turtles turtles!

 Each spring and early summer The Nancy Place hosts lots of visiting turtles. They likely have been journeying to the forests and blueberry field around their wetland home (now our home too) for an endlessly stretching amount of time (according to turtle experts, female turtles return to their place of birth to lay their eggs).

We didn't have as many snappers in our yard this year-- it was a hard winter and perhaps their oxygen supply wasn't quite enough-- we were sad to miss them this year. They typically arrive like clockwork, mid-June, during a rainy spell. This year mid-June rains came and only one tired looking snapper, who didn't stay long, showed up (Usually we have three gals in our yard).

There have been lots of painted turtles on the blueberry field this year, and one in our yard. The hatchlings must have overwintered in their nest since we are finding them (2 now) in our gardens. This little one got itself stuck in a little plastic pond and couldn't get itself out.

 

Here's last year's snapper laying her eggs in my garden:

 

Old and New

Last night was our "old and new" dinner. It is sort of an unofficial tradition, a head nod among lengthening busy days, as we use the last of winter's storage and combine it with spring's first crops.

We used up the last of our winter squash,  a Spaghetti Squash turned into pizza earlier in the week, and there was only one lonely pumpkin left. We collected parsnips, greens (spinach, lovage, dandelion, chard, kale & chive) and fiddleheads from the spring garden and turned the pumpkin into curry soup and muffins for our Old/New Dinner.

We are already feeling well-fed again by our little farm, with abundant eggs and ample meat, greens, herbs and parsnips. We feel such gratitude for this little slice of paradise!

Singing Spring

Last night the phoebes that nest in the eves just outside our bedroom window returned-- chattering into my dreams. They have nested as a pair here for years. I imagined them having a marital squabble about the late night arrival and the nest being clearly unfit for rearing chicks. It has been an incredibly long winter and I am quite positive their little nest, years old, took a beating.

The geese too, have flown in and on, northward. The wind and sun have whipped away the snow, and the garden has become a flowing stream of run-off, in spite of our water-slowing terraces. Butterflies have floated by and the earth is coming alive with sprouts, insects, and new sounds.

Treasures in the Forest

The snow did hang on for a few days of spring weather, letting us ski ourselves into sunshiny locations as the sun magnified snow-amped vitamin D into our winter weary faces. It must be how the first wintery flowers feel as they burst through the snow to bloom, in spite of (or because of?) obstacles that seem insurmountable.

Open Mic in our Kitchen 

Second Saturday Open Mic at Bald Mountain Community Center

Song too, has filled the house, along with sunshine, as the girls sing themselves through mud season, studies & farm chores. It has been so beautiful to see their confidence build and to find that connection with their Dad.

Days have been filled with dark, dark sap collecting and boiling, planting seeds and transplanting seedlings, harvesting food (always ongoing), clearing land for new pastures, making needed changes to one of our rentals, and finding delicious ways to use the last of our canned and frozen foods. Aside from our roasting chickens, we have been having quiches and pestos, green bean casseroles and edamame snacks, pumpkin soups and pies and deer and veggie stews. We did really well with our preserves this year-- only purchasing staples (flours, spices, pastas, rice) a few veggies (brassicas & onions), dairy and then some life-easing unnecessary things like bananas and organic corn chips. The grocery bill was much lower and we all feel pretty healthy!

Organic chickens being processed

Sap Flow!

Tapping trees, snowshoes required. 

At the end of February we had a warm spell, and I pestered Shawn relentlessly to get the trees tapped. And then the world froze again, and stayed frozen, for weeks on end. Even Maine Maple Sunday at the Happytown Farm happened without fresh sap flow. It was freezing out that day-- and in spite of the fact that we pride ourselves on being a wonderful, supportive, neighborly bunch, most of us stayed home and out of the wind. March continued on in this manner, with little flow here on the farm, until just this past week-- the last days of March into the first days of April -- and the trees have let loose! Hallelujah! I have set up my chair next to the evaporator and look forward to sun-bathing while babysitting the boil. 

Hear Shawn's Maple Syrup song, Sticky Fingers (I think Spotify is required, but free!)

