Getting Ready for Winter

Ah, winter—when the roads are halfway decent because the snow fills in the potholes. Free infrastructure maintenance, courtesy of Mother Nature.

The garden has officially tapped out. The last of the vegetables have been yanked, and what’s left of the plants now lives its second life as pig snacks. They seemed thrilled. Of course, pigs are always thrilled—unless you’re late with breakfast. Then you’re dead to them, and they’ve already started writing your obituary.

The hay is all in, wrapped tight in those big white marshmallow bales lining the driveway like we’re preparing for some kind of giant’s campfire cookout. All I need now is an equally giant graham cracker and a chocolate bar the size of a barn door. S’mores for 400—BYO ladder.

Next on the never-ending to-do list: processing the broiler chickens, ducks, and meat goats. Yes, freezer camp is officially in session. And let’s be honest—we all knew where this was going. I raise them with love, but I also raise them with gravy in mind. You can be both sentimental and well-fed.

Sometimes people ask me how I can eat something I’ve raised. But knowing what goes on in commercial farming, the better question is: “How can you eat something you didn’t raise?”

The yard is slowly getting cleaned up. Very slowly. “Organizing” the yard is a bit like trying to tidy up after a tornado with a rake and a good attitude. We’re wrangling tractor implements into their winter homes, tightening up the barn, and trying to convince the goats that, no, the rafters are not a jungle gym. They disagree. Strongly.

We’ve started migrating the pigs toward their winter quarters one fence panel at a time. Turns out they have an uncanny memory of where the old electric fence was, and to them, that invisible line may as well be the Berlin Wall. So we move the fence in increments, like coaxing toddlers down a dark hallway. Once the ground freezes, driving in fence posts is like trying to spear a brick with a popsicle stick. And frankly, I’ve got better things to do than hurl tools at frozen dirt and invent new words you wouldn't say in front of your grandmother. Not many better things, but still.

The snow blade will go on the tractor last, of course. It’s the traditional final act before the snow gods dump three feet on us the very next morning. Oh, and I never did put the summer tires on the truck. Didn’t forget—just didn’t care. And now, while everyone else is battling for appointments at the tire shop, I’m sitting here feeling smug with my already-winter-ready wheels. Lazy? Or brilliant? You decide. (Hint: it’s brilliant.)

This year’s big upgrade: a wood-fired hot-air furnace. Yep—central heating with a thermostat. A thermostat! What is this, the Ritz?! Jim’s got a cement pad to pour, a chimney to install, and ductwork to run. But hey, we got all the parts before the tax credit deadline, so at least the government and I will both be warm and happy this winter.

Of course, my beloved wood stove isn’t going anywhere. Jim wanted the outdoor furnace, I wanted the wood stove—marital bliss is all about strategic compromise. I still love firing it up for the ambiance, the smell, and the smug satisfaction of heating with real flames like a frontier woman. But heating the finished basement with something other than fumes and a whispered prayer? Now that’s going to be a luxury.

And in the “fun but completely unnecessary” department, I’m ordering sleigh runners for the buggy. Because if I’m going to freeze my face off, I might as well do it while pretending I’m in a Hallmark movie. Talon will have to get used to sleigh bells on his harness. He’s been a pretty good sport about everything else—except fly spray. That evil spray bottle is clearly trying to kill him. Good thing flies don’t come out in the snow, or he’d never leave the barn.

So yes, we’re getting ready for winter. Slowly. Grudgingly. With the usual mix of determination and a few muttered not-so-nice words. But we’re getting there. Because like it or not, winter’s coming—and she’s already circling the block looking for parking, tapping the steering wheel, and humming “Jingle Bells.”

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