Welcome to the Neighborhood - Clothing Optional

You never really know a place until you’ve met the people. Sometimes it’s a handshake, sometimes it’s a wave from across the fence. . . and sometimes it’s something you could never have prepared for, no matter how many small towns you’ve lived in. When we moved to our northern hideaway I thought I’d seen every kind of neighborly welcome. I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

I grew up in a small town in southern New Hampshire, back before the interstate was open. That’s right—before GPS, before computers and smartphones, when TV stations went off the air at midnight, and when people still knew the names of the cows in the neighbor’s pasture. Our little town had the essentials: a small store with worn wooden floors and gas pumps out front, old men on the porch “whittling” while they gossiped, a part-time post office, a part-time library, a Chevy dealership, and a seasonal hamburger stand that served up greasy magic in a paper box. If you didn’t know everyone’s business you were either new or unconscious.

These days, suburbia’s swallowed the place. The general store’s now just another gas station. The cows are gone, everyone has matching lawn furniture, and people give you side-eye for saying hello. The charm’s gone, along with the days you could borrow sugar and a lawnmower in the same breath.

So in 2001, with retirement on the horizon and traffic jams stretching longer than an Easter sermon, my husband and I headed north. Not “just outside town” north. Not “up by the lake” north. No, we went full-tilt, as-far-north-as-you-can-go-without-learning-French kind of north. The kind where GPS gets confused, cell service is just a suggestion, and if you see moose tracks in the yard, well, that's just Tuesday.

We landed in a tiny town where more dogs are registered than voters, roads are barely paved, and distance is measured in time, not miles. The nearest “big town” has 2,000 people, no traffic light, and a volunteer fire department.

People here are a particular kind of wonderful. They’re simple, hard working folk who might be loggers, mill workers, carpenters or mechanics. Many work at the nearby Ethan Allen plant or are health care workers at the local 16 bed hospital. Many are locals who grew up here, and some are retired folks who moved here to disappear into the woods. Their hands are calloused, their trucks are muddy, and they’d give you the shirt off their back—though sometimes you’ll wish they hadn’t. These are folks who'll pull you out of a ditch with their tractor and never mention it again.

Which brings me to meeting my across-the-road neighbor.

We’d just moved in—boxes still stacked in the mudroom. I’d made a supply run to the “big city,” which is “close by” only if you think an hour and a half qualifies. It has a Home Depot, a Walmart, and a Burger King that gets your order wrong in the exact same way every single time. It was a late Saturday afternoon. I was tired, cranky, and just wanted to get home and unpack the slow cooker I swore I’d actually use this time.

That’s when I saw him.

Standing in the middle of the road. Stark. Raving. Buck. Naked. And drunk—couldn’t-pass-a-sobriety-test-if-it-were-multiple-choice drunk.

Not “lost track of my shirt” drunk. No, this man had been communing with the liquor cabinet in a biblical sense. He swayed like a pine tree in a nor’easter. Whatever he’d been drinking hit like three fingers of moonshine and a hug from Dolly Parton.

As I slowed my car (because who wouldn’t slow down for a man whose only accessory was a farmer’s tan?), he shouted, “Howdy, neighbor! I’m the guy across the road! Welcome to the neighborhood!”

Now, there are many ways to meet a new neighbor:

• A wave from across the fence.

• A plate of cookies.

• A dog wandering into your yard followed by an apology and an introduction.

This was not on the list.

He pointed to his house, just in case I thought he was some feral mountain man fresh from the woods. “That’s my place—right across from you!”

Yes, sir. That sure cleared it up.

I’d love to say I had a clever response—something neighborly like, “Nice to meet you. I’ll bring over a casserole. . . with a lid.” I didn’t. I did what any respectable New Englander would: nodded politely, like meeting someone’s uncle at a funeral, and kept driving. What do you say to a man standing in his birthday suit like he’s auditioning for a Calvin Klein ad on a budget?

Here’s the kicker: once he sobered up and found his pants, he turned out to be a fantastic neighbor. The kind who digs your car out of a snowbank, snow-blows your mailbox after the plow buries it for the fourth time that day, and shows up with jumper cables in January. And never mentions the time he greeted you wearing nothing but a hangover and a smile.

That’s what I love about this place—it’s unpredictable, real, raw. One day you’re chatting at the feed store, wondering if farmer Joe will get his hay in on time. The next you’re waving back at a man who clearly skipped a step in getting dressed that morning.

Moral of the story:

• Don’t let first impressions be your last impression.

• Don’t judge a man by his clothes—or noticeable lack thereof.

    Because sometimes, the guy who greets you in the nude turns out to be the one who’d give you the shirt off his back. If, you know. . . he remembered to wear one.

Out here, life between the fenceposts isn’t always tidy, predictable, or fully clothed—but it’s never boring.

