As March Roars Out

A day of storm: intermittent torrential rain pounding on the metal roof, streaming down the windowpanes. Around noon the electricity jolted off and on several times before staying off for about 45 minutes. I filled two teakettles and set them on the wood stove, found a book and settled close to the grey-green light of an east window. 

It has been a month of fractious weather, not unusual for March and April here, but frustrating, humbling perhaps as we realize yet again that we are at the mercy of whatever comes, be it the unseasonable warmth of early March when magnolias bloomed, rose bushes unfolded crinkled new leaves, or the run of frosty nights that nipped and blighted the new growth.

Determined to save my budding clematis I trudged out on chilly evenings to wrap the trellises in old sheets and towels, using clothes pegs to snug the fabric around the vines. Predictably 'Candida' and 'Duchess of Edinburgh' are showing shriveled buds, while the later blooming shorter varieties appear nearly undamaged.

As for the roses, I may as well wait several weeks and then prune again. Looking over my blog journals for the past several years I note that we've had heavy frost and even light snow in mid-April well into May. It takes only one such brief spell of cold spring weather to undo the effort toward an early garden.

Looking west during a break in the rain around 6 p.m.

With a stint of cooking/baking finished, I slipped on wellies and a rain jacket to trudge out with the little bucket of kitchen scraps. The rain held off long enough for me to stomp up the lane to the mailbox, only to find that the mailman did not make his route today. Mail tucked into the box yesterday afternoon, flag raised; out-going mail still there, the envelopes looking wilted. I tucked them under my coat, brought them back in to flatten on the edge of my desk.

Any threat of inclement weather here closes school, halts mail delivery, postpones scheduled events. We suppose the excuse is the narrow secondary roads that lunge along the ridges and cross the creeks which can so quickly overflow.

I was back inside long enough to kick off my boots and shed my raincoat before the next burst of rain belted down.

With the kitchen tidied I leaned against the front door sampling a small slice of blueberry pie, enjoying the close-up view of a pair of titmice bouncing about on the wet porch, picking bits of kibble from the outdoor cats' dish. 

The titmice are cocky little things, often jigging along the edge of the raised bed or landing on the porch railing, seemingly unfazed by lurking felines.

On warm afternoons I've continued a half-hearted weeding of the south/east wall garden. At the far end you can see the hybrid magnolia, 'Jane' stripped of blossoms first by wind and then by frost. She is making a feeble effort to come into leaf. Beyond are two lilacs; being accustomed to the rigors of a New England spring they have calmly gone about putting out leaves undaunted by frost.

Early morning frost melting away as the sun hits the meadow.

Mayapple unfurling crinkled umbrellas after the frost.

A clump of bloodroot discovered on the half-cleared upper slope of the north ravine.

A few moments of strange green darkness before an early dusk.

Sally and Willis have plodded through soaked grass and then sensibly taken to the wall--coming to inquire if I need their help.

As I type, thunder is rolling in again bringing the threat of another power blip.

The forecast for the night is an uneasy one. 

Lightning is flashing in purple-white streaks through the bare trees across the south ridge.

I'm out of here for now!

 

After the Storm Passed Through

 I was awake before 6 this Monday morning and too restless to consider trying for another hour of sleep. The nearly full moon was sliding down the western horizon, visible from my window, while through my half open bedroom door I could see the first light of day slanting through the blinds, splaying out in streaks across the floor.

I dressed quietly and tip-toed to the kitchen followed by the inevitable retinue of cats. 

Sunday had been warm--still 56 F at 10 p.m. so the wood fire was allowed to go out, with the mini-split set to counter early morning chill. 

Interestingly, the outside temp  at 7 a.m. when I thought to look, was 57 F. 

I opened the door for several cats to amble out and was captivated by the flush of color that heralded the sun's appearance.

We were blessed to have very minimal damage from Friday's horrendous wind that left many without electrical power. 

It was a strange day, a time when one is thoroughly at the mercy of the elements.

Rain fell fitfully through Thursday night and thunder rattled about just before Friday daybreak. Jim kept watch of the doplar map and it appeared the predicted high winds might move north of us. I had an early afternoon errand in neighboring Russell Springs and noted fast-moving dark clouds at noon. Jim wasn't busy and offered to drive. He tuned the car radio to a local station which kept interrupting programing with storm warnings. Errands hurriedly done, we headed back through torrents of lashing rain, yet as we approached home the sun burst through a patch of blue while in the other direction black clouds boiled.

The wind continued to increase, roaring through the bare trees bordering the ravines on the north and south of our property. I stood at the east windows fretting as the wind ripped fresh pink blossoms from my hybrid magnolia trees. A panel from our small lean-to greenhouse was flung onto the ground. I ran out to salvage it, attempting to wrestle it inside the woodshed. The force of the wind was astonishing.