A Daddy's Helper, always. 

Here's a throwback to "little ella" -- she's pictured above  as "BIG ELLA". 

Gratitude and Nourishment

It has been a slow melt and a slower thaw in the Northeast-- the snow left, only to be replaced by a long mud season, a late rainy season, and black-fly season. On the bright side, when the sun shines, EVERYONE notices this spectacular treasure, and that, I think, really matters. What if we allowed that gratitude to enrich and nourish us each day, realizing the positive side to each frustration?


I think gratitude comes more easily the closer you live to the earth. When you look for and depend on the elements, when you watch for the return of seasonal mainstays like blossoms, pollinators, and wild foraged deliciousness-- gratitude fills first your soul, and then your body, each day.



There are set-backs. There are slugs, there are destructive beetles, there are losses-- but always the balance returns after the scales are tipped. It is easy to forget, during hard times, that the scale is fair. It tips in both directions-- destruction is balanced with abundance. Everything has a place.

Spring Blessings

The drip of sap and the mess of mud squishing under our feet; the blessedly longer days and the sweet smell of our own sweat mixed with sunshine-- this is spring.

The uncovering of the raw and the swelling of promise-- this is spring.

The exposure of emptiness and longing-- quickly filling with gratefulness and hope--this is spring.

The rushing waters, filled by the earth's renewing tears, overcoming its boundaries, sending fertility from one place to another-- I love spring.


No other season is filled with such absolute emptiness in its humble beginnings only to end in such grandness of birdsong, blossom-scented breezes, buzzing, frolicking, and unfurling. The moments move so quickly, and each precious sensory experience is all too fleeting, resisting capture; resisting any stagnation. Spring is the ultimate example in nature of overcoming adversity, of staying positive, of persevering through great odds and obstacles to make beauty of mundane beginnings. Spring is where I strive to be in my mind and heart.


On the farm, little as it is these days, the trees are tapped and dripping, the chickens share their eggs each day, the road has become impassable with mud, our little solar apartment rented, and the first greenhouse is planted with kale and spinach.


Homeschooling continues in the form of unschooling, which is going pretty well. We still have lots of food that is left over from fall-- so I feel great about the quantities of canned and frozen foods we put up.


Our goal for this summer is to finish a second space in the house that can be rented when we travel, and also to make the barn more welcoming for horses and owners who may wish to rent from us short term. We abut so many wonderful riding trails on the Great Pond Wildlands.


We are hoping that renting will begin to move us closer to realizing our goal of creating a space on our property that encourages exploration of simple living, traditional skills, permaculture, and right livelihood. 

Spring Blessings ~

Spring Dreams Deep

We're still in Alaska for about 5 more weeks (7 for Shawn and Maizey) but that hasn't stopped us from honoring (read: mourning) Maine Maple Sunday, looking at seed catalogs, and wondering about how to plan a garden that is completely harvestable by the time we leave for our next adventure. Thank you friends who have stopped by, watered, or asked us how you could help. You are keeping our home alive for us and it truly means so much.

We have missed our farmstead dearly. . . when you decide to feed a different part of yourself, it doesn't quench the thirst or still the hunger pains of that which you are turning away from. I imagine my greenhouses, planted over our Christmas vacation-- dead dry and hot, no one to be there each day to crack a door or give them that H2O lifeline. . . I imagine my garlic popping and the coming strawberries and  I am thankful for friends. . . I think of the weeds around all the edible perennials and I feel my eyes sting.

With so much invested into a place, so many memories. .  .birth, death, sickness, growth, deep love, fear and so much fun. . . it is hard to pass each season without recalling the vivid details-- the smells, the conversations, the breeze, the sounds-- especially the sounds--. Sometimes I wake in the night hearing the brook gurgling out of my open window, sometimes its the sap plunking as if in a vacuum, sometimes its a winter wind rattling my window.

Having a farmstead-or living close to nature's seasons in any way- leaves a depth and comprehension of life that otherwise might go unnoticed. It is a busy life that does not always leave time for reflection, but stepping away from it this past year has forced that reflection upon me. I miss it so much. A hand-made life is rare in modern USA. I am grateful to have so many people in my life who value it dearly.