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Meet My Grandma... Kind Of

I just finished making a traditional Canadian pork pie—Tourtière—for a ladies’ meeting tomorrow. The theme is “Meet My Grandma.” We’ve been encouraged to bring food, photos, and stories that remind us of our grandmothers—things they passed down, things we carry forward.

The truth is, I never actually met my grandmother. She was gone before I was born. I don’t know the sound of her laugh or how she wore her hair, except from a few old photographs. But in my French Canadian family, Tourtière was as essential as breathing. It graced holiday tables, warmed winter kitchens, and quietly stitched itself into the very fabric of our family.

I haven’t made one in 15 years. I figured it would be like riding a bike—except with ground pork and pie crust. Muscle memory and all that. Turns out, my muscles remembered. . . they just didn’t want to cooperate. I had to sit down twice just to catch my breath. At one point, I was negotiating with the pie crust like it was a hostage situation. “Just roll out nice and nobody gets hurt.” Maybe that’s age talking, or maybe it’s because when you’re younger, you don’t notice how much work goes into the things you take for granted—the chopping, the stirring, the seasoning, the slow patience of it all. Tradition, it turns out, is not fast food.

Still, something happened as I leaned over the stove. As much as I sweated over it, it felt good. Familiar. Like reaching back through time and grabbing hold of something solid. The smell—cinnamon, cloves, allspice, a hint of nutmeg—pulled me somewhere else. Into memories I didn’t know I had.

No, I never met my grandmother. I don’t know the sound of her voice or the stories she told. But I know the scent of her kitchen—or at least the one passed down through the hands and aprons of my family.

Suddenly, I was standing back in my aunt’s (her daughter’s) kitchen. Not the glossy, granite-counter kind, but the well-worn, no-nonsense kind that smelled like onions, boiling potatoes, and something always baking. The countertops were cluttered, the linoleum curled slightly at the edges, and the big wooden spoon had a permanent curve from decades of stirring. It made a soft, hollow thok-thok-thok against the pot, like a heartbeat in something warm and full, with the occasional shhhhrrp across the bottom that said, “Almost done.”

There was a low hum of conversation in French and English, dishes clinking, and the occasional burst of laughter. The radio played softly—AM talk shows or old familiar tunes.

There was always a pot simmering, something being peeled, and a cat that wasn’t allowed on the counter but didn’t care. The table had a vinyl tablecloth that stuck to your forearms if it was hot out, and you were expected to sit and stay awhile whether you wanted to or not.

I could almost see the older women in my family—quietly competent, sleeves rolled up, eyes kind but focused. Women I barely knew and yet somehow miss deeply. In all that chaos and warmth, there was peace. That kitchen worked. It fed people—not just food, but comfort, heritage, and a love that didn’t always get spoken out loud.

Tomorrow I’ll bring my Tourtière, a couple of old black-and-white photos, and a pie dish full of memories that aren’t exactly mine but somehow still belong to me. I may not have stories from my own lips, but I’ll have this—warm, flaky, a little lopsided, made with love. A dish that speaks where words fall short.

Bon appétit, Mémère. I hope I did you proud.

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Spring – You Two-Timing, Backstabbing Trollop

Ah, spring is in the air.

The grass has started to blush green again here in the north country, the trees are putting on their little bud bonnets, and the birds are out there singing like Disney just handed them a recording contract. Robins have been back for weeks now, smugly yanking worms out of the ground like this is an all-you-can-eat buffet. Ducks and geese have returned to the ponds, paddling around like they never left, holding little reunions and probably judging my muddy boots.

Everything was going according to the Welcome to Spring script.

The goats have kidded and the babies are bouncing around the barn like caffeinated toddlers in a bounce house. New chicks are growing so fast, I swear one of them looked me dead in the eye yesterday and asked for the Wi-Fi password.

Yes, spring is in the air.

So WHY did I wake up this morning to a scene straight out of a snow globe?!

Not a charming, poetic “last hurrah” either. No. I’m talking full-blown, cover-the-yard, hide-the-daffodils, slap-you-in-the-face SNOW. AGAIN. Honestly, it looked like Frosty the Snowman threw a tantrum and exploded in my front yard.

One of the robins was standing on the porch rail with his feathers puffed up and his beak open like he was mid-complaint with corporate. The goats came out, took one look, and slowly backed into the barn. The chickens are madder than wet hens—because they are wet hens—and the ducks? Oh, they’re thrilled. Jerks.

I’m over it, Mother Nature. You hear me? OVER. IT.

We’ve shoveled. We’ve snow-blowed. We’ve made snowmen and pretended to enjoy hot cocoa while frostbite gnawed at our toes. I’ve run out of adjectives for “pretty” snow and started describing it as “aggressively white sky-dandruff.” We are DONE here.

You had your chance. Spring arrived. We were ready to forgive and forget. And you go and do this?

Listen, I don’t want to sound ungrateful—but if I see one more snowflake, I’m going to start mailing you passive-aggressive weather reports written entirely in goat hoofprints.