Just before dark I noticed that it had been tossed out again. J. battled his way out and over-turned his wheelbarrow on the panel; by morning the panel had been borne away, as J. ruefully stated, probably into the next county.

Although our electricity flickered several times, it didn't go out. By morning we would learn of power outages throughout the area with many homes and  businesses reconnected late today, others still without. Property damage has been severe in some areas. Such forces of nature seem mindlessly random--quite beyond human resources to prevent.

 At intervals during Friday evening the howling of the wind paused for a few seconds only to resume with manic force until nearly midnight.

Next morning all was serene, the sky deeply blue, a few white clouds hovering benignly. The air was still, birds chirped and flittered. Except for a scattering of small tree limbs along the lane--and the missing greenhouse panel--at least at our homestead there was little to suggest the violent weather of the preceding day.

We had word that church was cancelled, checked in with family and friends. Many were without electricity. Howard was dealing with downed trees and water over the bridge that crosses the 

mis-named Dry Creek that flows between their property and the road.

We walked our boundary lines, noting the limbs that would need to be cleared away. I found magnolia petals had been plastered into the rough grass beyond the veg garden and even past the bend of the lane. 

During the years in our native Vermont, power outages were not uncommon, usually a feature of winter ice and snow. We take electricity for granted--the flick of a switch creating light; the hum of the fridge; the micro-wave, toaster, electric range. 

In Vermont we had a propane range, here, although an electric range is the economical choice, we have our woodstove for heat. We have an old-fashioned percolator, a teakettle, a pantry stocked with food that could be heated on the wood stove.  

As the song says, 'Country Folks Can Survive!'

We are blessed to have come through the storm unscathed. My heart goes out to those who are dealing with leaking roofs, trees down on vehicles or crashed into houses.

I spent much of today working outside, lured by what may prove to be a deceptively false spring.

Trees are budding. 

Clematis 'Candida' is rampaging up the trellis. I had to snip away some tendrils that had been blasted by the wind. It is interesting to notice that several of my clematis are in active growth while others are just breaking dormancy.

I worked in the back garden for hours. This sage plant is showing new growth. Below it the white-flowered buddleia is alive, a few shoots poking out at the base of the shrub. No signs of life on the usually exuberant purple one. I gave it another pruning but have little hope that it survived the brutal cold between Christmas and the New Year.

I tackled the mounds of thyme planted at the base of the large trellis; a tangle of dead stems, a few sprigs of lemon thyme showing life, a mat of English thyme which may revive.

Of my three David Austin roses, 'The Poet's Wife' nearest the house wall, is putting out fresh leaves. 'Queen of Denmark' has two stalks showing life but dead wood that needed cutting back.

At the outer-most edge of the planting is Roald Dahl, looking poorly. This is a rose that sprawls untidily, needing pruning several times during the summer. It has been the most floriferous of the three, recovering quickly when the dreaded Japanese beetles have subsided for another season. The rose/peach blooms are semi-double with silky petals and a warmly sweet scent. I will be pleased if there is enough life for the bush to revive--but I am not optimistic. 

I worked on, past the point where my body was suggesting I quit. I cleaned up the crowns of foxglove, pleased to find new growth on one which had played dead. I gouged out weeds, moved a coneflower that had popped up where it didn't belong, salvaged a phlox from the rough strip along the lane. 

I admit that by this time I was wandering from one garden spot to another, inwardly groaning that even this early in the season the encroaching weeds are beyond me. 

Monarda has spread from the rough strip into the grass--where it will be ruthlessly mowed by J. if I don't rehome it. The shrub roses hastily interred there when we moved from the farm are in need of attention. A clump of Michaelmas daisies are ready to divide. 

I don't anticipate conquering the weeds or creating tidy well-planned gardens, but there it is--flowers are a necessity of my life, so I will likely keep pruning and digging.

It is truly a losing battle, one that increasingly I lack the stamina to win.

The day of the storm.

Hybrid magnolia, 'Jane.'

Although labeled 'Jane' this one is more likely 'Susan.'

Pansies near the front steps.

'The Poet's Wife' surrounded by foxglove, nepeta, pinks--and of course, weeds.

 

March 1, 2023

First to blossom, hybrid magnolia.

Although this one is only a few yards farther down the slope, it is slower each year to bloom. Both were labeled 'Jane' when purchased, but you can see there is variation in color.

Several days of warm weather have forced them into early bloom. 

If this spring runs true to past years we will have several bouts of cold weather with frosts, possibly sleet or snow which will punish plants and shrubs which have blossomed in haste.

