Staying in the Cabin

J. and Raisin his cat, huddle rather morosely on the futon this morning after a poor night's sleep. 

Teasel took the move to the cabin quite badly.  She has never lived anywhere but in the main house with us.  She, along with Chester, Jemima  and Mrs. Beasley, fled to the bedroom when the men began to carry out furniture on Sunday afternoon.   They soon advanced to dismantle our huge lodge-pole pine bed frame, which left the cats feeling defenseless.  They dashed in here in a panic and flung themselves through the open closet door.

Daughter G. prudently shut them in.  I plopped Charlie and Maisie into the big cat carrier as they were all too interested in getting under the big clumping feet of the menfolk.

The carrier was then too heavy for me to lug, so grandson D. took them to the cabin and unceremoniously decanted them.

Eggnog is so upset by cat carriers that I simply scooped her up and headed out the front door carrying her.

J. took his precious Raisin down at my request, then G. and I dealt with the closet cats.  Jemima was burrowed in a blanket which remained on the closet shelf, Chester, Mrs. B. and Teasel were in a hot trembling pile behind a box on the floor.  G. insisted that she was going to carry Teasel, while I carted the weighty Mrs. B.  [Teasel detests G. who loves to stalk her, but she was so traumatized that she barely twitched a muscle.]  We got all the cats transferred to the cabin without incident.

When I went down a few hours later, the three older girls were obviously remembering that they had lived there before.  Charlie and Maisie spent several weeks there when I was fostering them for Pet Connection.  If you picture Onslow of "Keeping Up Appearances" you have a profile of Charlie.  I could just imagine him strutting about demanding that someone produce a snack and see him comfortable in his new space.

Teasel and the "kittens" didn't put in an appearance until we went down for the night and collapsed with our respective books on the futon.  The rooms were rather chilly, so I put my boots back on and crunched up through the snow to find some fleece throws which had escaped the packing frenzy.

I also fetched the ratty rug which the cats love [and which they scratch!] and a handful of dried catnip. 

After a snort or two of catnip and a wallow on the rug, feline nerves were somewhat restored.  The cats alternately piled on our laps for reassurance and got up to explore their new abode.

It was not, sad to say, a restful night.  A double bed is no fit size for two adults and 8 cats.  The cabin's little bedroom didn't feel familiar any more. The traffic on the road below was more audible than at the main house.

J. has just gone down for the night with the wistful remark that he hoped our fellow boarders would feel more settled tonight.  I expect that is a vain hope.

It is cold and bright.  It was below zero F. last night and early this morning, so cold that the snow squeaks underfoot. When I plunged off the porch yesterday with Eggnog in my arms the snow was up to my knees and somewhat over my boots.  A good many trudges back and forth created this narrow slippery path.

You can see my meandering trail through the drifts and around the side of the cabin to the steps.

Standing at the end of the porch [shivering] I zoomed in on Pebbles having her breakfast hay.

The packing goes on.  I hoped to have the entire kitchen finished and ready to clean, but there are still oddments to be stuffed in cartons. Why on earth do we need so many skillets, kettles, mugs, ranks of glass canisters and stacks of baking dishes and casseroles of every description?

A rhetorical question, no doubt.

I am reading my favorite blogs in harried snatches, without much time to leave comments.  I do appreciate the comments left here, and during my time without internet will feel that I am absent from true friends, just as much as I will be missing those friends who are part of my physical home.

J.'s laptop is going for service on Wednesday and on Thursday, our last day in the house, mine will go to our tech man's shop to be cleaned and upgraded while we are away.

Hopefully we will stay at motels with internet access along the house-seeking journey.

I'm still hoping to snatch time to create some posts which can be scheduled for a later day.

Just so you don't forget me!

The Foolishness of Men

J., son-in-law M. and his friend, T. with grandson D. in tow have been loading the heaviest of our furniture into the van.  Some transaction required a trip around to the old barn, and J. decided to check out the worthiness of his new snow tires.

I was first aware of this adventure when I glanced across the pasture as I was trudging to the cabin with an armload of clothing. It seemed like a good photo op.

J. and T. discuss just how stuck the car is.

M. sits at the wheel.

It has been discovered that a computerized system on the complicated innards of the 08 Toyota Rav 4 causes it to go to a low idle when the wheels begin to spin.  J. is quite disgusted by this.  He says had the car not dropped to an idle it would have gone through the snow.

When I asked him why on earth this manuever needed to be attempted, he glared beligerantly and said he "wanted to see if it would go!"