So unless this snow is part of some cosmic April Fool’s joke that got lost in the mail, please do us all a favor and CUT. IT. OUT.

Spring in the north country: where hope sprouts, slips on ice, and gets body-checked into a snowbank by winter—then winter takes your lunch money.

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Farm Shuffle

Sometimes it feels like life hit fast-forward while I was stuck on pause with my foot in the air. I try to write, to record it while it's still fresh in my memory. And sometimes I have to think back a ways to make sure nothing escapes my forgetful brain.

Let’s rewind a bit. Back in February, I had the second surgery on my right foot to fuse the big toe joint. Why? Because about four years ago a 4x8 sheet of 3/4” plywood decided to swan-dive off a stack from about three feet up—right onto my foot. Crunch. You never realize how important that joint is until it’s been flattened like a pancake by a sheet of flying plywood.

So there I was, couch-bound for a couple of weeks, foot elevated like royalty, binging British detective shows and pretending to enjoy it. Then it was three months in a walking boot, clomping around the farm like Frankenstein’s cousin.

Meanwhile. . . everything changed.

The three grandkids all moved out. Poof. Just like that. After months of teenage angst, midnight fridge raids, and the distinct sound of video games and drums bleeding through the walls at 2 a.m., the house is now eerily quiet—and a whole lot cleaner. (And no one’s asking me where the peanut butter went. Because now I know where it is. Right where I left it, wherever that might be.)

"Hey, what's going on in here?"

Then Talon, my beloved Gypsy Cob, after almost a year on the market, was sold to a vacation farm in Pennsylvania. You know, the kind of place where folks from the city pay real money to muck stalls and milk goats because they think it’s quaint. (I’ll let you in on a secret: they haven’t done it in February. Or in mud season.)

They also bought the saddle I had custom-made for him—because obviously, you can't have a horse without the saddle. The round pen? Sold. The horse trailer? Gone last week. And a few weeks ago, someone showed up intending to buy just one goat. . . and somehow drove off with five goats and four pigs. I’m not entirely sure how that happened. It was like a barnyard clearance sale where the animals negotiated their own deals.

Let’s recap what left for greener pastures:

3 grandkids (formerly known as “The Bottomless Pits”)

1 horse and his custom saddle

5 goats

4 pigs

1 round pen

1 horse trailer

And, as of today, our van

At this rate, I feel like I should be stamping “SOLD” on everything that’s not nailed down and setting up a booth at the local flea market.

But don’t worry—it hasn’t been all subtraction around here.

We added a new member to the farm family: Libby, short for Liberty Bell. She’s a Colorado Mountain Dog—part Great Pyrenees, part Anatolian Shepherd, and 100% adorable. At eight weeks old, she’s about the cutest thing this side of a baby panda and about as coordinated. Right now, she’s in that bite-everything-that-moves stage, with a bonus side of random leaping.

She’s not quite ready to be in with the goats just yet. We’re waiting for her to grow out of the ankle-nipping ninja phase and grow into the goat-guarding phase. For now, she’s in her own little section where she can see the goats and they can see her, but no one can head-butt, nibble, or escape.

I feel like I’m supervising a preschool version of Survivor: Barnyard Edition—complete with alliances, betrayals, and someone always crying.

Gabriel, our older LGD, has been the first to accept her—he’s got that kind, fatherly soul that says “sure, kid, you can sleep here, just don’t snore.” He lets her curl up beside him and even shares meals without a grumble. It’s no small thing to be welcomed by the senior dog—LGD apprenticeships are notoriously strict.

Remi, on the other hand, thinks Libby is about as welcome as a giant, fuzzy gnat. Every time Libby bounces her way, Remi gives her that withering side-eye that says “child, no.” It’s going to take some time before Remi gives her stamp of approval—but my bet is that by the end of the month, they’ll be wrestling like sisters and stealing each other’s dinner.

So there you have it: We're lighter on livestock, heavier on puppy antics, and navigating life one unexpected plot twist at a time.

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Desk Sweet Desk

In the grand scheme of world events, a new desk might not exactly qualify as breaking news. CNN has yet to knock on my door. But here at farm HQ, where paperwork mysteriously multiplies like unchaperoned rabbits, this is front-page material. See, I’m the one who handles all things paper—bills, tax stuff, registration forms, insurance documents, and mysterious receipts that no one remembers making but are somehow vital. So while the rest of the world carries on, I’ve been waging a one-woman war against chaos armed with nothing but a file cabinet and a slab of particle board.

For years I’ve managed with “alternative workspaces”—a term I use to make it sound fancier than it is. I've used the dining table, an old TV tray, a bookshelf turned sideways, and once, for a brief and dark period, a collapsible card table that had a distinct wobble and smelled faintly of basement. If it had a flat surface, I’ve tried to make it work. Because let’s be honest—desks are expensive, and why buy one when you can make one out of scraps and imagination?

