Siblings

Although Antonia, at 3, loves her little sister Trinity who is 17 months old she told me, "I think you should keep Trinity. She can live at your house."

 "Why?"

 "Because she gets into my toys."

 "But then you won't see her." 

"I can come and visit."

 "But you will miss her, you won't see her every day." 

"That's ok."

Snow is a Four Letter Word

Yesterday, (Saturday) they predicted that a noreaster was heading this way and by morning we could have 4-8 inches of snow. This morning we have about 3 inches and we’ll need to shake it off the bushes and cedars to relieve them of the weight if the sun doesn’t melt it off first. 

 Good packing snow it is. Watch out! The first snowball will be tossed, but if I’m the thrower you’ll be safe. My aim is terrible. 

 Whether you are ready or not, the first snow is here. Not necessarily to stay, but it is the harbinger of what is to come. 

 Thus begins nature’s dance of teasing and tempting, scattering and scouring, blowing and buffeting. Snow. A four letter word that will be exclaimed, exhaled, shouted, and sighed aloud depending on the time and duration of its coming.

 Today I’m making a list of all the things done and not done to mark this day. The bedding conditions here are all in order. Flannel sheets are out and extra comforters applied to all the beds. The afghan throws adorn the recliners. 

 I took advantage of the fill a cart sale on perennials and have redone five beds in NEW varieties of plants. Thus began several days of weeding and planting and mulching. Today all of the flowers are safely tucked in with cedar mulch and ready for their winter nap. 

 The freezer is full and filling with foodstuffs picked or prepared through the year. Already morning pancakes are accented with blueberries, there is an endless variety of goodies to be baked with the apples down cellar, and new recipes for soups and stew are being acquired. Not only does this food indulge the senses it evokes memories of sunshine and warmer days that have passed. 

 The day before the snow Russ mowed and mulched the yard one last time. The lawnmower is dismantled and nestled in the new shed with the grandchildren’s bikes. Mulch and planters are stacked in the potting side in readiness for spring. The hammock and deck furniture are stowed in the bulkhead. The basement windows are covered in storms.

 New houseplants fill the rooms and cluster by the windows to soak in the sun’s rays. They add oxygen, moisture, and cheer to every room. It’s one of my tricks to keep my spirits lifted as the days shorten and darken. 

 Turtlenecks and sweaters are emerging from the back of the closet. A puzzle table is permanently set up in the spare room, old VHS are nestled close by the exercise bike, and rug and afghan making materials are assembled. 

 We missed the snow tire change though. We’re just days away from our appointment. We, too, are joining the multitudes that try to squeeze a few more miles out of tires before investing in another set of snows.

 Snow is good for so many of us. Early snow helps hunters track. Lots of snow causes the ski and tourist industry to expand. Late snow helps the maple syrup flow. Two feet of snow is usually welcome during the weekend, not so much during the week, unless you are of school age or in need of a mental health day from work.  And snow is always wanted and expected at Christmas. 

 I awoke last night to a large THUNK coming from the next room. When I sat up Russ said, “It’s just snow sliding off the roof.” Oh, yes, I remember that sound. 

 Well before 7 a.m. I heard the unmistakable scrap of a plow. I burrowed down under the comforter and snuggled into the flannel sheets while thanking the snow elves in my heart. The snow elves are those burly men in orange who man the plows and ensure that all of us can go on with our lives even if three feet of snow has fallen. 

 Today the snow has fallen and for me it’s right on time. It made this month’s column deadline.

Hurricane Irene

The Charge of the Mighty Mud Brigade 

 Countless stories have been told and will be told in years to come about the effects of Hurricane Irene on Vermont. And they will be tales of heroism, selflessness, acceptance, bravery, generosity, and kindness. We witnessed the effects of the mighty Mud Brigade. 

 These were individuals of all ages, from Vermont and surrounding states, with diverse backgrounds. The common ground was their love for Vermont. Some members used our home on River Road as a base camp to wield their skills. We were the designated babysitters and cooks; the suppliers of hot showers, clean towels, and beds.