This bowl of miniature pansies spent the winter outside. Most of the plants were volunteers that sprang up in the turf along the raised bed. Pansies are the first plants I buy every spring. My favorite nursery opened for the season on 15 February and I must soon make a visit there to bring home more pansies.

Nigella self-sows in abundance, sprinkling its tiny black seeds in the raised bed and all along the edges.

For such a delicate-appearing dainty plant it is remarkable hardy; the seedlings remain green throughout the winter.

Achillea in the raised bed under the kitchen window. Willis-cat supervised the pruning of dried stems last week.

A wild variety of 'lamium' locally called 'hen-bit' is our most invasive ground covering weed. 

Whole fields will shortly appear purple with its small flowers.

Poppy 'Lauren's Grape' shed seeds along the edge of the raised bed and the small plants are entangled with the weeds. There is nothing judicious about a poppy when the brittle seed pods break open. Small plants germinate in clumps, the thread-like roots so fragile that it is nearly impossible to transplant. 

I lifted a clump of inch high plants with their surrounding soil and moved them to the west wall garden. I will keep watch to see if the roots 'take.'

Blackberry lilies in the bed under the kitchen window. Thyme planted here as edging didn't survive into the winter. Already the Michaelmas daisies/New England asters have pushed through. The small struggling Nandina shrub appears to have succumbed to the Christmas freeze.

Heirloom clematis 'Candida' rushing the season--as usual. I will no doubt be swathing it in old sheets and towels when cold weather returns.

Sage plant showing fresh leaves. I don't regularly use sage as a seasoning, but find the plants interesting with their pebbly leaves and pungently distinctive scent. Some years the plant is covered with blue flowers. 

I'm waiting to see if this is a flowering spring--if not it will be pruned.

Oregano shows a mat of new growth just below the sage. 

None of my lavenders survived the winter; they are finicky plants, often with me for several years either in containers or set into the ground, then they are gone and I have to start over.

I have two new packets of lavender seed--lavender vera and Munstead. Starting some either indoors under lights or in the greenhouse is on my list of things to do. I will no doubt be unable to resist a few lavenders from the greenhouse.

 

I feared that the thyme planted around the clematis trellis in the west garden had died, but there are a few green sprigs--another thing to prune and cosset. The fantastically twisted thyme plant which has grown for several seasons at the edge of the front steps is another victim of winter. I'm having a think about whether or not to replace it. 

Tending plants directly in the ground is not a comfortable process--my knees are no longer amenable to kneeling, yet I continue to plan as though I can miraculously create gardens.

Heavily pruned roses are showing signs of new growth, coneflowers are emerging, lemon balm has proliferated. I fear I've lost two clumps of foxglove in the back garden and all but one of those planted near the Knock-Out roses. The plants were all grown from several varieties of seed, some apparently hardier than others. I have several foxglove plants that wintered in the large black planters and noted tiny seedlings along the west wall which can be potted to grown on in the greenhouse. 

'Jane'--or not. In the warm, almost humid air this afternoon I realized the magnolias have a light scent--one I perceive as 'spicy/citrus.'

Plants under the light strip in the back area of the walk-out level.

Today I brought the tub of amaryllis upstairs, shuffled smaller plants from the sunroom table to give the amaryllis pride of place.

There are several bulbs in this tub. They sulked until friend Ellen suggested a spell under the lights. 

A second bulb is forming a flower stalk. 

The 'Christmas Cactus' which bloomed in late November/early December has rested, half hidden in the ranks of rosemary and geranium on the sunroom table.

 

[Blogger arbitrarily posted clematis Candida twice!]

Working With Willis

A Sunday afternoon of sunshine and blue skies, a welcome change from the slanting cold rain and gusty winds which have become overly familiar during February. The recently created sun room lures me with thoughts of a mug of tea, the current book, the cushioned chair.

No, better to go outside and as a friend used to say, 'Air myself out.'

I anticipate trudging around the perimeter of the property, looping around the east meadow, along the edge of the north ravine, around the narrow curve of the west boundary. 
I get as far as the retaining wall on the south/west end of the house. Leaning against the wall I begin tweaking out weeds, pesky evergreen things that spring up around roses, foxglove, pinks. 

Willis [predictably] saunters around the corner of the house, leaps to the wall and parades directly in front of where I am reaching. When he has received his due homage, he strolls to the end of the wall and stretches out, face to the sun. 

When I move up a level to the first raised bed, Willis moves with me. The monarda that I transplanted to this spot two summers ago has spread into a carpet of fragrant purple-green leaves. Tendrils of chickweed thread through the monarda, needing to be teased out. With each touch the monarda [bee balm] exudes the scent of bergamot. I am instantly reminded of the Englishman, Mark, who came to work at the Wyoming ranch. He complained of the inferior quality of American tea, until I presented him with a box of Twinings Earl Grey.