But lately, my trusty little setup—lovingly referred to as "The FrankenDesk"—has started to feel more like a junk drawer with Wi-Fi. Picture a narrow slab of wood spanning a file cabinet on one end and an old cupboard on the other, with a printer perched on top like a gargoyle watching over a nest of tangled cords. It was functional, sure, but about as inspiring as a DMV waiting room.

So I did it. I took the plunge. I went desk shopping.

Friends, nothing could have prepared me.

I walked into the furniture store expecting maybe five options. Instead, I was met with a sea of desks: flattops, rolltops, glass-tops, desks shaped like executive battle stations, and desks so small they’d make a Barbie dream house look spacious. Some had drawers. Some had secret compartments. Some looked like they required an engineering degree and an allen wrench to assemble. And the price tags? Let’s just say there were a few where I had to sit down on the showroom couch and breathe into a paper bag.

The sales lady, God bless her, saw the panic in my eyes and gently offered to copy some catalog pages for me. "Take them home," she said, "live with them a while." Like stray kittens or paint samples. And so I did.

I spent the next two days living with pictures of desks taped to the wall. Measuring. Squinting. Imagining. Muttering things like “Would I regret going with Mission Oak?” and “Does this drawer configuration speak to my soul?”

Finally, I found the one. A beautiful rolltop. She’s a classic—rich wood tone, drawers galore, and a soul steeped in old-school charm. The top is full of little cubbies and drawers perfect for organizing paper clips, push pins, stamps, sticky notes, flash drives, old birthday cards, dried-up pens I can’t bring myself to toss, and at least four pairs of scissors that will still go mysteriously missing. And the best part? When the clutter starts to take over (because let’s be honest, it will), I can just roll down the top and—voilà—instant respectability. It’s the adult version of shoving everything under the bed when company comes.

Of course, now that I have a new desk, the wall behind it needs repainting. I mean, obviously. You can’t just slap a shiny new piece of furniture in front of faded old paint—it’s like wearing a ball gown with barn boots. Which means the whole living/dining/home-office multipurpose room needs painting. And if that room gets a facelift, well, the adjoining room is going to start feeling a little left out…

It’s like home renovation dominoes. You knock one over and suddenly you’re pricing curtains and considering crown molding.

But that’s a project for another day. Today I sit at my glorious new desk, sipping hot chocolate, surrounded by drawers that glide smoothly and a surface free of paper towers. It’s not world-changing. But for me, it’s a little island of order in a sea of daily farm-life chaos.

Sure, she’s old-fashioned, but so am I—and with all her tiny drawers and the ability to roll down the front and hide my inevitable mess, she’s basically the desk version of Spanx. And that, my friends, is priceless.

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Resolutions

The first week of the new year has come and gone—and so have my New Year’s resolutions. Off they galloped into the snowy distance like a herd of goats that just noticed I left the gate open. I had such high hopes, such bold ambition. I was going to be healthier! More active! Better organized! And thinner by accident!

Instead, I’m sitting here in fleece pajamas, surrounded by cookie crumbs, typing this with fingers slightly sticky from a leftover candy cane I found in my coat pocket. If you need a visual, imagine Cookie Monster and a hibernating bear had a baby and gave it a laptop.

Let’s do a little post-mortem, shall we?

Resolution #1: Eat Healthier
Now, I didn’t say “go on a diet,” because I’ve reached the age where I know myself. Diets are like bad boyfriends: they promise you everything, leave you cranky and hungry, and in the end, you end up crying into a sleeve of Oreos wondering where it all went wrong.

So I figured I’d just eat healthier. Reasonable, right? Swap chips for carrots. Cut back on sugar. Maybe steam some broccoli. I made it all of four hours. I was doing so well—eggs for breakfast, some plain Greek yogurt, a banana that wasn’t even bruised yet.

And then a neighbor showed up with cookies. Homemade. Still warm. I barely remember what happened next—it’s all a blur of butter, sugar, and shame. All I know is that by 2:00 p.m. I was covered in crumbs, looking down at my fourth cookie like, “Well, I can’t stop now, that’d be rude.”

By dinner, I was full of regret and also lasagna.

Resolution #2: Exercise 15 Minutes Every Morning
Okay, stop laughing. It seemed doable at the time. I mean, fifteen minutes? That’s barely enough time to complain about how cold it is outside.

But here in northern New Hampshire, walking outdoors in January is what you do when you’re tired of living. So, I turned to my trusty treadmill—if by “trusty” you mean “completely buried under a year’s worth of seasonal junk, two feed bags, a winter coat I thought I lost, and something I think might be a Halloween decoration from 2008.”

When I finally dug it out, I realized I hadn’t plugged it in since I bought it. Last year. In February. It still had the “remove protective plastic before use” label on the screen. Let’s just say the only cardio happening so far is me breathing heavily after lifting the vacuum cleaner to get to the extension cord.

So, no. No 15-minute workouts. But I have been thinking about working out a lot, and mentally, I’m in the best shape of my life.