Two weeks ago as we drove home from church J. spied D. and his friend G. in the snow outside the barn.  A closer look revealed that the boys had J.'s new-last-summer riding lawn mower out in the snow and had it stuck.  He drove around to the house and went stumping across the pasture to inform the boys that the lawn mower wasn't meant to go in snow and the undercarriage would be damaged.

Reminded of this I said, "So this sort of experimentation is a genetic defect?"

"Not at all the same", replied J. indignantly, "The car is meant to go in snow, the lawn mower isn't."

After some digging with a snow shovel, some pushing and heaving, the car was turned around, trundled back through its tracks to return to the house by way of the road.

I can only call this sort of thing a testosterone-fueled showing off!

Icicles and Snow

It has snowed a good deal of the time since Wednesday evening. 

Today brought blue skies and sunshine and the end [for  now] of white flakes piling up.

Fantastic icicles have formed all around the eaves of the house and garage, almost worthy of that scene in Dr. Zhivago.

Another shot of the ice fringe from inside the bedroom window.  In the background is the van J. is loading with our motley goods.

As the sun warmed the icicles they began to drip with audible plops into the snowbank beneath.  Raisin the Cat observes.

Grandson D. broke off a magnificent ice specimen and brought it inside for me to admire.

D. is 6 ft tall and figures the icicle measures about 4 ft.

Behind him, free of charge, is a view of the disheveled great room.

In the midst of uproar and clutter the last bowl of paperwhites blooms in fragrant and snowy loveliness.

The Muddle of Moving

I have been trying to avoid the nostalgia of "I"m doing this for the last time here," yet it seems inevitable.  The last batch of bread baked in my beautiful kitchen.

I seem to have been sorting and packing for weeks now, yet no one room is cleared.  Empty boxes are stacked in the living room with more in reserve in the garage.  Charlie and his tribe are enamoured of the boxes and crash in and out of them, playing hide and seek.

J. is nearly done with the renovation of the attic into an extra bedroom and bath. The bedroom is finished, an appealing space, rustic in nature, a quiet little retreat--which we will not get to enjoy.  He painted the bathroom this evening and has the floor to finish while our son-in-law, the plumber, finishes installing the fixtures.

Raisin, who has a rather neurotic nature, has decided in the midst of the muddle that she needs more attention.  Eggnog and Mrs. Beasley tend to stay out of the way, Eggnog in the comparative peace of the master bedroom, Mrs. B. under the bed.

Teasel is distressed by the confusion of the house.  She is Head Cat in Training [Raisin has held the dominant position for many years] and has to keep track of what goes on in her domain. She appears suddenly to twine about my ankles if I sit down, patrols anxiously and has rather more to say than usual.

Our quilt group is making a quilt to donate to a Habitat for Humanity house in town.  The woman who suggested the project chose blue and cream for the colors and star-themed blocks which we can make in 3-6-9 or 12 inch blocks. I discovered these scraps of dark blue and cream prints lurking on my sewing desk, although my fabric collection and all my quilting tools were among the first belongings I packed.

I took my scraps to the quilt shop and enjoyed the company there while I cut these pieces, then spent a pleasant evening hour making the blocks.  I could almost imagine that it was a "normal" past time--that is until I looked around at the curtainless windows, empty bookshelves, and the stark disorder of the room.  Hopefully I will see an e-mailed photo of the finished quilt some weeks from now.

It began to snow [again!] on Wednesday night and has continued at intervals--heavy wet stuff that clings to the roof and the trees.  The roads were horrid on Thursday morning when we had errands in town early and I had a mid-morning appointment to keep.  The ABS brakes on our Toyota Rav 4 are very touchy and I don't enjoy driving it in snow.  I was content to be delivered to my appointment and retrieved by the professional driver of the household.

I followed J. into town Friday morning on slightly better roads.  "Snort'n Nort'n" the 92 Dodge, went for a new windowshield and I puttered along behind in the red Dodge to pick up J. at the glass shop.

I very laboriously scrubbed all the kitchen dining area tile floor on Wednesday--bucket and brush, hands and knees method.  It was one of those jobs which has "wanted done" and I've been putting it off with token moppings.  I have made a trail of cardboard squares for us to walk in and out in the vain hope of leaving the floor clean for the buyers.

The plan is that the furniture will go into the van tomorrow.  Oh joy!

The Quiet of Snow

I was in the kitchen a few minutes after 7 this morning--small chance of the cats letting anyone sleep in.

With the cats fed and their litter boxes cleaned, I stood at the south window savoring my mug of coffee. As I watched, the finest of snow flakes began to fall, blown sideways by a little ruffling of wind.

