Wood Pile Nov 25

Got a very late start building the woodpile this year. Very late.

I am thankful to have close to 5 cord of wood stacked up, all acquired within the last 4 weeks. The generosity of friends, a willingness to ask around, a fair amount of industrious activity and...voila!

Let's keep an eye on it as the season winds around, shall we? We can watch it slowly disappear as it transforms into cozy nights in the midst of a bitter season.

The Beverage of Gourmets

I have nothing against soda (or pop, as my Michigander friends prefer to call it), I just don't drink that much of it. Like many good things, a little goes a long way.

As a young man, I attempted to drink that quintessential New England beverage, Moxie. Alas, I was too young, my palate undeveloped and immature as it was, could not tease out the lovely and complex interplay of flavors, nor fully appreciated the strength, boldness and audacity inherent in the extract of gentian root. I spurned Moxie for the sweeter and less demanding taste profiles of the more popular carbonated drinks.

Now in my middle age I have come around. Given the choice, I now willingly choose to be moxicated.

I will allow as it may take a bit of getting used to, but so does anything worthwhile. Here is a primer on how to drink Moxie.



Here's a nice spot on other local beverages, finishing with the best.

Watch this at My Fox Boston

I'd say that just about sums it up...

My good Texas friend Craig often attempts to needle me when we are having a light dusting of snow up here in NH. He likes to tell me how he is enjoying mowing the lawn with his shirt off, or some such blather as that. I don't get that at all, as I think mowing the lawn is punishment enough -- I don't see why you would want to throw skin cancer in on top of it.

There is a certain smugness that leaks up from those who prefer to live in (what they consider) more clement regions. I'll have none of that. They call them "tropical" diseases for a reason, after all.

My friend Assistant Village Idiot recently pointed me to a very nice list of reason why it makes all the sense in the world to live in New England -- from Sponge Headed Scienceman. I recommend reading it. 

If you don't get it, well...you just stay right where you are. That's more maple syrup for me.

Signs of Spring

The frost heaves were bad this past month. After a couple weeks of abnormally warm temps, the roads are starting to calm down a bit. Both my truck's suspension, and my spine are grateful. Besides which, it is not easy to dodge the bumps, work the clutch, shift AND not spill the coffee on your lap.

Whatever you do, don't put the cup between your legs. Just sayin'

Also, town meeting was last Saturday. I was unable to actually attend. Instead, I stood in as temporary Girl Scout Leader overseeing the sale of Girl Scout Cookies outside the meeting. Filling in for my sick bride. As town meetings go, it apparently lacked the entertainment value of some past years. 31 warrant articles dispatched in a mere 3.5 hours.

Now the floods are here. 3 days of torrential rains. Rivers cresting over flood stage. Roads washing out. Neighborhoods evacuated. No need to declare a state of emergency, says the Governor. The SOE from the windstorm 2 weeks ago is still in force. Now that's a relief.

The blue lines are running to and fro in the woods, carrying that precious sugar sap down to the old fashioned plastic barrels so the farmers can lift them onto the flatbed with a propane powered forklift and bring them to the sugar house where the water will be boiled off by a heat from a mini nuclear reactor core. Don't worry, it doesn't give off any greenhouse gases, so it won't contribute to global warming.

And finally - mud.

Just another typical New Hampshire spring.