Resolution #3: Bring My Last Year’s Accounting Up to Date
I started this one. Honest. I even sharpened a pencil for it and everything. I opened the ledger, pulled out receipts, created a spreadsheet, and stared at it like it might magically balance itself if I just looked at it with enough guilt.

By Day 3, I had organized everything from January through March. Then I accidentally spilled hot chocolate on April. So technically, I’ve finished a quarter of the year and sweetened the second quarter.

On the plus side, I now know exactly how much I spent on goat dewormer and chicken scratch last year—which is knowledge that will be very useful if I ever go on Jeopardy!

Resolution #4: Be More Organized
Hoo boy. This one went off the rails faster than a toddler on espresso. I had color-coded folders, a to-do list app on my phone, and a brand-new planner with inspirational quotes and space for weekly goals. It was going to be my Year of the Binder.

I lost the binder. I think it’s under the stack of seed catalogs and unfinished crochet projects on my desk. My to-do list is now just a collection of notes scrawled on old feed tags and the back of the electric bill. I’d like to say I’m working on decluttering, but I can’t find the list of things I planned to declutter.

By now, most resolutions have met the same fate as last year’s poinsettia—wilted, abandoned, and slowly decomposing in the corner. Mine? They’re somewhere out back, holding hands, humming “Auld Lang Syne,” and washing down their regrets with leftover holiday candy.

If you’ve managed to keep even one, congratulations—you are clearly some sort of mythical creature who thrives on kale and discipline. The rest of us? We’ve reverted to our natural winter form: elastic waistbands, questionable snack choices, and a vague promise to “start fresh on Monday.”

Here’s to the New Year: may our sweatpants be forgiving, our goals just unrealistic enough to give us something to laugh about next January, and our snacks last longer than our resolutions.

Now, pass the cookies. 

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Resolution Survival Rate:

New Year's Resolution Success Chart:

[✓] Eat Healthier..........................  0% Success (Cookies won.)
[✓] Exercise 15 Min/Day..............  0% Success (Treadmill still pouting.)
[✓] Catch Up Accounting...... 25% Success (Up to March. Go me!)
[✓] Be More Organized...................  2% Success (I *own* a planner.)

Average Success Rate:     6.75%
Moral Victory Rate:     100% (I got dressed twice and cooked vegetables once.

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Happy Halloween

And it looks like a cold one this morning.

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New "Government Math" Diet

You may recall how we got our “free” tractor using what I like to call Government Math—a magical financial system where saving money is the same thing as making money, and if you don’t spend what you could’ve, then obviously that leftover imaginary pile turns into profit. It’s flawless.

So naturally, I figured: if it works for multi-trillion-dollar budgets, why not for my hips?

This morning, I had two donuts for breakfast. Now, before the food police show up with their little calorie citation pads, let me just say—I could have had a bacon egg and cheese biscuit with a side of hash browns and regret. But I didn’t. So technically, I saved about 400 calories right there. That drops the donuts down to a negligible 100 calories. Barely worth mentioning, really.

Then, for lunch, I had a salad. Not one of those fun ones with fried chicken and ranch dressing masquerading as lettuce. I’m talking actual rabbit food. Lettuce, cucumbers, maybe a slice of tomato just to say I live dangerously. Easily saved another 400 calories by not going with a cheeseburger. At this point, I’m basically operating at a caloric surplus in the healthy direction.

Afternoon snack? Carrot sticks. Raw. No ranch. No hummus. Just cold, crunchy disappointment. That’s gotta be worth another 150 calories saved just for the trauma.

Dinner? Another salad. Because I’m committed to bad decisions and leafy greens. That’s another 450 calories banked like some kind of sadistic savings account.

So when dessert rolls around and I’m eyeing that banana split with hot fudge, whipped cream, and a cherry on top like it owes me money, guess what? That 800-calorie tower of dairy joy only counts as 200. Because I earned it.

Tally it up:

• Donuts? 100

• Banana split? 200

• Total for the day? 300 calories.

Which leaves me plenty of wiggle room (pun intended) for an evening chip buffet while watching reruns of Murder, She Wrote. And no guilt, because this is Government Math, baby. If the federal government can “balance” the budget by redefining words and moving numbers around like it’s a shell game at a carnival, I can definitely justify a second helping of Cool Ranch Doritos.

The scale won’t budge? Must be a data error. Probably Russian hackers. Or the batteries.

Hey, if this system is good enough for Congress, it’s should be good enough for my thighs.

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Flat Out Of Luck

Some days don’t just go sideways—they veer into a ditch, set up camp, and start roasting marshmallows.

It started like the perfect morning. Sunlight pouring through the windows. Birds doing their little Disney chorus thing. I actually thought to myself, “Well, isn’t this lovely? Today’s going to be a good day.”

Cue the record scratch.