Willis is not impressed with the scent of bergamot. He sprawls languidly in my way, lays his ears back with displeasure when I suggest that he moves. 

Finally, disgruntled by my prodding, Willis stalks with slow dignity to bask on the sun-warmed stone path behind the David Austin roses.

Perhaps the rising wind carried a whiff of lemon catnip in the direction of Willis. 

A good sniff and nibble.

Slightly 'stoned' and sprawled on top of a catnip plant.

Monday's overcast day was an excuse to stay indoors, but Tuesday saw me outside at noon. Willis offered his help but prudently kept his distance when I brought out the big 'loppers' to give the 

Knock-Out Roses a severe pruning. The rustic bench by the front door is a safe place to keep tail and whiskers out of harm's way, but still close enough to supervise. 

When I exchanged the heavy loppers for my usual hand pruners and moved to snip away last summer's woody stalks from achillea and Michaelmas daisies, Willis felt comfortable with joining me to bunt at the clippers, prod at my fingers, generally hamper my task.

Today we ventured along the lane which follows the south ravine, on a clean-up mission to collect the branches blown down by last weeks heavy winds.

Willis and I start our mornings a bit creakily, but we are soon on the move. I fetch a large bucket and begin snapping smaller branches across my knee, stuffing them into the bucket to serve as kindling. Jim prefers scrap wood from his various projects for fire starting, but some older instinct in me enjoys gathering twigs. I can pretend that this serves a dual usefulness: tidying the yard, repurposing debris into handy fire starters. 

Branches are strewn across the grass, all along the edge of the south ravine: tulip poplar, sycamore, sweet gum.  I drag the larger branches to heap in piles where Jim has been cutting brush. Willis follows, pouncing on the trailing ends. 

The wind sings in the tops of the trees, the sun rides billowing clouds. As I carry the last armload of slender branches to a pile near the bottom of the lane it occurs to me, rather belatedly, that I'm working in the area where yet more branches may be hurled down.

Jim, finished in his workshop for the moment, joins me and we meander down to the end of the property, back up the north edge along the deeper ravine. 

Willis trundles stoically behind us seemingly relieved when we have made the circuit back to the house where he can flop on the sun-warmed bricks below the front door. 

We thank him for his assistance and companionship, then go inside where I will make the first iced tea of the season.

Signs of spring: trees coming into bud.

 

Aunt Julia's Pudding Tale

Wilford Cameron Ross and Julia Lewis Ross on their wedding day, 25 Oct. 1911.

She was 18, he was 20.

Aunt Julia's Pudding Story

1905; Hague, NY

Julia plunged down the back pasture slope, treading underfoot the purple violets and yellow disks of dandelions that studded the fresh spring grass with color. The empty bucket in her right hand rasped against her starched calico skirt with every hasty step, her round face was pink with heat and distress.

She came to an abrupt halt at the pasture gate, wiped her face with her apron before sliding through the narrow space by the gatepost. Walking slowly now she crossed the dooryard to the back porch, let herself in to the dimness of the entry hall and through to the kitchen.

The kitchen smelled of scalded milk, burned sugar, boiled potatoes. Crossing to the dry sink under the east window, Julia clattered the pail alongside an enameled kettle caked with a sticky residue. 

Pudding. She had intended making pudding as a surprise for supper, but the project had gone wrong.

The day began in an ordinary way, Andrew coming in with two pails of still foamy milk, Mac in from tending the team of work horses. Julia had the table set by the time Mother had breakfast ready, pancakes with maple syrup, bacon, oatmeal porridge. The family ate quickly, quietly, as the early sunlight slanted across the worn boards of the kitchen floor. Father and the boys had jobs at the Graphite works, Father as a foreman, Andrew assigned through the summer to work in the stables, Mac using the team of Belgians to haul timber.

Rising from her place at the table, Mother announced, “ I need to drive over the mountain road to brother Squire's; Betsy sprained her ankle several days ago and I expect she could use some help. Mac, harness Sal and hitch her to the buggy for me; I'll be ready to go as soon as I scald the milk dishes.”

With the men of the family off to work, Julia hurried to clear the table. She was concerned for Aunt Betsy. “How did she sprain her ankle?” Mother, dipping hot water from the reservoir of the wood stove, answered from behind a cloud of steam, “She tripped on the back steps heading to the clothesline with a basket of wet sheets. Knowing Betsy she'll be struggling to tend the house and do the ironing when she should be staying off that ankle for a day or two. If I spend the day there I can keep her off her feet while I do up the ironing. Hurry now, with the chamber work while I wash the dishes and put away the milk.”

