From last week to this week, the snow has barely melted. It is, after all, early March in Maine, which is much like February—still in winter’s grip with the possibility of one or two major snowstorms. The temps go well below freezing at night, and when we get up in the morning, the house is a tad below 60°. A little brisk, as we Mainers might say.

Here is Snow-Gauge Clif in the front yard.

And here he is in the backyard.

Outside our living room window, icicles hang from our shrubs.

But as we make our slow way through March, I can feel a softening. For one thing, the days are longer. It is light well before 7:00 a.m., and it doesn’t get dark until 6:00 p.m. Sheer bliss from the days of December, when the dark closed in at 4:00 p.m.

Also, perhaps most cheering of all, the birds have begun their spring songs—chickadees, tufted titmice, cardinals. How I love to hear them. The bird feeders need to be refilled frequently as the birds are coming more often than they did during the winter. Perhaps they are fortifying themselves for the hard work of starting and raising a family.

This week, the forecast is for temperatures to be in the 40s and even the 50s. A regular heatwave after the cold of February.

Am I ready? You bet I am.

As soon as the patio has a clear spot for the chairs, and the weather is consistently mild—above 40—we’ll begin having socially distanced visits again.

Long-time readers of Notes from the Hinterlands will know what March brings to central Maine—the return of Snow-Gauge Clif.  Each week until the snow is gone, usually sometime the end of April, my husband, Clif, will venture forth with his trusty red yard stick to record the melt rate.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but by the time March rolls around, even Mainers who like winter—guilty as charged!—are ready for the snow to melt and for spring flowers to start blooming. But in northern New England, Winter is no hurry to make way for Spring.  We just have to wait. And wait. And wait some more.

So without further ado, here is Snow-Gauge Clif, measuring the snow the first week of March 2021.  When this picture was taken, it was raining, and there was about a foot of snow on the ground.

Here is Clif in the front yard.

And then in the backyard.

We always hope the snow will be gone by April 22, which just happens to be our youngest daughter’s birthday.

• Although I am confirmed homebody, this time of year my thoughts turn to places that are warm and free of snow. “Island in the Sun,” by Weezer, exactly captures my longing to escape March in Maine. (As I write, the rain has stopped, an Arctic wind is blowing, and the temperature, with the wind chill, approaches 20 below zero. And that’s Fahrenheit, friends. Plus we have lost our power.)

A few days ago, I received another unexpected treat in the mail—how lucky am I?—this time from my blogging friend Ju-lyn of All Things Bright and Beautiful. She sent me a Chinese New Year’s card, all the way from Singapore, along with two lovely bookmarks made by “crafty older daughter.” What nimble fingers crafty older daughter has.

Such a delight! Thank you, Ju-Lyn. The card is on the metal bulletin board by my desk, where all I have to do is glance to my right to see  the jaunty lanterns and the impressionistic market. And thank you crafty older daughter. The bookmarks, ready for action, are on my nightstand, next to my TBR pile of books.

On Netflix, Clif and I have been watching—all right, binging—a delightful series, Call My Agent (Dix pour Cent in French).  Set in Paris, the show is about ASK, a company of agents and their assistants that works with promotes, soothes, and takes care of actors. The agents and assistants are quirky, competitive, and flawed without being hateful. Famous French actors—Juliette Binoche, Isabelle Huppert—make hilarious guest appearances. Sometimes the episodes are laugh-out-loud funny, and sometimes they are moving as Call My Agent explores issues that actors, especially women, must face. If you love movies, especially French cinema, then this is a series to watch. As Arlette, one of the agents, notes, “When things are getting you down, there’s always the cinema.”

Yes, there is.

Now onto music! I am a huge fan of R & B, and Leon Bridges, only twenty-six when this Tiny Desk Concert was filmed in 2015, seems to be channeling those who came before him, especially Sam Cooke. Music for the ages.

Here are some favorites and simple pleasures from other blogging friends:

Ju-lyn, of All Things Bright and Beautiful, features a gorgeous pineapple cake that is also a work of art.

