A Gallery of Photos: Summertime

One of 17 Little Free Libraries around town ... on the lawn of a private home.

Another one

The library in our neighboring village of Newfane.  Very New Englandish, wouldn't you say!

For the birds

Summer creek

I was surprised to learn how many Little Free Libraries there are--thousands, in something like 70 countries around the world.  These, of course, are small, front-yard public book exchanges where one can pick out a free book to take ... or leave one for someone else to read.  The boxes are weather-proof and can hold something like a dozen books.  For more information, see littlefreelibrary.org

A Gallery of Photos: Spring Scenes

We are in those glorious few days when spring has finally announced its arrival as each and every bare tree turns a pale leafy green.  When out walking recently in a part of town that skirts the Connecticut River, I joyfully took in that new green along with near-at-hand pinks, whites, and yellows. Looking across the river to New Hampshire's Mt. Wantastiquet, I stopped and studied what seemed a million trees looking as soft as cotton.

Happy Spring!

"Thaw"

This happens to be the exact time of year when I look up a favorite poem of mine entitled "Thaw" by the English poet, Edward Thomas (1878-1917).  Since I cannot determine whether the poem is in the public domain, I will not write it out but will, at the bottom, post a link so that you can call it up.  It is four lines only and lovely in its simplicity and ease in telling a little story that so well illustrates this particular seasonal moment.  To paraphrase the poem:  a thaw covers the countryside as the birds in the trees overhead can see what we on the ground do not yet see--the passing of winter.  Stirring words for those of us who shut down in early November when the time and light change, only to revive when the time and light change again and we ease into spring finding ourselves stepping out without coat, mitts, boots.  Opening an outside door for a moment of sweet fresh air.  Catching the sun's new angle as it now floods the room.

Yes, winter is over.  That doesn't mean we won't get more snow, but the chances are good it won't amount to much.  In fact, I always leave my snow shovel out until April 15th.  But in the meantime, the snow-pack will melt and crocuses will appear.

In looking up more about Edward Thomas, I found that he and Robert Frost were great friends, living for a time near each other during the Frosts' stay in England.  They were such good friends, in fact, that Frost managed to persuade Thomas, a writer, to try writing poetry.  Frost also put the idea in Thomas's bonnet to take his wife and children and go live in New England where they could be neighbors once again and encourage each other as poets, neither of whom was having all that much success just then.

Frost and Thomas also took frequent walks together with Thomas often trying to decide which path to take when they came to a fork, wanting to show his good friend something he thought was in one direction but that turned out not to be.  It seems they even joked about it so that when Frost returned to New Hampshire, he sent his friend a copy of his new work, "The Road Not Taken," intending it to be light amusement.

But Thomas was at a grave cross-roads.  The Great War had begun and though he was a family man and of an age when he need not go, he was trying to decide whether to enlist or not.  (Or maybe move to New Hampshire.)  He didn't really want to go to war, but he did want to meet full-on a depression and what he considered to be a lack of courage that had haunted him for some time.  Reading Frost's poem turned out to be one more kick that contributed to his decision to enlist.  He was killed in action after only two months in France.  He was thirty-nine.

Edward Thomas is one of sixteen Great War poets listed on a memorial in Poet's Corner of Westminster Abbey.


Link to "Thaw"

A Gallery of Photos: Winter, So Far

Winter always brings out the attempt to do one's best under trying conditions.  But this year, December was practically snow-less.   Early January, too.  And then other than a few below-zero Fahrenheit days, we hadn't had the horrendous cold, day after day, that some Januarys bring ... that is, until the end of the month when that polar freeze descended on us as it did much of the rest of the country. So winter is still winter.  The ice, the cold, and whichever of these it decides to bring:  rain, freezing rain, sleet, snow showers, snow.

New Year's Day.  No snow whatsoever.

Bridge over the Connecticut River.

 The neighborhood ski slopes.  

With snow mid-January, here comes the snow plow up the street.

Beech trees always wait until spring to drop their leaves.

And here's the snow edging its way off the sloping roof.

The Shift to Winter

(Note:  The fourth posting about painting in France will appear next time.)