Like the cats, Pebbles the Horse is aware of that moment when anyone is awake and out of bed. J. was still sleeping, so I hauled on wellies and a warm old jacket.  As soon as she heard the garage door creak up, Pebs began to whinney and snort.  As I approached with feed bucket swinging from my hand, she cavorted in circles, kicking up her elderly heels, tossing her head.  The bag of special feed for founder-prone equines was nearly empty, so I mixed a handful of her old sweet feed with it--a treat for her, I'm sure. [My hands are small, so I don't think that "handful" could cause a problem.]  She made all manner of appreciative horse noises--worth the cold trek across the yard without my quilt-lined Carhartts just to see her performance.

Across the pond and down toward the old barn.  Everything is white and nearly soundless.  Even the sparse traffic on the road below us made little noise.

Teasel is feeling better and being ever so cooperative about the antibiotic she has to have twice a day from a dropper. She does keep her herring-bone-patterned tail wrapped rather closely. She hasn't quite recovered from the indignity of having me hold her down to examine the abcess on her bum---nor of having "Doctor Bill" scrub and lance the nasty thing.

Dear little Raisin is looking so old and frail.  Her food has never set well, a "delicate stomach"  no matter what diet we try. Always a small cat, she is now very thin.

Sparrows and juncos are busy at the feeder and on the ground under it.

Startled by my camera, the birds whooshed from the feeder and resettled in the tree behind the guest cabin.

The sun at noon.

The paperwhites planted in mid-November are showing growth. They never sprout and stretch at the same rate--always one or two which lag behind.

I put potatoes in the oven to bake for a late dinner. Our good neighbor gifted us with half of a huge Hubbard squash she and her husband raised and there is that, seasoned with butter and a dash of maple syrup, to eat with the potatoes. As I puttered in the kitchen the weak sun moved in a low sweep toward the west, back-lighting the sparrows on the dark bare branches.

J. has been down the pasture path to his "shop" and then into town to buy gas for the tractor in order to plow the driveway. He came in to warm his hands, placing his gloves over the propane fireplace to thaw. The cats thronged to see what was going on [you recall curiosity and cats?]

 decided that they did not recognize his red winter jacket and the woolen "bomber" cap he resurrected from the closet this morning.  As one, they skittered toward the bedroom door for safety, then couldn't resist peeking out to see if he was really someone they know.

The More It Snows [Tiddely-pom!]

View of the pond surrounded by snow-weighted trees.
Old "Snort'n Nort'n", the 92 Dodge work truck, hunkers down under a load of wet snow.

Pebbles hanging out by the fence during Sunday's snow.


Charlie watches the falling snow from the comfort of the bedroom window sill. He isn't especially "bright" and several times scrabbled at the glass, mewing anxiously, while trying to capture wet flakes that slid down the window.



It seemed a good day to put the flannel sheets on the bed; fuzzy warmth instead of the cool smooth feel of crisp percale. Making the bed is always a group activity.

View toward the guest cabin from the front porch of the house, midafternoon, Sunday.

Heaps of heavy wet snow have avalanched from the roof, making a thumping rumble like the sound of distant thunder. Each time it happens the cats run for cover under the bed or the nearest piece of large furniture.

The snow began sometime Saturday night. We woke Sunday to greyed half-light seeping through the drapes, the quality of daylight which has our eyes seeking the clockface in disbelief, lifting a fold of the curtain to verify what we already know. We got through cooking a substantial late breakfast before the electrical power began blipping off and on. After re-starting the PC three times I gave up the idea of reading blogs and news or working with new photos. Various of our appliances, the battery phone, the digital clocks on stove and microwave alert us with dings, beeps, chimes to the momentary status of the power. I have a new book and settled to read with a cozy pile of cats and a mug of tea hastily brewed during an "on" spell.

We were invited to supper at our daughter's house next door and I was requested to make dinner rolls. The electric obliged, J. turned up the furnace, I refilled the tea kettle. At intervals the accumulating snow skidded off the roof in front of and behind the house.

