Yesterday we had snow, and I am happy to report it was a Goldilocks’s storm where we got exactly the right amount—about six inches—and it wasn’t too wet or too heavy. No problem at all for Clif and Little Green, our trusty electric snow thrower.
Outside, it was a world of quiet and white with a touch of color here and there. Midwinter in Maine.
This morning when I got up, the sky had cleared and the temperature had dropped.
Out I went to take a picture of our snug, cozy home.
I hope I’m not being too presumptuous by borrowing a description from my friends across the pond to describe our home. That is, a chocolate box house.
More snow is predicted for Saturday, another seven inches or so. Again, just the right amount of snow.
Clif and Little Green will be ready. And who knows? Maybe snow-gauge Clif will soon make an appearance.
Last weekend, an ice storm was predicted. There was even a weather advisory warning that we might get enough freezing rain to cause power outages.
Whenever there’s the threat of an ice storm, Clif and I think back to 1998 when there was a doozy of an ice storm that knocked out the power to half the state and felled trees with a sickening crack. We live in the woods, and during the worst of the storm, it sounded as though we were surrounded by gunfire as branches broke and fell to the ground.
We were without power for about eleven days, and what a miserable time we had. Every bit of water we used had to be hauled in, and the nights were long and chilly. (Fortunately we have a wood furnace, which meant we didn’t freeze.) It is a time we will never forget, and it certainly made us appreciate modern conveniences such as electricity.
Therefore, when we heard that there might be an ice storm, we sprang into action. Laundry done. Check. Extra bread for peanut butter sandwiches. Check. Plenty of wood in the basement for the furnace. Check. Extra water in big pots on the stove to go with the stored water in our cellar. Check. Check. Check.
We were ready. But to our delight and relief, the ice storm didn’t cometh. Instead, we got rain, which has made everything look miserable, but a dreary landscape is a vast improvement over a frozen, slippery one. And glory be, we didn’t have to worry about losing our power.
Instead of sharing pictures of what everything looks like now, I’ll share pictures I took midweek before the rain washed all the snow away. These were taken in town, about a mile from where we live, of Maranacook Lake.
I hope that we get a bit of snow and that Maine will look wintery again, the way it ought to in January. Not a blizzard mind you. Instead, five or six inches. We always want things to be just right, don’t we? It seems that most of us are a bunch of Goldilocks yearning for that perfect porridge. All too often, we are disappointed. Still, we yearn, and in that yearning lies hope.
Our cats, I think, have found their perfect sweet spot in our living room. Rain or snow or freezing rain, it doesn’t matter.
May you find your perfect sweet spot this week and every week.
At the beginning of the week, a bear knocked down our bird feeder. The pole was snapped off at the base, and the top was smashed to smithereens. (For those who haven’t read all about it, here is the link: https://hinterlands.me/2019/10/25/exit-destroyed-by-a-bear/)
Time for handyman Clif to spring into action. First, a new top was needed. Clif went back to the store where we had bought the feeder umpteen years ago, but no luck. He also checked online. Again, no luck. You might think at this point we would have considered buying a new feeder, but you would be wrong. We are Mainers, and Mainers have a reputation for making do and coming up with, ahem, creative solutions.
For various reasons, we had accumulated four laundry baskets over the years. Clif asked, “What do you think about using one of the white ones for the top?”
“Excellent idea,” I said, delighted with the notion of using something we already had. And after all, we would still have three laundry baskets. Plenty for a household with two people.
Lickity split, Clif cut off the top of one of our white laundry baskets and fashioned a top for the feeder.
The sacrificial laundry basketThe new top
Next, it was time to pound a new pole deep into the ground.
As Clif couldn’t find the right sized pole for the feeder, part of the old pole was slipped into the new pole. Then, to support the lower baffle, out came the trusty duct tape—the delight of all handy men and women, especially Mainers. (I’ve even repaired old gloves with it.)
Then, voilà! Time to put on the feeder with its new top.
“Pretty darned good,” I said, borrowing an expression from my Yankee husband.
Almost immediately, the grateful birds began coming to the feeder. Following the advice of several of my blogging friends, we have taken in the bird feeder at dusk. No point in asking for more trouble.
Next week, we will get some black spray paint for the pole. But the top is plastic, and we will leave that alone.
A note about the use of the word wicked in the title. Mainers use the word wicked the way brilliant is used in the UK. Nearby, there is even a business named Wicked Whoopies, and I could have one of those delectable treats right now. They really are wicked good.
So there you have it. A wicked good fix for a wicked good feeder.
Here we are, heading toward late October, a special time of year for us as this was when our eldest daughter was born forty-two years ago. (Oh, my!) What a darling beautiful baby she was. I suppose most mothers think this about their babies, and rightly so. They are our best beloveds.
Speaking of beauty…in Maine it is all around us even though the storm took down many of the leaves.
When I look up
and when I look down.
Even the black-eyed Susans, which have dropped their petals, still glimmer in October.