Snow Thoughts

Ah, to be six years old again. I have not seen snow like this since 1970. I remember the storm called the Blizzard of ’68. The snowbanks created by the plows were three times as tall as me. Climbing them was like attacking the Matterhorn. Only, intrepid alpinist that I am, I sought the purer truer experience and eschewed the protection of ropes and pitons. I scaled the heights carving steps with my own hands and feet. To stand at the summit of those mighty mountains of compiled frost was to stand at the top of the world, breathing the rarified air of giants and of only the noblest of high soaring birds.
And so, after some 4-5 feet of snowfall over the past month, and almost 2 feet in the past week, we are approaching a proper amount of whiteage again. The snowbanks are up to the windows of my house. My 6 year old stands on the snowbank next to the road and looks down into the windows of passing SUVs. Both of the children dig tunnels and caves into their own little white mountains - thinsulate garbed dwarves carving their halls of treasure.
The snowfall out front is well up my thighs in depth. I did a favor for the oil man today and dug him a little path to my oil nozzle so he could deliver our heating fuel more easily. Striding through 2.5 feet of snow, dragging an enormous hose and nozzle is hard work. I'm sure he's used to it, but I figure everyone could use a little help now and again.
Ezra, the guy who plows my drive comes by this morning as I’m clearing off the cars. He asks me if I’ve had enough. “More to the point”, I ask him, “Have YOU had enough. When it starts snowing I mostly just hole up inside and watch it come down. You’re the one who has to work when it snows.”
I’m itching to get out skiing. It is really beautiful snow. Deep fine powder, more like western snow I think. Not having ever skied in the west, I can't speak with any authority on that subject. Not sure when I’ll be able to ski, but so far it surely is a winter made for it.
Haven’t really broken out the snowshoes for a couple years. It just feels silly trying to walk on 6 inches of snow wearing snowshoes. It’s just too much trouble. But now with over 2 feet on the ground so far, it is definitely snowshoe time. I have an older pair of shoes made with an honest to goodness ash wood frame. The webbing is neoprene, which is much superior to the old rawhide as it does not stretch when wet or require varnishing every year to maintain it’s waterproof quality. I’ve purchased new easier to use bindings so I won’t have to worry about the buckles icing up like I used to. They are heavy in comparison and much clumsier than the newfangled aluminum jobbies, but they bridge the chasm between the true old timey shoes and the new mountaineering hyper gliders.
There are few things more sublime than shuffling through the deep woods while the snow is falling thick and fast. The snow has a clean smell to it, and muffles everything except the wind and the creaking of the trees. It is a magical time. Here’s to more of that.

Playing with Rocks

I spent the majority of this weekend past playing with rocks.

It has been my intention for some time now to build stone wall in front of my house. I happen to have a deep and abiding infatuation with stone walls. Not the kind that are all fancy pants, with the stones all cut and dressed to the nines so that each fits perfectly. Those are all well and good in their own way. The kind of stone wall that appeals to me is the type made of New England field stone, natural and uncut, piled without the use of mortar, held together only by gravity and friction. This is the kind of stone wall you are likely to run into in the middle of the woods around here. Those who lack historical perspective will tend to wonder why someone would take all that trouble to build a wall out here in the middle of the forest. What they fail to comprehend, in the chronological myopia, is that this was not always forest. In fact, until about 100 years ago, most of NH was open fields. When all the New Hampshire dairymen moved to Wisconsin, where the fields actually have more dirt than rocks, the field began to grow over in trees. The stone wall that had formed the boundaries of those fields remained.

I own about three quarters of an acre on a corner lot. It has in front of it a rather sad and dilapidated post and rail fence. I have already torn out about half of it. I would like to replace the entire thing with a low wall composed of stones. A true farmer’s wall, as you might now see along most back roads in NH is simply one row of stones pile atop another, the larger stones forming the foundation and smaller stones on top. It is a strictly utilitarian thing, not requiring thought or planning. It mostly provides a place to dump rocks pulled out of the field, and putting them to good use to separate the fields. Frugality in granite.

The wall I intend to create will involve a bit more thought and effort. I propose to construct a double foundation wall, involving two rows of stones running in parallel courses, leaning in toward each other. This creates a more stable structure over the long term, much more likely to survive the thrusting and dipping created by the freeze thaw cycles so delightfully characteristic of our northern climate.

Last Father’s Day, my lovely bride presented me with a gift of an enrollment in a two day course in building of traditional dry-laid stone walls. The course is offered through the Canterbury Shaker Village, and is taught by master stone mason Kevin Fife of Twin Elms Landscape in Northfield NH. Kevin is internationally recognized for his work – both restoration of historic stone walls and new construction. I will say that he is also a fine teacher. The design of the workshop is not complicated. It was simply a bunch of guys building a wall with the aid and instruction of someone who really knows what he is doing. Kevin was alway ready with a quick word, a quiet suggestion, a simple correction and more often than not a solution to a problem. It is the kind of skill that one must really learn by doing. And that's exactly what we did.