I stepped outside and there it was—a tire that had clearly given up on life somewhere around 3 a.m. Not a slow leak. Not a subtle sag. This thing was flatter than roadkill on I-93. Aggressively horizontal. A crime scene in rubber.

It sat there like an air mattress the morning after camping—wrinkled, useless, and impossible to revive. No warning, no farewell hiss, not even a dramatic pop for flair. Just slumped over like, “I’ve been holding your sorry self together for too many years, lady, and I’m DONE. Figure it out.”

So, instead of my tidy little to-do list and that smug, get-stuff-done satisfaction, I got a pop quiz in “tire triage.” Which, for the record, involves kneeling in gravel while the wind tries to sandblast your face, balancing a jack that sounds like it’s been crying for help since 1998, and muttering words you wouldn’t say in front of your grandmother.

I haven’t crouched that long since I was elbow-deep in a goat birthing situation. And let me tell you—both experiences involve heavy breathing, regret, and the faint hope that someone will arrive to save you.

The jack was, of course, hiding. I finally found it buried under the back seat, keeping company with a fossilized French fry and what I’m 80% sure was once a map of Ohio. We’ve never been to Ohio, which means either the car’s been sneaking off without me or I’ve been storing roadside garbage for sport.

Anyway, I got the spare on. I survived. The tire. . . not so much.

The soundtrack to my morning? Picture muffled grumbling, the groan of a rusty jack, and the faint sound of my will to live rolling down the driveway.

But hey—I got the tire changed. I still made it through the day. Because sometimes life goes flat. . . and you fix it with grit, sarcasm, and just enough air to keep going.

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Peace

I found it years ago, on my workbench. A butterfly. A yellow swallowtail with bold black stripes. Perfect. Still. Wings fully open, like it had just landed for a moment—and then. . . let go.

It hadn’t folded up in defense. It hadn’t struggled. It just stopped, in the middle of the mess, between my hammers and feed scoops, as if to say, “This place will do.”

And something about that felt. . . holy.

Not in the stained-glass kind of way. But in the kind of way that slips in quietly and finds you elbow-deep in the chaos of daily life. The kind that makes you stop mid-step, heart thudding with something too big to name.

I didn’t have the heart to throw it away. Or bury it. Or brush it aside like just another thing that didn’t belong. So I carried it to the house with both hands, like I was holding something sacred. And I placed it, gently, in an empty drawer of my old roll-top desk—not with the paperclips or the clutter of the other drawers, but in its own little space. Quiet. Undisturbed.

Because it deserved that.

It’s still there.

All these years later, that butterfly hasn’t changed. The world around it has—storms have come, animals have gone, people I love have aged, or moved on, or passed—but the butterfly remains. A moment frozen in time, wings outstretched, still perfect.

Sometimes, when I’m digging through that desk looking for something I’ve misplaced (usually patience, if I'm being honest), I open that drawer by accident. And there it is again. Waiting. Whole. Beautiful.

And suddenly the noise quiets. My hands stop moving. My breath slows.
And I remember—to pause, to soften, to just be.

That butterfly has become a kind of stillness I carry with me. Not in my pocket or wallet or on a keychain, but tucked deeper—where weariness lives, and memory settles, and faith occasionally flickers.

It reminds me that beauty doesn’t always shout. Sometimes it whispers from a drawer you forgot you had. Sometimes it lands in your life and never really leaves.

Because peace isn’t something you chase. It’s something you notice—when you finally stop moving long enough to see it was there all along.

 

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Planning

We had ourselves a charming little storm over the weekend. Saturday? Rain. All. Day. Warm-ish temps that melted two feet of snow, which is the North Country’s way of taunting you: “Look. Ground!. . . Just kidding.”

Now, anyone with a weather app and a functioning frontal lobe could’ve looked at Sunday’s forecast—which was basically flashing IMMINENT BLIZZARD in Vegas-sized letters—and thought, “Hey, maybe we should fill the tractor and that extra diesel can while we still know where they are and don’t need a search party with avalanche beacons.”

But no. That would’ve been smart. Efficient. Predictable. And let’s be honest—nobody wants to read that story:

“Saturday—weather mild. Diesel topped off. Tractor prepped. Storm handled smoothly. The end.”

Wow. Thrilling. Coming soon to a library section labeled “For Insomniacs.”

Instead, here’s how it actually went down:

Saturday:

Jim and my grandson spent the day not preparing. They busied themselves with “various things”—a suspiciously vague category that usually involves moving junk from one spot to another and then standing around admiring the new location. Jim then retired for his sacred afternoon nap—because nothing says “crisis readiness” like a coma. (To be fair, Jim spends the week away—working twelve-hour days after a three-hour drive on Monday, then making the three-hour trip back home on Friday—so by the weekend he’s running on fumes.) That night, they ran taxi service for Grandson’s work shift, then Jim and I watched a movie—probably something in the Man Fails to Plan, Wife Simmering Silently genre.