I read til midnight, Diana Gabaldon's latest, which has chapters based on the historical battles of the Revolutiony War taking place in my home area of upstate New York and Vermont. My reading lamp dimmed and flickered half a dozen times, but revived. Sliding at last between the warm flannel sheets I was restless; in my mind I tramped the paths on Mount Independence as I did so many times in reality during the 1980's and 1990's--sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. I recalled the maps and plaques which identified the sites of the hospital, the storehouses, the mechanical hoist at the edge of the lake for unloading supplies from barges. I recalled long hours sitting on the rocks below the Horseshoe Battery, arms hugging my knees, gazing across the narrow expanse of water toward the stone ramparts of Ft. Ticonderoga. I thought of the evening scarcely more than a month past, our last evening in Vermont, when my sister and I drove the short distance from her home to the Hubbardton Battlefield, to walk her dog as the moon rose along the path that winds past old stone walls.

Sleepless hours passed. The cats knew I was awake and plodded up and down the lenght of my body, patted my face, purred in my ears. The power went off again, stayed off. Feeling in the dark for my slippers I prowled into the living room, drew back the curtains. A nearly full moon glowed behind a scarf of white mist, the heaped snow loomed white and bright, so bright that colors almost emerged from the night. Lights were on in the small industrial park across the way, neighbors' outside lights cast shimmering pools from their high poles. [Our power comes in from the old barn down on the main highway, part of the line from nearby Lyons Valley, according to J.] I felt somehow singled out, the only dark house within sight. I considered gathering candles, lighting enough of them to huddle and read...too much bother to rummage in the dark.

Pacing from window to window, the cats' tails whisking my bare ankles, I found myself in memory reliving the night of the great "black out" on the east coast in November of 1965. J. was working in Maine, I was staying with our 11 month old son at my grandfather's Vermont farmhouse. The weather was drab and chilly. I was 7 months pregnant with our daughter, tired and clumsy, trailing a toddler who could crawl into trouble almost faster than I could lumber after him. My grandfather's injured leg prevented him doing his "chores" or climbing the stairs to his small bedroom with it's east-facing window. He spent his evenings listening to the radio while I sewed or read or wandered into the parlor to play the old piano.

When the lights abruptly went out on the evening of November 9, we thought little of it. The neighborhood lines were old, the wind was blowing, the dirt roads were edged with dieing elm trees whose heavy branches regularly crashed to the ground in a strew of limbs, bringing with them portions of electrical cable.

My uncle brought out kerosene lamps from the high shelf in the pantry, added lenghts of cured maple and ash to the "chunk stove" whose warmth was more reliable than that of the furnace. We sat awhile in the shadows, enjoying the novelty of the dark, quiet night to which that old house had been long accustomed.

It was late the next day when, power restored, we learned that we had been part of the biggest power outage in recent history. Many of us will always remember where we were "when the lights went out."

From wikipedia: The Northeast Blackout of 1965 was a significant disruption in the supply of electricity on November 9, 1965, affecting Ontario, Canada and Connecticut, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Rhode Island, Vermont, New York, and New Jersey in the United States. Around 25 million people and 80,000 square miles (207,000 km²) were left without electricity for up to 12 hours. The cause of the failure was human error that happened days before the blackout, when maintenance personnel incorrectly set a protective relay on one of the transmission lines between the Niagara generating station Sir Adam Beck Station No. 2 in Queenston, Ontario. The safety relay, which is set to trip if the current exceeds the capacity of the transmission line, was set too low.
As was common on a cold November evening, power for heating, lighting and cooking was pushing the electrical system to near its peak capacity, and the transmission lines heading into Southern Ontario were heavily loaded. At 5:16 p.m. Eastern Time a small surge of power coming from Lewiston, New York's Robert Moses generating plant caused the misset relay to trip at far below the line's rated capacity, disabling a main power line heading into Southern Ontario. Instantly, the power that was flowing on the tripped line transferred to the other lines, causing them to become overloaded. Their protective relays, which are designed to protect the line if it became overloaded, tripped, isolating Adam Beck from all of Southern Ontario.
With no place else to go, the excess power from Beck then switched direction and headed east over the interconnected lines into New York State, overloading them as well and isolating the power generated in the Niagara region from the rest of the interconnected grid. The Beck and Moses generators, with no outlet for their power, were automatically shut down to prevent damage. Within five minutes the power distribution system in the northeast was in chaos as the effects of overloads and loss of generating capacity cascaded through the network, breaking it up into "islands". Plant after plant experienced load imbalances and automatically shut down. The affected power areas were the Ontario Hydro System, St Lawrence-Oswego, Western New York, Upstate New York, New England, and Maine. With only limited electrical connection southwards, power was not affected to the Southern States. The only part of the Ontario Hydro System not affected was the Fort Erie area next to Buffalo which was still powered by the old 25 Hz generators. Residents in Fort Erie were able to pick up a TV broadcast from New York where a local backup generator was being used for transmission purposes.