Early June and school closed for the summer. Julia wondered if she would be accompanying Mother to help Aunt Betsy, but wasted no time in questions.  She quickly made her bed, smoothing the patchwork quilt, fluffing the pillows, did the same for the towering oak bed that was shared by her brothers in the room across the hall.. She bundled the rag rugs downstairs, shook them over the back porch rail, trotted upstairs to align them neatly alongside the beds. 

Mother was packing items into a basket, a loaf of bread, a tin of molasses cookies, a jar of pickled beets. Before Julia could ask her question, Mother stated briskly, “ I've made up the fire and while its going good I'd like you to bring up a dozen or so potatoes, scrub them and put them on to boil. Don't bother to peel them; when they're done, drain them and set them on the broad shelf in the pantry to cool. We'll have them sliced and warmed up with fried ham for supper. Don't try to keep the fire going. 

When you've tended the hens and washed the eggs, take a dishpan and that old bone-handled knife and dig a mess of dandelion greens. They'll taste good tonight.” 

With that, Mother swept out the door, starched skirt rustling, basket over her arm. Julia watched until the buggy was out of sight round the bend in the lane, then turned to her tasks. The chickens, released from the nightly protection of the chicken house, clustered about Julia's feet as she flung cracked corn into the shallow wooden trough, brought fresh water from the backyard pump. She collected eggs, carrying them gently in a fold of her apron to be wiped clean at the kitchen sink, then stashed in a shallow brown bowl on the pantry broadshelf. 

The dirt-floored cellar smelled of  potatoes, apples and onions wintered there in wooden bins. There were only a few potatoes left, wrinkled, slightly shriveled. Mac had already planted those that had been allowed to sprout.  Julia picked out a dozen, took them up to the kitchen, scrubbed them with cool water from the pump. Fetching a kettle from the big pantry she lingered to appreciate the neat rows of glass canisters that lined the wooden shelves. Her eyes rested on the container of pearl tapioca and a plan sprang instantly to mind. With the potatoes put on to boil, while the stove was hot, she would make pudding for supper—a sweet surprise to go with plain fare.

Julia was three months past her 12th birthday. She had been helping Mother in the kitchen since she was big enough to stand on a stool and carefully dry silverware as it came steaming from the rinse pan. She had never made pudding. Mother cooked from long habit and experience rather than written recipes, but Julia had watched and pudding couldn't be that difficult.

 

Settling the potatoes toward the back of the stove where they would stay at a comfortable simmer, Julia returned to the pantry for a large saucepan, the jar of tapioca. Sugar was in a canister on the hutch Mother used as a work station. Julia remembered that the tapioca needed to soak in the milk for a few minutes before being set over the heat of the stove. She fetched a quart of yesterday's milk from the ice house outside the back door, dumped it into the saucepan and after a moment's thoughtful hesitation added a heaping cupful of tapioca, a generous cup of sugar. She knew the mixture needed eggs added at some point, so broke four into a bowl and set them aside. Placing the saucepan on the edge of the stove, she skipped upstairs to open bedroom windows to the fresh early summer air and whisk a feather duster over the old dressers and chairs.

Fifteen minutes later Julia prodded with a wooden spoon at the glutinous mess in the pudding pan. The mixture was already so thickened that cooking it would be difficult. Pondering, she decided that the ratio of milk to tapioca wasn't quite correct, so in went more milk and the eggs. Pulling the kettle to the hottest part of the stove Julia settled herself to stir. As the mixture grew hotter it swelled, bulging toward the top of the pan. Julia stirred frantically, scraping as the too thick stodge began to scorch on the bottom of the pan. The eggs instead of blending nicely with the milk had formed unappetizing yellow streaks. The ever thickening pudding boiled with a plopping sound, bubbling, spattering hotly onto Julia's hands as she yanked the kettle away from the heat. Her face was hot, sweat prickled along the parting of her hair. Tears of frustration blurred her vision. She let go of the spoon which stood   stiffly in the hotly thick, scorched mess.

This was not pudding. It was never going to become pudding. 

Fetching potholders, Julia dragged the saucepan onto a trivet. The potatoes were done, and she carried them to the sink, carefully poured off the water, left them cooling in the kettle on the drainboard. Avoiding the stove she replaced the canister of sugar in its place on the hutch, took the depleted jar of tapioca into the pantry and shoved it behind a big tin of cornmeal—out of sight.

Julia stood on the back porch, hands twisted in her apron. The sun was sailing through a clear blue sky, a light breeze cooled her hot cheeks and brought the scent of lilacs from the twisted old bush at the corner of the house. A robin flew down from one of the dooryard maples, bounced across the grass searching for worms. Julia sighed, turned to go inside and deal with the mess.