Thistles and Kiwis features, along with mouth-watering food, the fabulous Botanic Gardens, which are within walking distance of where she lives.

Piglet in Portugal has many things to smile about: a new website, a new book that identifies wild flowers in her local area, and weight loss.

At the top of this week’s list of favorites is a bag of Mrs. Dunster’s Bakery Donuts we bought at our local supermarket. Once a week, I allow myself a treat day, and for me, a donut connoisseur from way back, there are few treats better than a donut. In all my long years of eating donuts, I have never had  commercial cake donuts better than the ones made by Mrs. Dunster’s.  I will even go one step further: Few local bakeries make better cake donuts than Mrs. Dunster’s does. They have the satisfying heft, tang, and taste of homemade donuts, that special je ne sais quo that is often missing even from locally made donuts.

But here comes the bad news. Mrs. Dunster’s Bakery is located in New Brunswick, Canada, and Maine is the only state in the nation where you can get these nuggets of deliciousness. Maine might be a small, poor, remote state, north of north in the lower 48, but dang we have a good source of commercial donuts readily available at our local supermarkets. Best of all, these donuts freeze beautifully. And a good thing, too, because as much as I love donuts, I am not about to eat a whole bag in one day. While these donuts might be fresh, they are not going to last a whole week in the bread drawer without going dry. So into the freezer they went, where they will wait for future treat days.

Now for a literary pleasure. In this week’s New Yorker, I came across Rivka Galchen’s excellent personal history essay “Better Than a Balloon,” in which she describes what it’s been like to have lived for ten years in a decidedly untrendy neighborhood in New York City, near Port Authority and Penn Station. As someone who has been to both these places many times, I can vouch for the truthfulness of Galchen’s descriptions of the sleaze and the shabbiness of the area. And yet this neighborhood—where people work, live, shop, and eat—is also full of vivid life, a community even, where much is made of Galchen’s young daughter when the two go out and about.

“Better than a Balloon” is New Yorker writing at its finest. Galchen expertly weaves in the personal with her observations of people and place. We get a sense of her and her daughter and this dirty but dear neighborhood that she has called home for a decade. It is a long piece, and I was sorry to come to the end. How often does that happen?

In the United States, February is Black History Month, and from the NPR website, I learned that “NPR Music’s Tiny Desk series will celebrate Black History Month by featuring four weeks of Tiny Desk (home) concerts and playlists by Black artists spanning different genres and generations each week.”

Here is the fabulous Meshell Ndegeocello—quiet, powerful, honest, poetic.

Favorites and small pleasures from other bloggers:

From Thistles and Kiwis, an adorable cat puzzle for Valentine’s Day.

From All Things Bright and Beautiful, visual Valentine’s Day treats in Singapore.

From Change is Hard, jaunty daffodils, which always brings a smile.

An unexpected gift came in the mail yesterday—a box of fudge from Sweet Tooth Fudge. I have long been a fudge enthusiast, and Sweet Tooth Fudge, right here in Winthrop, makes some of the best. Ever. This treat was sent by Shane Malcolm Billings, the much beloved former Adult Services Librarian of our town’s library. On the enclosed card, Shane wrote that he was sorry to learn of Sherlock’s passing and hoped the treat would provide some comfort during a sad time.

How very thoughtful! I really miss our punk of a cat and was moved by Shane’s lovely gesture. Many, many thanks, Shane. And the fudge is utterly delicious.

As for music…I have another Tiny Desk Concert to share. Are you surprised? I am so keen about Tiny Desk Concerts that for Christmas Mike and Shannon got me my very own Tiny Desk Mug, which I regularly use for the many cups of tea I drink during the day.  This mug, sturdy and large, is now one of my favorites, and I use it all the time.

Anyway, this week’s Tiny Desk Concert features the luminous Alicia Keys, who combines an astonishing musicality with warmth and mindfulness. What a musician!

Here are some favorites from other blogging  friends:

Thistles and Kiwis, once again, showcases some delicious food she ate this week.