 Over the Labor Day weekend all the mud from the basements of the houses that availed themselves of their labor was cleared. Generally, a crew of 20-30 individuals formed a bucket line. 

 The first defense were gloved, masked, and booted shovelers down cellar; the heavy half-filled pails were heaved to the guy ‘in the hole’ who hefted them shoulder high and out the window; the debris was passed from person to person outside and then deposited. 

 School age children would tote the empty buckets back for the process to begin all over again. A camaraderie developed among the workers. 

 Everyone was soon on a first name basis with their place of residence thrown in. Mike from Long Island. Samantha and Hannah from Boston. Kelly from Connecticut. But soon others earned their names. “Jersey” was identified by his clothing, “Little Girl” and “Big Guy” by their size. And the gal that spent hours “in the hole” outlasting everyone in endurance and the amount of buckets lifted (way over 500 pails) was aptly christened, “The Machine”. 

 And of course, there were the inevitable and oft repeated mud jokes. Have some liquid goo splash in your face and a comrade would yell, “Just use your glove to wipe it off!” Said glove was encrusted with inches of the stuff. Clean a shovel and need to dry it? “There’s a clean dry spot on your back,” someone would quip.

 A large yellow bucket was deemed the “back breaker” and put to the side with frequent warnings of, “Don’t touch that bucket!” Fill the bucket too low and someone “in the hole” would yell, “Hey, we’re not feeding horses back here.” If there was too much mud in a container, surely it was the other guy’s fault for being over zealous. 

 Throughout the day donations of sandwiches, homemade cookies, chocolate bars, and bottled water arrived. The generosity was overwhelming. 

 Meaning no disrespect to Alfred Lord Tennyson, I write. Into the valley of Bethel marched the mighty Mud Brigade. Mud to the right of them, mud to the left of them, mud all around them shuddered and trembled. Assailed by heat and dust, boldly they pushed and shoved, moving that nasty mud, the mighty Mud Brigade. Their only quick reply, “Pass the bucket up the line.” Their only reason why, “Find the floor, you’re doing fine.” Theirs but to shovel and sweat, moving the mud that’s wet, the mighty Mud Brigade. When will their glory fade? Never, not in our days. Hats off to you we say. Oh, mighty Mud Brigade. 

 Thank you!

Kathy’s Kitty Inspires Re-Write of Dr. Seuss.

Help! My Cat is My Hat! 

 Fifteen years ago my husband decided to train the new kitty to sleep by his pillow. Ogden was palm sized and was so cute and cuddly it seemed like the perfect place. 

 Fifteen years later the cat is still pretty cute and cuddly, but he doesn’t choose to sleep by Russ’s pillow

, he sleeps my mine. 

 Alright, let’s be honest, over the past two years he sleeps on my head. A lot. 

 Now I am not the type of person to wear a hat in the winter, I surely don’t want an Ogden fez at night. In fact, I find myself making up rhymes in the middle of the night to calm myself, ala, Dr. Seuss. 

 I do not want him on my head. I do not want him on my bed. 

 Whenever I am awakened by Ogden snuggling into position, I growl, “Get off my head!” 

 Since I have been saying this nightly he now jumps up and scurries over to Russ’ side of the bed. While there he hovers, peering over Russ’ shoulder until he thinks that I am sound asleep, and then he begins to slowly slink back. I, however, stay awake for protracted amounts of time and when I espy him creeping over I yell, “Don’t even think about it!” 

 That’s when he slowly moves his paws in reverse and settles next to Russ. 

 “Why does he like my head?” I query Russ. 

 And the response is the same, “He just really loves you.” I would like to spread the love around. 

 When he cannot get to the top of my pillow, Ogden will lie between our pillows. 

 Often I slumber blissfully unaware until he inevitably flicks his tail in my face. I don’t like tail on my face. I don’t like tail any place. I do not want Og near my head. I do not want him on my bed. 