In the entry her gaze lit on the battered galvanized pail she had used earlier to carry water to the chickens. Snatching the pail she marched to the kitchen stove, remembered in the nick of time to protect her hands with potholders as she heaved the pudding pan off the stove and attempted to dump the contents into the pail. It took some doing. Already the sticky mess had turned to glue in the bottom of the pan. There seemed to be a great deal of it. Wrinkling her nose at the smell of scorched milk and sugar, Julia scraped with the wooden spoon, digging at the last bits. Clattering the kettle into the sink she filled it with water from the teakettle, grabbed up the pail of ruined pudding, stomped out of the house, letting the screen door of the porch swing wide with a protesting screech of hinges.

Julia strode the pasture hillside with frustration-fueled energy.  At the top of the slope an out-cropping of granite rimmed the edge of the woods. Julia made for a large boulder and behind its rough grey shelter upended the bucket and tunked it against the ground until the solidly congealing mass of pudding landed in the short grass. 

Back in the kitchen Julia gulped cool water from a tin cup, opened the windows, tackled the sticky saucepan. It took considerable time and elbow grease to loosen the cooked on residue of pudding. Again and again Julia brought a dipper of hot water from the stove reservoir, rinsed until there was no hint of the pan's recent misuse. Drying it carefully she returned it to the accustomed low shelf in the orderly pantry. Surveying the kitchen, alert for anything out of place, Julia was astonished to hear the chime of the steeple clock in the sitting room announcing the noon hour.  Taking a half loaf of bread from the breadbox she cut a careful slice, smeared it with butter and blackberry jam. She ate it slowly, sitting on the edge of the back porch, feet barely touching the ground. 

Julia was at the back yard pump rinsing a full dishpan of dandelion greens when she heard the brisk clop of Sal's hooves on the lane that turned off from the main road. Mother wheeled the buggy to a graceful stop alongside the horse barn, climbed down with a sprightliness surprising in a plump woman of middle age. Setting aside her empty basket she dropped the buggy traces, led Sal to the pasture gate, peeled off the harness with the ease of long practice. Mother watched for a moment as Sal slurped water from the spring-fed tub before ambling toward the shade of a newly leafed elm.

Hanging the harness across pegs just inside the barn door, picking up her basket, Mother joined her daughter on the short walk along the grassy path to the back door, glancing with approval at the pan full of greens.

Did Julia imagine that Mother paused in the kitchen doorway puzzled by the lingering odor of scorched pudding?  Was this the time to blurt the details of the morning's failed cookery, to endure the well-deserved lecture about the sinful waste of food or ingredients?  While Julia dithered, Mother hooked the handle of her basket over the peg rail, directed Julia to set the pan of dandelion greens in the sink. 

“We'll give them one more rinse before we set them on to cook.”  Julia plonked down the greens, gave one more anxious glance around the tidy kitchen, then followed Mother to the sitting room.

Mother sank into her familiar cushioned rocker with a contented sigh, pulling forward the mending basket that lived under the small table. Selecting a blue work shirt with a three-cornered tear in the elbow, she threaded a needle and began to darn the rip with small neat stitches. Julia took the rocker on the other side of the table, rummaged out a pair of her brother's socks, found a length of woolen yarn and the darning egg before venturing a question.

“Is Aunt Betsy feeling better?”

Mother launched happily into the details of her visit, the ironing she had finished while Betsy rested in the rocker by the kitchen stove, the supper she had laid ready to be heated up when her brother Squire came in from the field, noting wryly, “I doubt Squire could fix a meal for himself, Betsy has spoiled him.”  

An hour passed quietly, the little pile of darned stockings and neatly mended garments growing on the table. Several times Julia was almost ready to speak up, confess the morning's mess, but always the right moment passed until the old clock let them know it was time to stoke the kitchen fire and have supper hot and ready to put on the table when the men returned from the labors of the day.

1955; Orwell, VT

Early October brought a week of golden blue-sky days. After school each afternoon I hurried into jeans and scuffed sneakers and trotted down the dirt road the short distance to Grampa Mac's farm. A leaf-strewn path cut between the hen houses and the tangle of Cinnamon Roses that had taken over the edge of the west lawn. The inner door of the back porch stood half open and enticing cooking smells leached into the back yard. Bounding inside, letting the wide screen door slap behind me, I crossed to the kitchen. 

Great Aunt Julia  straightened from the black cook stove oven, placed a baking dish on the warming shelf. Aunt Julia came most years for a week in autumn to visit her brother, my Grampa Mac. Uncle Wilford delivered her on a Sunday afternoon after church and an ample dinner; their older daughter, Mildred, released from her teaching job on the weekend would fetch her home tomorrow.