Sunday:

Grandson and Jim went to church. I stayed home, nobly protecting the congregation from the tail end of my flu (and myself from the tyranny of socially presentable clothes). Meanwhile—snow. All. Day. Long. It fell like a snow globe being shaken by a toddler on espresso. We watched it pile up while watching another movie, which felt less like relaxation and more like a disaster film where the audience is screaming, “FUEL THE TRACTOR, YOU FOOLS!”

Monday:

Welcome to Dumb Decision Consequences, Population: Us

Grandson started plowing the driveway. Yay! Two bars of fuel. Not yay. The tractor was wheezing like a two-pack-a-day smoker climbing stairs. Jim was dispatched to find the gas can—last seen somewhere under a drift big enough to apply for its own zip code.

Grandson cleared just enough for Jim to get the truck out. Jim went to town for diesel while Grandson kept plowing—stopping at one bar because Jim has repeatedly said, “Don’t you ever let that tractor run outta gas or I’ll. . . [insert vague, dad-level threat here].” So Grandson came inside, mission technically accomplished.

Jim returned, saw the tractor parked, and instantly turned into a one-man weather event. I “calmly” (read: in that special wife-tone that can curdle milk) reminded him that he was the one who didn’t want the tractor to run dry, and Grandson was following orders.

Cue the stomp. Jim marched outside, dumped diesel into the tractor with all the drama of a man betrayed by his own logic, and then plowed like he was trying to exorcise 47 years of marital tension.

Grandson, now feeling underappreciated, retreated to his drum set to pound out his angst—loudly, repeatedly, possibly in Morse code. I made lunch while the house filled with two dueling soundtracks: metal-on-gravel from outside, and wood-on-cymbals from downstairs. Meanwhile, snow kept falling like a heavenly middle finger.

Tuesday Morning (a.k.a. Snowverload: The Sequel):

We woke to another six inches, because apparently winter’s feelings were hurt and this was revenge.

Before heading to work, Jim refilled the diesel can again. I’d love to say this was evidence of personal growth or a newfound respect for preparedness—but let’s be real. He needed to take the truck this week. I was left with his car, and nothing motivates a man like the mental image of diesel sloshing around in a gas can on the nice carpet of his sedan's trunk.

Moral of the Story: Always fuel the tractor before the storm. Or don’t. Just make sure the diesel can never rides in the good car. And for the love of everyone’s sanity, put soundproofing around the drum set.

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Ouch!

I had an appointment today with an ear, nose, and throat doctor to investigate a weird thing happening with some stupid gland in the back of my throat. . . or maybe my jaw. . . or my tongue? I don’t know—somewhere in that general zip code. Don’t ask me to explain it. It’s one of those phantom bodily malfunctions that defies description, like trying to explain a dream you only half remember but swear was important. All I know is, something in there ain’t right. Probably from that goat head butt last week that made me see stars.

The doctor said he was going to anesthetize my nasal canal so he could thread a small scope up my nose and down my throat to take a look around. You know, just your average Monday joyride through the sinuses. I politely suggested he go through the left nostril, because the right one is the diva of the pair and tends to throw spontaneous nosebleed tantrums—especially in winter.

He asked if that had happened recently, and I casually mentioned donating a full pint of blood to the toilet bowl yesterday morning after waking up mid-geyser.

“Would you like me to cauterize it while you're here?” he asked, like he was offering me a breath mint.

And like a fool—an unquestioning, trusting, never-learned-my-lesson kind of fool—I said, “Oh sure. Why not?”

R-I-G-H-T.

Now, let me be clear: I’ve had my nose cauterized before. Several times, in fact. No big deal. Kind of like patching a leaky tire—you plug the hole and carry on. But this doctor? He wasn’t just plugging the leak. Oh no. He was on a seek-and-destroy mission. He wasn’t going to let a single rogue blood vessel live to see another sunrise.

He stuffed a gauze strip soaked in some mystery anesthetic so far up my nose I’m pretty sure it brushed against last week’s thoughts. Within minutes, my face was numb. Not just my nose, but my entire face. I couldn’t feel my cheek. My upper lip disappeared. My right eye went on sabbatical. Even the top of my head felt like it belonged to someone else—possibly someone who made worse life decisions.

I figured with that level of numbness, I was set. He could do anything he wanted in there—I probably wouldn’t feel it if he used a blowtorch. And for a minute there, I didn’t. I watched as he loaded up what had to be an entire Costco-sized pack of Q-tips, dipped each one in his cauterizing chemical of choice (which I’m guessing was a blend of molten lava and Satan’s espresso), and got to work.

He poked, pressed, prodded, and repeated. I lost count after the twelfth Q-tip. At one point I’m fairly certain he cauterized a spot behind my eyeball. Still, I felt nothing. Great! Fantastic! Maybe I’ll just go home, learn to breathe through my ears, and call it a win.

But then. . . the anesthesia wore off.