With Hallowe'en and that fine month of October over for the year, with November now appearing on the calendar, I find myself rather automatically shifting into That Other Life here in Vermont, here in the Northeast when it becomes apparent, once again, that the year is divided in two:  the green part and the white part.   With one about as long as the other.  With each its very own experience, so very unlike the other, as if half the year we're living in Iceland and the other half Mexico.  That's an exaggeration, but you get my point.

So, with November, this is what occurs, for me, at least.  The garden is now put to bed.  Each year I hire someone to come and tend it for me.  He carries the garden furniture into the cellar along with the flower pots that line my back deck.  He takes in the hoses and shuts off the water lines that feed their outside faucets.  He cuts back the dead ferns, does a final weeding, cuts back the peonies, blows dead leaves into my woods.  I, in turn, take my car to the dealer where they winterize it, rotate and balance the tires, change the oil, tend to any lubricants and filters, and make sure I don't intend to do much driving on icy/snowy roads or else, they say, I should buy snow tires.

Then there are the indoor things.  I put a flannel cover on my duvet. (Heavenly to sleep under.)  I make sure all the storm windows are in place. (I've long since ordered and paid for a winter's supply of fuel oil for my furnace.)  I buy a large non-scented candle to burn in the late afternoon hours to keep me company.  I buy yarn to knit a scarf or sweater since early darkness seems to lead me in that direction.  I buy ingredients to turn into favorite crockpot soups that fill the house with lovely aromas.  I put summer clothes in the cedar closet and retrieve winter ones.  I request even more inter-library loan books so that I'll be sure to have plenty to read on these long evenings since I rarely go out after dark.  I write up an early draft of a Christmas letter and go to our local copy shop with a new photo (usually of the grandchildren) to make up a batch of cards to send out. Doing so gives me a chance to reflect on the past year and to think about what the coming year might bring.  Then, too, these next weeks include birthdays for two in the immediate family.  (Including me.)   Finally, I get out my show shovel and set it on the front porch until April 15th when I always take it in again regardless of the April forecast which can, of course, include snow.

And with that, I'm ready for winter.

Birthday hors d'oeuvres

At first, I find the initial darkness that comes with restoring standard time to be pleasant.  I think of myself as being someplace like Norway.  It's fun at first.  The candlelight.  The hot soups.  The feeling of hygge (as the Danes call "coziness").  It also fits in with that lovely holiday, Thanksgiving.  And the head-spinning one that is Christmas.  But by the end of December, the whole darkness thing, the whole cold and icy thing begins to pall especially with a good three more months to get through.  Of course, the light returns with the solstice, with the first day of winter, but it takes those next three months to realize that lightness is, in fact, on its way.

Christmas Cookie Time

To complete the list, I feel a good fireplace would be in order.  Think I should send a note to Santa?

High Summer

"It's been dry, dry, then hot, hot, then wet, wet."  So one of my vendor friends at the farmers market summed up our summer so far.  And right now the "wet wet" is mixed with more "hot hot."  After living in this house for more than 20 years, I was finally compelled to buy an AC window unit to at least cool part of my upstairs.  The downstairs has to rely on pulled window shades plus a fan.  But I still get in the car and use its AC as I drive around.  And I still visit the library with its comfy chairs and just-right temperature.

But winter sets in with such a vengeance that I feel it's important to appreciate summer while we have it ... with its green green days as that color overtakes everything from our trillions of trees to the greenish skies that appear with the approach of a good crashing thunderstorm.

I personally prefer the dry-dry to the wet-wet whether it's hot-hot or not. But those non-humid days are rare--belonging to country far west of here. We in the northeast are part of the high-humidity crowd.  It can be debilitating and make us grumpy.  Or send us off to the nearest lake or river for boating and swimming because that's one thing we do have around here: water.

Here are some of our summer views:

Getting ready for the canoe race

Afternoon party

For when the party crowd is ready to sit

The Fourth, bocce balls and all

Hammock and honey

A Gallery of Photos: Spring Times Ten

What late April and early May look like around here.

Crocuses in the front lawn

A tulip tree

Entry to a garden in town

The Connecticut River ... and the soft greens of the season's early foliage.

New leaves soaking up the sun.

Another view of that soft green deciduous foliage

Early May and a meadow of dandelions

A delicate pink ...

... and a vibrant pink

Apple blossoms

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