Aunt Julia would have left her own farmhouse immaculate, the season's canning done, fall house-cleaning finished.

During the week of her stay with her long-widowed brother, my Uncle Bill was released from the tasks of meal preparation that had fallen to him after the too early death of his mother and later the great grandmother who had raised him and my mother.

Aunt Julia, now in her early 60's, seemed to glory in the work of homemaking. She greeted me with a smile, then turned back to the stove to prod with a black-handled fork at the contents of a stew pot. Her soft cheeks were pink, her brown hair only lightly threaded with grey was drawn into a neat flat coil at the back of her head. Everything about her spoke of cleanliness and efficiency—the tailored percale dress of her own making, the neat bibbed apron, her polished black lace-up shoes. 

Satisfied with the contents of the pot, Aunt Julia stepped away from the stove. “Mac will enjoy this supper: a cut of beef cooked with potatoes, onions and carrots from the garden, baked apples from that old tree across the road.” A quick glance at the dining room clock suggested there were a few minutes to spare before time to set the table and put the evening pot of tea to steep. I followed Aunt Julia into the sitting room, pulling forward the old hassock to sit near the platform rocker she had chosen.  She glanced around the room, frowned at the starched but threadbare white curtains at the window.

“I'd like to do more for Mac and Billy. I could hem up new curtains, send them over, but he won't have it. Men,” she sighed, “ can't do for a house what a woman will. It was a sad loss when Helen—your grandmother—died so young, and Mac never thinking to remarry.” 

Aunt Julia rocked, lost in thoughts of a time I didn't know.

“When did you learn to cook?” I queried. 

“Oh, mercy!” Her laugh was soft. “ I've always known how to cook.” She brought the rocking chair to a  squeaking halt. “I take that back; one of the first times I tried to make a meal on my own I made a terrible mess. I'm going to tell you a story.” 

The rocking chair resumed its gentle creaking; Aunt Julia's eyes were soft, fixed on a time 50 years earlier.  At the end she chuckled, “ No one has lived on the old farm for years. I married at 18 and moved along the road to the home of Wilford's parents—and it was more than 30 years before his mother died and I had the full running of that house. The place where Mac and Andrew and I were raised is long gone, the house and barns fallen in and anything usable carted off. The fields and pastures are grown up to weeds and brush.” 

The steeple clock alerted the half hour and Aunt Julia levered herself from the rocker; it was time to put supper on the table.

As I trailed her toward the kitchen she turned and smiled, her eyes warm. 'Do you know—I could still go back there and climb the hill, walk straight to that rock where I dumped the pudding.”

 

Variable Weather: Journal, 20th January

Wild daffodils, a clump rescued from beside the old shed.

Thursday morning, 19th January and the outside temp reading at 56 F. 

The sun was stabilized in a cloud-mottled blue sky by late morning, and I felt the pull of the outdoors.

With a great effort of self-discipline I stayed inside, whisking a dustmop around to collect cat hair before hauling out the vacuum cleaner. [Given the exorbitant price of vac bags, the preliminary collection of fluff is a frugal measure.]

The warmth of the sun on the south windows brought out a pestilence of Asian lady beetles. They can rest in semi-dormancy in the tiniest crevasses or cracks around windows, emerging to trundle up and down the windowpanes, across woodwork, even taking refuge in curtain folds. 

The most determined sweeps of the vacuum wand never get them all; glancing back into the sunroom and west sunporch between other cleaning efforts there were still more beetles to pursue.

As I cleaned I noted that a wind was rising, agitating the treetops in the depth of the ravine.

By the time I gave up cleaning, served the cats their 'tea,' the temperature had risen to 64 F. The wind had also risen in velocity; when I stepped away from the shelter of the house, headed for the west wall garden, clippers in hand, I was surprised to feel the strength of the gusts.

I began by cutting back the frost-browned tangle of red valerian [centranthus ruber] grasping the long stems, hacking them back to about 8 inches from the ground. Close to the cold soil there were a few small green leaves. 

Tending the foxgloves was a slower chore, tugging gently to remove dead stalks and mounds of blackened leaves. Only one clump appears to have been badly damaged by the December freeze. I left it in place, hoping there may be some tentative new growth later,  In late autumn most of the foxgloves set new growth  attached to the original crowns. Barring a long spell of cold and wet conditions those should be fine.

By now the wind had increased, booming through bare treetops, swooping down to stir up fallen leaves. My hair was whipping loose from its clip, an increasing chill was stabbing through my light velour jacket.