At first it was subtle—a whisper of awareness at the top of my skull. Then the sensation slithered down to my eye which began to twitch. Then came the fire. The fire. It roared to life from deep in my nostril, shot straight into my brain stem, and set up camp like an arsonist in a straw hut.

My left nostril, which wasn’t even invited to this party, decided to stage a sympathy protest and started running like Niagara Falls. I had one burning nostril, one weeping nostril, a pounding headache, and the very real sensation that there was a rogue booger in my right nostril roughly the size, and temperament, of a badger.

So now I come to you, dear readers, with a heartfelt plea:

The next time some friendly doctor says, “Hey, while you're here, want me to just fix this little thing?”—YOU TALK ME OUT OF IT. YOU TACKLE ME IF YOU HAVE TO. YOU SLAP THE CLIPBOARD OUT OF MY HAND, SHOVE ME INTO TRAFFIC, AND RUN.

Because no “little thing” should ever feel like someone tried to cauterize your sinuses with a branding iron dipped in wasabi.

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Free Vacation!

DH and I are taking a little break from mud, manure, and mayhem and heading to Williamsburg, VA from March 26 to April 2. Why Williamsburg? Because it’s historic, charming, and not covered in snow. Bonus—DC is just a hop, skip, and a traffic jam away, and it just so happens to be cherry blossom season. You know, those puffy pink trees that make everyone forget their allergies and start quoting poetry.

Now here’s the kicker—we’re staying in a friend’s 2-bedroom timeshare condo with all the bells and whistles. Full kitchen, washer/dryer, pool, gym, and probably a blender that costs more than my first car. But we’re only using one bedroom. That means there’s a whole second bedroom and a pull-out couch just sitting there, feeling neglected.

So, here’s your golden ticket:
We have room for 2 adults and 2 kids—well-behaved only, please. (And yes, that applies to you adults as well. Just because you can drink wine in public doesn’t mean you get to act like a raccoon at a campground.)

You wouldn’t be tagging along with us—we’ve got our own plans involving powdered wigs and historical reenactments—but if you want free lodging, this is your shot.

First come, first served, so speak up quick if you're interested.

P.S.
If anyone out there is reading this and thinking, “Hey! They’ll be gone. Let’s rob their house!”—you can think again.
We have a house sitter.

The house sitter is armed.

And the house sitter is not afraid of paperwork.

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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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Camera-less

Well, folks, here I sit—camera-less and teetering on the brink of a full-blown nervous breakdown. Two solid weeks like this. Fourteen whole days in rural America with animals, unpredictable weather, and a daily chance of headline-making chaos. . . and the only thing I’ve got to document it is a dusty old cell phone that should be in a museum.

Jim left for work Monday, which is normal. What’s not normal is that he packed up my camera and my video recorder like he was heading o
ut to film National Geographic: The Untold Squirrel Wars. He’s off to Washington, D.C., for the 8/28 Restoring Honor Rally, and apparently, restoring my sanity didn’t make his to-do list.

Now, I do technically have a phone with a camera. But let’s be honest—it’s a dumb phone with delusions of grandeur. It takes photos that look like they were shot through a potato. And worse, I have no clue how to get those photos into the computer. Does it use a cord? A cloud? Carrier pigeons?

In my moment of desperation, I turned to my grandson—the resident tech guru and the reason the cordless phone system survived instead of meeting a hammer-related fate. He’s the one who figured out the DVD player, the TV with three remotes, and the defrost feature on the microwave. If anyone could help me, it’d be him.

Nope.

He looked at the phone, scratched his head, and said, “Yeah. . . I got nothin’.”

Excuse me? What. Do. You. Mean. You. Got. Nothin’?

This is the same kid who built a gaming PC from scratch and programmed the thermostat to turn the heat up at 6 a.m.—but apparently, getting a photo off this relic is beyond his powers.

To be fair, cell phones don’t really work out here unless you climb a tree, hold a metal bucket over your head, and sweet-talk a passing satellite. So I guess I shouldn’t expect him to work magic with a device that probably runs on coal.

So here I am—technology-challenged and trapped in what can only be described as Polaroid Purgatory. If someone were to ride a goat bareback through the garden wearing my Sunday hat and belting out “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” all I could do is try to remember it later. And given my memory, it might not even last past breakfast.

If anyone out there in the digital ether knows how to coax photos out of an ancient cell phone and into a Windows computer—without sacrificing a floppy disk or firing up a dial-up modem—I’m listening.

At this point, I’d happily mail the phone to someone and have them fax the pictures back to me.

Because, as we all know, Murphy’s Law of Farm Life is crystal clear:
If you don’t have a camera, the pig will dance, the goats will juggle, and the barn cat will give birth to kittens right on top of your best lace tablecloth. . . while wearing a tiara.

And I’ll miss it. Every. Last. Bit.

So until my camera returns, I’ll be documenting life the way our forefathers did—by shouting across the yard, "Hey! Remember this later in case I forget!"

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