I arrived Saturday morning, along with 9 other men of varying ages and shapes. We spent the first hour or so viewing slides and discussing the basic principles of dry-laid stone walls. Then about 10:30 we got out and walked around the village to examine actual walls and see the principles in action, as well as reviewing tools used to move and shape stones. A bit past 11:00 we reached our project area. A section of a long stone wall fronting Shaker Village Road had been torn apart by Kevin and his trusty Bobcat loader. The wall was well over 100 years old and had spread, shifted and collapsed inward with time. It needed rebuilding and we were just the crew to do it. This particular section was chosen because it was the worst. I estimate that our span was perhaps 40 feet. The entire wall was easily over 1000 feet long in total. A long portion of it down the hill (about 350 feet) had been rebuilt by Kevin almost 10 years ago over a span of 6 weeks.

The day was nasty hot. It was not good weather for carrying large rock. No matter, we gamely laid into the work. It did not take long for us to learn to pace ourselves. Our efforts were greatly aided by Kevin’s Bobcat excavator. It has a handy little thumb attachment to the bucket that enabled him to lift rocks and place them where he wanted them. Half the fun was watching Kevin gently lift these 150 lb chunks and place them with delicate surgical precision. It sure beat using ropes, ramps, block and tackle and sheer muscle. We could have done it, but the Bobcat just made everything quicker. If you are at all inclined to give me grief that we used a machine to do this work, don't bother. I will simply consider you rude and untutored.

It was so hot that several time I looked down at the stones I was working on and noticed that they were spattered with rain drops. I was about to look up, then I realized that those were not rain drops. They were coming from me. Yeah. I have exceptionally powerful sweat glands.We made a good start the first day, but we were cut off by thunder and lightning approaching from the Northwest about 3:00.

We reconvened on a rainy Sunday. The weather was much cooler. There was just enough rain to keep down the dust. It was excellent stone tossing weather. We set to with a will and we had most of the wall done by 3:00. We were still a little short, so we made a run across the fields and orchards to an old stone dump (where they apparently dumped stones picked from the gardens) and loaded up about a ton of smaller stones to finish off the top layer of wall. Within about a half hour after dumping the load, we had laid them all in and pronounced it done. You can see the results for yourself.

I found laying stones to be very meditative. This surprised me a bit. In a carefully built wall the stones are not dropped, but are placed purposefully. Each stone must find the right place, in proper relation to all the other stones. A stone that may not seem to fit may often work if you turn it, turn it again, flip it and turn it again until you find the right angle. At times you may pull out a stone you already laid in order to put in another two that fit better. You note a space or a gap, and you wander through the stone pile until you see a stone that just seems like it might work. You take back and try it and it does. Or it doesn’t. No matter. A few minutes later, you end up finding the perfect spot for it, almost as if it were meant to be. This process involves a sort of quiet concentration that I found very pleasant and restful, even though it involved a fair amount of labor.

And looking at the finished wall….well, it’s beautiful. It may not be the most artful example of it’s kind. It certainly could have used more careful fitting and chinking in places. It was built by amateurs, but I think it’s lovely. I believe I shall go back soon and spend an hour or two just looking it at.

Family Simuliidae

The leaves are coming out now, not just buds, but actual fresh green leaves. The frogs are slowing down, their nightly chorus diminishing in density as they complete their seasonal rituals. Yesterday morning as I was preparing coffee I heard a loon crying out from the lake across the road. The ants and the bees and wasps are out and they are hungry after a long winter.
And then, there are the black flies. They are the surest and most powerful sign of spring. For those of you who are not privileged to live in the Great North Woods of the East, Black Flies are a species of the Family Simuliidae. They are renowned for the way they love to swarm around your head, crawl into the hair around your hairline, or behind your ears, and bite. There are also some species that don't bite, but still love to fly around your face. They start in soon after the snow melts and the running water in the streams warms up just a bit, and the will continue in this part of New England until mid June, depending on the weather. Further north and in higher elevations they may last until mid July. After that, we don't really notice them again until next year.
While they are here, they are much worse than mosquitoes for their sheer aggravation factor. Because their appearance and disappearance are so pronounced, we call this time of year Black Fly Season.
For all their aggravation, I find that I actually feel a certain fondness for for the Black Fly. Mostly I think this is because the Black Flies keeps the tourists from becoming too numerous too early in the season. Tourists are actually just another form of swarming insect that infests the region on a seasonal basis. The primary difference between the two is that tourist bring money, and so we generally tolerate them better.