In October, the landscape positively glows, partly because of the brilliant leaves and partly because of the way the sun, low in the sky, sends its dazzling light at a slant. As I sit at my desk, the month’s golden loveliness flickers in my peripheral vision, and I find myself gazing outside far more than I should. (Fantasy novels don’t write themselves.)
Well, October comes but once a year, and it would be foolish not to drink in this glorious month. As with May, I wish I could hold onto October’s coattails and implore her to stay longer. “Don’t rush, don’t rush.”
But Nature is on her own schedule, and luminous October must give way to the muted russets of November.
Yesterday, on my way to hang laundry, something loud buzzed by my ear.
My first thought: What’s that?
My second immediate thought: The hummingbirds are back!
Lickety-split, I went into the house and set a pot of sugar water to boil. Clif went down cellar to retrieve the hummingbird feeders, and by afternoon, they were out and ready for the little winged visitors.
Later that day, as Clif and I were having drinks on the patio, a male hummingbird came for a sip of the sugar water in the feeders. Readers, as the season progresses and more hummingbirds come, I will try to get a shot of these whizzing beauties. But between the birds’ speed and the limitations of my wee camera, my chances of success are not good. But I will make a valiant attempt.
Around the yard, there are more signs of Spring, glorious Spring.
The ferns continue to unfurl.
The sweet red maple blossoms are falling, to be replaced by a tender fringe of new leaves.
Slowly, I have begun removing leaves from the beds in the front yard, and although there are no flowers yet, it looks pretty darned good to me. No snow, no muck. Lots of glorious green.
Readers unfamiliar with Maine might think I’m exaggerating when it comes to the horror of March in northern New England. Au contraire! And I have the pictures to prove it.
This was the view this morning from my office window.
Here is another one from a slightly different angle. Note the spitting snow and the hard, dirty snow banks.
Yesterday, Snow-Gauge Clif did his measuring duty with his trusty red yard stick. Hats off to Clif for looking so cheerful.
In the backyard, Clif doesn’t look quite as cheerful. Maybe it was the penguin-walking he did over the icy paths to get there. Fortunately, he didn’t fall and break anything.
Despite all the griping, I do have to admit that some progress has been made in the driveway. There are actually bar patches of tar amid the ice and snow.
So onward, ho! April is just around the corner, and as I sit at my desk and write, I can hear a male cardinal singing his sweet song.
This still beauty will soon go in the basement, or down cellar as we Mainers put it.
As for the live butterflies…they are gone, along with the dragonflies. Last night, I listened for crickets but couldn’t hear any. I’ll listen tonight, too, but they might be gone as well.
October, with all this loss, it’s a good thing you’re so beautiful.
Summer has pretty much come to an end. While the days might still be warm and sunny, the gardens around the house tell a different story—autumn is coming.
The back garden is definitely ragged, no two ways about it.
The bee balm is no longer in vibrant bloom, just a few red petals here and there.
Except for the border of annuals, the rest of the garden doesn’t look much better. But the impatiens are positively thriving—I have never seen them so big and full. Clearly, they liked the heat and humidity, even if I didn’t.
And the begonias, troopers that they are, continue to provide welcome color.
The front yard actually looks a little better, and it’s all because of the hostas that I divided and planted in the many holes in my garden. Hostas might not be showy, but they maintain a cool, even presence. Surely there must be a lesson in this.
One plant that is coming into bloom is the sedum—autumn joy. Here’s a close up with a little friend on the top.
Farewell, summer. You might have been too hot and humid, but I treasure those evenings on the patio, the nights with the windows open, the gatherings with grilled bread.
Despite having a very slow start, spring is here, and things are looking up, both figuratively and literally.
On a practical level, I can now hang laundry on the line, and I know this might sound a little silly, but this brings me great joy. On every sunny day, blankets and quilts as well as other laundry have been hung outside. Here is the picture I take every spring, of a blanket made by my mémère—French Canadian for grandmother. This sturdy, colorful blanket is nearly forty years old, and I use it on my bed in all but the hottest weather. For me, nothing says “welcome, spring” the way this blanket on the line does.
On a literal level, when I look up, I see that the trees are budding. Such sweet, tender little leaves.
Then there are the birds. Starting and raising a family is hard, hungry work, and the birds flock to our feeders (pun intended). When I sit on the patio—another spring delight—I watch the birds fly and flutter from the trees to the feeder. Occasionally, my wee camera even gets a fairly good shot.
This male goldfinch is resplendent in his yellow summer feathers.
This goldfinch looks pensive, perhaps thinking of how much effort goes into to raising a healthy family.
Then there is a male cardinal playing peekaboo.
Never, ever a dull moment in the backyard. Looking up is sheer delight.
And for blogging friends who don’t have hummingbirds where they live, I promise I will do my best do get a decent shot with my wee camera. This morning, I saw the first hummingbird of the season as she zipped to one of the feeders we have by the patio. An exciting way to start the day.
In the spring, looking down at flowers is also a delight, and as more of them come into bloom, I’ll be posting photos of them, too.
Spring, spring, spring!
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Notes From the Hinterland 