I would not trade or stop what we are doing: traveling, teaching, volunteering, because that, also, creates depth and sparkle in a different, and equally important, aspect of self. However, our middle girl was promised a pony at age 10 and thus far, she has not forgotten. So, I think-- next year and the year after we'll be on the move, then, I think. . . The Nancy Place will be calling us home.

We tapped our trees at the end of February. It was a difficult sap season for most everyone with the early thaw and lack of cold evenings. . .most of our trees are tapped in brooks so we did okay anyhow! Maybe have canned 4 gallons of finished syrup. . .  One of my favorite times of the year. . .I love watching spring unfold and being out with the trees as their lifeblood begins its flow is very magical.

Farewell

Is this the end then? Is this how we’ll end it? our once a year meeting is always somewhat volatile—fevered fluctuations in temperatures, angry winds, annoying mud, deep deep snow, unsafe ice, ice so thick that it seems it will never thaw, endless shades of gray depression, bright bright sparkles on sunlit snow, intense rainbows on the water droplets of hanging pine bows. . . always predictable in its unpredictability—January, carving us into the strength to withstand life’s hard knocks and to appreciate the depth of its beauty. Farewell dear January. Please tell February to send back the snow, I’m so desperately not ready for mud season.

Are you a crocus flower?

Today's blog was absolutely intended to be an ode to Fiona Rainbow, the pig pictured here. I thought I'd write her obituary and fancied Shawn writing a bit about his experiences in her journey to the "Big Farm". But, other things are on my mind today.

The news is glum, as over half the world motivates to help a tiny nation I am urged to pull up my boots and walk across this large country and swim to its borders, just to hold a grieving child. We have no television at home, which I am so grateful for. The images would burst my heart. The technologically driven world has this way of making us all neighbors, our hearts connected with our common humanity. The feelings of connection; of neighborly duty are overwhelming, urging us to reach out our hand in support-- yet our physical bodies are unable-- we are so far away.  Enmeshed in the complexity of grief and need, the shadowy siblings of jealousy, anger and want are clinging, looking for an opportunity to be heard.  I pray that our neighbors, not just in Haiti, but all over this world, will find strength and love through the simplicity of each day's movement-- the in and out of one's breath, the beat of a heart, a tender kiss, the gentle breeze, a setting sun, a spoon stirring-- the movements that make up a day, however troubled, give us something to grasp hope and love with.

The depth of winter in Maine is cold and lonely. It irritates and its silence deafens. It is easy to fall into the grayness of the skies and the chill in the bones. Wake us up, we call to spring-- wake us up, we call to our selves. But soon, the sap will run, the sound of bird chat will be everywhere and the crocus will rise, through that depth of cold and lonliness, to welcome the sun's warmth back to our little corner of reality.

The crocus flower is on my mind-- its metaphor staggering.  The crocus calls to the challenges of the world and of the soul. This beauty forces its way literally through frozen ground, ice and snow even, and bursts open -in spite of- all that stands against it. Its determination to bring change, beautiful change, to the world around it, is inspiring. The crocus brings spring ready or not-- inevitably breaking patterns and worn out woes and wishful for, but not dependent on, the world's embrace.  The vastness of the world is but an amplified reflection of the small communities that we move about our daily lives in. Community is what we make it, how far we can hold it authentically is up for each of us to create. Its not quite time, but I hope someday that this little farm can reach its hand across the wide land to help a faraway neighbor. For now, sights are set on bursting forth from this frozen ground into our own little Maine community.

Spring Flowers ~ Crocus

Crocus flowers daring tiny warriors

Fighting their way up through

The winter ice

Crocus darling early Spring harbingers

Promising days will soon

Be turning nice

Tiny Crocus flowers grow in close groups

Strength in numbers seeking

Where winter snows still may lie

Encircled encampment of floral troupes

“We march onward to spring”

They raise this brave battle cry

Bold strength contained in Crocus so small

Should winter challenge again

They simply refuse to die

Delicate blossoms possess such wherewithal

I cannot help but wonder then

Should not likewise you and I?

Mary Havran