 After I get smacked in the face with the tail, I pick Ogden up and deposit him on the floor. He then races around to Russ’ side and bides his time. 

 When I fall asleep the escapades resume. All the while Russ slumbers on (more or less). I do not want him in between. I do not want to act so mean. I don’t like tossing him aside. I cannot sleep, I know I’ve tried. Don’t put your tail in my face. I distinctly hate that taste. Don’t rest your backside on my head. Just go away, stay off the bed. 

 Lately Russ is doing his best to keep Ogden close to his side. If Russ finds the cat tucked between us, he’s quick to remove him. If he notices Og slinking across the pillow toward my head, he snatches him away.

 Although Russ is a good husband there are other reasons why he is seeking to control Ogden. The volume level of “Get off my head!” is continually rising in decibels, the amount of Ogden-tossing incidents is increasing, and just the other night while grabbing Og to toss him I actually had Russ’ head in my hands.

 Thus, my final lines: I really want to go to sleep. I promise not to make a peep. Just keep the Ogden by your head. Remember there are three in bed.

Returning the Boots

Russ has a pair of Lands End boots that needed to be returned. He has put the deed off for two years, but he finally got the box together to have them returned. It is February, he is without a good pair of boots, and needs a set.

 Once the boots are received he will receive another pair. He brought the box to the post office and a few minutes later returned in a huff because it was going to cost $10.05 to send them rather than the $6.95 that he was counting on. Hence he stated, "I'm not spending that kind of money. I won't return the boots." 

I reminded him that neither FedEx or UPS would be cheaper, that he was crabbing over pennies, and he needed a pair of boots not a box with useless boots in them. It ended with me passing him the money and saying, "Get your butt out of this car and return those boots!" 

 Surprisingly, he did. When he returned I asked, "What did the postmaster say since you had just been in? Or, rather, what did you say?" He replied, "I told her that my wife and I had a disagreement over $3.05 and that you won."

Deliciously Scared

My grandkids liked to be scared, deliciously so.

 Their father has a game called Scarey Monster. Since they live in the woods on 25 acres, they are without electricity. At night it can get really dark when the oil lamps and candles are unlit. 

Their papa will hide in a darkened room with a flashlight. They enter and he will pounce upon them shining a flashlight to catch them in its glow. He then wrestles them to the ground and tickles them. 

The two boys love it, but their sister, Antonia, at 2 1/2 is too young to play unless she is held by her father. She gets to pounce and scare. 

Recently, they played Scarey Monster and a newly potty trained Antonia and her father jumped out to scare the boys. 

 Her father learned an important lesson while holding her that underwear don't absorb as well as diapers when you get scared, deliciously so.

More Snow

We managed to visit with the grandkids and get some sledding in before running into another snowstorm on our way home. It was uneventful except for the near miss as we exited the ramp.

 The guy behind didn't appear to have good tires on and slid past us into the median. It was a little odd to realize we were both traveling in the same lane. 

Later we were awakened by a violent thunderstorm with lightning and heavy rain. It sounded like spring or summer, but it was dumping on several feet of accumulated snow. It made me start thinking about gardening and mowing the lawn. 

 But, alas, no lawn visible. The snow had gobbled up half of the swingset, the front split rail fence, and our bushes. Everything is sleeping well. Not a bad idea especially after shoveling.

Big Snow, February 2, 2011

We are hunkered down at home while most of the country comes to a screeching halt due to a huge snowstorm over 2100 miles. 

Why do I like this? I don't have to go out if I don't want to. I will be baking something yummy, or at least one thing yummy. 

There are scented candles burning and the fragrance is lovely. 

Clean flannel sheets are on the bed and the pillows are fluffed and ready for a nap, an early night, a good read before sleep. 

We have a snowblower that I don't have to know how to work, Russ does. 

We have electricity and heat. The refrigerator is well stocked. I have some good books to read and some good movies to watch if I want to. And the people I love are well and protected from the storm.