Ju-Lyn at All Things Bright and Beautiful celebrates Chinese New Year during this time of the pandemic: “In the spirit of togetherness, we will usher in the Lunar New Year in the best way we can.” Happy Chinese New Year to you and yours, Ju-Lyn!

On Saturday, Clif and I took a walk to the Narrows Ponds to see if there was any activity on the frozen water. At 40°F, the weather was reasonably warm—for February—but as we would soon find out, a brisk wind made it feel much colder. Never mind. Clif and I are Mainers, and if we can’t stand a little nippy weather, then we don’t deserve our north-of-north status.

The Narrows Pond Road has some snow, but not as much as it often does this time of year. In February, the banks are usually much higher.

The closer we got to the Narrows, the harder the wind blew. Did I bring the half-fingered gloves so that I could more comfortably take pictures? I did not. Lulled by the balmy temperature on our house’s thermometer, I left the half-fingered gloves at home and wore regular ones. This, of course, meant I had to take off my gloves whenever I snapped a picture. As the old saying goes, we grow too soon old and too late wise.

On the Lower Narrows, there was only one ice fishing shelter—it can hardly be called a shack—and I have never seen anything like it. A smart-looking tent, the shelter gave the impression that the family had set up house on the ice and was going to stay there for rest of the weekend.

A quick look on the Internet was all it took to let me know that ice fishing tents are readily available at a range of prices. I’m not exactly sure why I’ve never noticed one before. Maybe it’s because I don’t walk on the ice anymore and therefore don’t see the variety of shelters?

Anyway, after having seen this snappy shelter on our walk, I’ll be on the lookout for others.

Today, my blogging friend Judy, from New England Garden and Thread, wrote, “I always find it interesting that there are people and houses out on the ice when you can actually see open water…”

Judy, it happens in Maine, too, and here is a broader shot that includes the open water and the red tent shelter, which is no doubt far enough away for safety’s sake. But still.

Ducks, who have no reason to fear thin ice, cluster on the edge and observe the goings-on.

Across the causeway, on the Upper Narrows, there is little open water, only a sliver by the road and culvert.

Oddly enough, there are no ice fishing shacks on this side. Just a wide expanse of snow-covered ice with two shadows watching.

As many of you know, on Tuesday we had to have Sherlock, one of our cats, put down. Despite Sherlock’s, ahem, challenging ways, we loved him very much. I miss him terribly, and I get a lump in my throat whenever I think about him.

Fortunately, we still have a cat in our household, and this week’s Friday Favorites is dedicated to Sherlock’s litter mate, Ms. Watson, whom we call “Little Miss” because of her gentle nature. (The picture below was taken a couple of summers ago.)

To say that Little Miss’s personality is the polar opposite of Sherlock’s could not be more of an understatement. Gentle, shy, skittish, Little Miss usually runs and hides when friends come to visit. She is affectionate with us, but for over twelve years she was completely overshadowed by her domineering brother. Yet, we love her as dearly as we loved Sherlock, and Little Miss is a great comfort now that he is gone.

“Stay healthy!” I tell her. “Live for many more years.”

Little Miss makes no reply except to blink at me.

Before we took Sherlock to the vets to have him put down, I set him down on the kitchen floor, where he clearly wanted to be, in the middle of things, as always. Little Miss looked at Sherlock, went over to him, and gave him two gentle licks on top of his head. Then she moved away.

A farewell? An acknowledgement of the greatly diminished state Sherlock was in? Yes, I certainly think it was the latter and perhaps the former, too.

For the past few days, Little Miss has definitely been at loose ends, frequently coming into my office to see me, and meowing so that I will pat her, which I gladly do.

A blogging friend asked if we planned to get another cat to keep Little Miss company. I don’t think we will. In fact, I’m not sure if I want another cat when Little Miss goes. It seems that the older I grow, the softer I become, and it breaks my heart to have them put down. In our household, animals seldom, if ever, go in their sleep.

But we shall see. Because we feed the birds, our house is a mouse magnet, and having a cat definitely keeps their numbers down. Plus, a house feels more like a home with a cat or a dog around.

