run, I noticed the asparagus had started to come up. With the pen knife in my pocket, I cut a fistful of asparagus. It was a few minutes before I enjoyed most of the asparagus which I took to the house and steamed for breakfast, but some I brushed the dirt off and enjoyed seconds after it was cut. Truly fresh asparagus, like tomatoes and corn, is different and so much better than its shelf-stored relatives.

Last night I slept the sleep of the weary. Sometimes the spring weather in New England is the best weather in the world. The last three days the weather was the best it could be. I spend every minute my schedule and old worn body would permit outdoors. I planted peas, beets, spinach, Swiss chard, radishes, and lettuce. I got some bright yellow pansies at the farm stand across the river and put them in the beds beside the house. I put up the bluebird houses. I picked up the sticks and limbs that the winds had blown into the yard. Much of my time was spent cleaning up the tangled vines, leaves, and odd bits of construction debris that had accumulated on the south face of the old milk house and connected wellhouse. On the spot where once had stood our outhouse—with the best outhouse view in town—some pipe, boards, insulation, and large pieces of granite had been dumped during last year's renovations. Over the summer the vine grew up and around the debris. Last fall the leaves blew in among the vines. Now the brush and vines are in a brush pile by the edge of the woods. The lumber's under the barn and the trash is in a trash bag.

This morning dawn broke with grey, threatening skies. By eight o'clock, a gentle rain was falling on my perky pansies and freshly planted seeds. I am glad it is raining today; the plants need the moisture to grow, I need to do some inside work, and my weary body is glad to have a break from outdoor tasks.

It is the change of seasons that makes this part of the world so very special. For me, the most eagerly anticipated change is from the dark cold days of winter to the longer bright colorful days of spring. Almost every day now there are renewed signs that winter has past and spring has come. Friday the daffodils, nestled on the south side of the back stone wall, opened their bright yellow faces and the forsythia next to the barn, in what seemed a few hours, transformed from brown sticks to a blush of light yellow. The fields are greener each day. Yesterday, Carlton and I speculated as to when there would be enough growth that the cows could find a meal if they returned to the pasture.

This past week I have heard and seen signs of the coming spring. Each morning has been a bit noisier as the male song bird sing and woodpeckers drum in what seems a frantic efforts to attract a mate. The sap is running. The roads are becoming muddy and rutted as the water, which was trapped and frozen in the dirt over the winter, turns to mud. This morning I added my own sign of spring when I hung out the wash. When I was a kid, we hung the wash out year round. Now that I have a dryer I choice not to freeze my fingers and risk be whomped on the side of the head by frozen bed sheet that has the properties of a piece of roofing metal. Today as the temperatures rose into the 50's there was no fear my finger would freeze or the sheets would become stiff as a board.

Wednesday
March 15, 2006

After two days of rain, I awoke this morning to find the ground covered with a layer of fluffy white snow. In March, it seems we get to sample the weather of the winter season past and the spring yet to come!