I moved up to the plantings beyond the wall, hastily shearing off stems of nepeta, poking warily at the sad looking sprawl of thyme. Fresh leaves of lemon catnip curled tightly at the base of those plants nearest the house wall. I pocketed a few sprigs to bring inside, wondering if the cats would discern between the standard variety and the lemon scented.

 

Off to tip the collection of dead plant material out of my bucket at the edge of the ravine, I watched as dried stems were whisked away before they touched the ground. 

The sky had darkened. I was feeling chilled but knew that if I went in for my down vest I wouldn't likely come back outside.

The east garden is ugly with dead-looking mats of nepeta along the wall, the Knock-Out roses cut back in October crouching like prickly sentinels over the wind-flayed heads of coneflower, the lank yellowed foliage of daylilies. 

The nepeta clumps endured a rough pruning; something in the dried stems immediately 'stuffs up' my head and sets my nose to running. 

Returning my empty bucket to the greenhouse I discovered Willis-cat still stretched on the back bench, lolling in the lingering warmth rather than accompanying me as supervisor. 

I considered walking to the mailbox at the head of the lane, but was tired of being pummeled by the wind, so gave up and clumped indoors.

Jim had come in from his workshop and was stirring up the woodfire which had been allowed to go out during the day. 

I raked a brush through my tangled hair, picked up a new book and headed out to the sunporch. 

I should have stopped in the kitchen for a restorative mug of hot tea. Instead I pulled a fleece throw from the back of the basket chair, wrapped it around my shoulders and opened my book, a lovely photographic collection of northern Vermont farms, the photos taken in the 1960's and 70's when so many such farm enterprises were succumbing to economic failure.

From my chair I could look into nearly the tops of the trees in the south ravine. The wind roared and moaned, branches swayed and flailed. The sun flashed through swiftly moving clouds as it scudded in a shallow arc toward its westerly setting place.

I must have dozed for a few moments; snatching at my book before it slid to the floor I realized  daylight was fading, the sun was now an orange glob behind the trees. 

I sliced bread for sandwiches, opened a tin of Campbells Tomato Soup. 

Jim retreated to his big chair in front of his TV after supper; I turned on the heat downstairs and assembled another quilt block. 

A restless night--my head stuffy from handling nepeta stems; the boom and snarl of the wind, as always, unsettling me.

Jim was off early this morning to help friend Ruben with a problem at his place. I consumed a bowl of oatmeal, sat down to deal with paying bills, immediately discovered a charge on the credit card which shouldn't have been posted to our account. 

I considered paying it without question, balking at the thought of being 'on hold' with raspy music assaulting my ears. 

The process was typical: 15 minutes on hold, then a human voice so distorted by a bad connection that we continually had to repeat questions and answers. Finally through the static the 'operator' announced that he was connecting me with another department. Ten minute hold this time, the same invasive 'music' interspersed with the recorded assurance that my business was important but that all the 'representatives' were currently with other customers. Arrgh!

The connection to the second customer service person was clear--but English was obviously not his first language!

Son Howard appeared with his dogs moments after I finished dealing with the credit card issue.

The dogs bounded in wagging greetings. H. shuttling between his current remodeling job and his own house, had stopped to talk with J. and decided to await his return.

I began chopping onions, celery, carrots to add to the lentils which had been quietly simmering.

Outside the day was grey and dark, but the wind not as deafening. 

I was glad of the company, glad of the fire smoldering away in the woodstove, comforted by the homely smell of soup.

Jim returned an hour later, bringing in a large box which proved to hold beautiful hothouse tomatoes and two net bags of small firm onions.

He announced that he had sorted an issue with the electrical breaker box at Ruben's place and since R. and family needed to be away unexpectedly for several days he was gifting us with the bounty of tomatoes.

Having divested himself of his heavy jacket and insulated 'bib's J. informed me that he had thus far had only a cup of coffee and an English muffin for sustenance.

I pointed smugly at the kettle of thick hot soup, speedily assembled a sandwich.

As usual a cold dreary day inspires me to create hearty sustaining food.

After briefly slumping in my desk chair I returned to the kitchen. We are now well provided for the weekend with, in addition to the lentil stew, roasted butternut squash, parmesan potato slices, a lemonade icebox pie, to be supplemented with the beautiful tomatoes.

The wind has subsided; the cats are indoors; the house is not dreadfully untidy.

I've practiced the music to provide accompaniment at church for Ruben's flute.

Tomorrow promises to be another day of clouds and chilly weather. 

So be it!

I intend to be in bed by 10 p.m. comforted with the sense that the most important tasks of the day are done. 

Daffodils unwisely in bud.

Blackberry lilies in the front raised bed.

Lauren's Grape poppies have self-sowed in profusion.

Michaelmas daisies.

Curried lentil stew.

Roasted butternut squash and parmesan potato slices.