In the meantime, Little Miss brightens our day and makes us smile, reminding us how our fur buddies help to open our hearts and consider creatures other than ourselves.

And, as I noted in my previous post, that is a lesson beyond compare.

Here are some favorites and small pleasures from other blogging friends:

From Thistles and Kiwis, a recovering cat, food, and good movies.

All Things Bright and Beautiful features an oh-so-lovely Light to Night festival.

Today, during a pandemic, during a snowstorm, we had to bring our cat Sherlock to the vets and have him put down. A day or two ago, he had what was most likely a stroke although we didn’t know it at the time.  We noted stiffness in Sherlock’s back leg and thought it might be arthritis. We had planned to mention it to the vet in a spring appointment.

However, by this morning Sherlock was dragging himself around by his front paws, unable to stand or walk. He wouldn’t eat or drink, and we could tell by looking into his eyes that the end could be measured in days rather than months or years. Because of the pandemic, we couldn’t be with Sherlock when he was euthanized, and that was hard. All we could do was watch as the assistant took him away.

We made the right choice, and we know this, but it was not an easy one. Our fur buddies mean a lot to us, and the decision to have one of them put down always fills me with grief, which, in a strange way, seems fitting. To expand love to a creature from another species strikes me as a very, very good thing, especially when you think of how often it is that we don’t even love members of our own species. The  more we can widen our circle of love, the better it is.

Sherlock was not what you would call an easy cat. From the moment I brought him and his litter mate Ms. Watson home, I knew Sherlock was going to be a challenge. That first day, he climbed my back ten times as I tried to work. Not exactly a laid-back cat, and this picture Clif took of Sherlock as a kitten shows his “cat-attitude.” But he sure was cute, wasn’t he?

Sherlock had the lamentable habit of biting the hand that patted him. He was also a bully, and Sherlock kept the meeker Ms. Watson in a constant state of agitation. And yet. As our daughter Shannon put it, Sherlock was a punk, but he could also be very sweet. Yes, he could.  Sherlock loved to lie on my lap on top of “his” special fleece blanket. (Without the blanket, it was no good, and unless the evening was stinking hot, I had the blanket on my lap for him.) Despite the biting, Sherlock was extremely social, and, as our other daughter Dee observed, he always liked to be part of the action and usually attended our Zoom meetings.

At any rate, we loved this punk, and we already miss him.

Here are some pictures of Sherlock from his younger, better days.

Farewell, orange cat!

We refer to the hottest time of year as the dog days of summer.  However, right now in Maine, winter is at its coldest.

Frost gardens have grown on the windows.

Perhaps we can refer to this cold season as the cat days of winter?

The frigid weather has finally frozen the lakes, but there are no villages of fishing shacks as there have been in past winters. I wonder if Covid-19 has discouraged people from gathering on the ice. I miss the busy hubbub of activity that the villages bring to deep winter. This year the lakes seem so quiet.

But there is always the consolation of bare branches against a bright blue sky.  The pandemic cannot take this away.

The first blizzard of the season is blowing up the East Coast. My New York City daughter has reported that it’s snowing like crazy in Brooklyn. Soon, it will be snowing like crazy in Maine, too. A foot is predicted, but we shall see.

However, we have plenty of wood for the furnace, and our snow thrower, Little Green—with its belts repaired—is ready to go.

Time to make a white bean soup for tomorrow so that after we’re done cleaning up the snow, we will have a nice meal that can be reheated with little effort.

Winter is a lot of work, I know, and staying warm can be expensive for those of us on a tight budget. Still, I love this hunkering down time of year, when the world is cold and white on the outside and snug on the inside.

The Danish and Norwegians have a word for this notion of coziness—hygge—and I am sure many of you have heard of it. As someone who loves all things cozy, I feel as though this word, this concept, was made for me.

Essential, perhaps, for a woman who was born north of north in the lower forty-eight states, where winter can start in November and often doesn’t let up until the end of March or the beginning of April.