What I like about winter in MN

"That'll be a short blog," Tim commented upon hearing this title.

 Actually, I have a number of things I like about winter.

First, no weeding.  In fact, no garden work at all.  I am not nearly as excited about Year 2 of homesteading as I was about Year 1 because I've earned some humility to go with my ignorance.  As long as the weather stays below zero, I tell myself I can be in denial about spring.  Above zero, thinking begins.  Above freezing, working begins.  So, I'm savoring my last subzero days for all I'm worth.  I am perhaps the only Minnesotan praying, albeit under my breath, for below average temperatures through March.

Second, sleep.  We have an eastern exposure in our bedroom which makes waking up to beautiful sunrises a pleasure.  Except in high summer when those sunrises come at say 4:30 a.m.  Preceded by enthusiastic crowing an hour before that.  Also, we have a skylight strategically located above our bed.  Again lovely in theory.  In practice, I'm only in my room while I'm sleeping or trying to sleep with sunshine beating on my eyelids.  Winter, however, is great.  Not only does the sun rise and set at conducive hours, the skylight is encrusted with snow, further setting the mood. 

Third, rest.  Tim first approached me about moving two years ago last week and I'd pretty much been in hyper-drive thereafter.  I started feeling my exhaustion last October, began thinking about slowing down in November, applied the brakes in December, and came to a full stop on Day 3 of my stay-cation in January.  I know the kids have chafed from too many cancelled plans, too many snowed in days, too much togetherness, but, dang, have I ever been grateful.  After feeling deeply relieved when my plans for the day were snowed or chilled out over and over, I began to perceive that I've been trying to create a sustainable lifestyle in a most unsustainable manner.  As my friend Megan pointed out, frenzy is not a true path to peace.  This winter insisted that I hold my plans loosely and be prepared to come to a halt.  I hope that I can remain more peaceful when I'm not being snowed and frozen in.

Fourth, physical labor.  Hiking up and down my driveway, I no longer have to stop part way up for a break.  I may be panting but I'm stronger.  Who needs a personal trainer when one has The Hill?

Fifth, leisure.  Movies on the big screen.  Popcorn.  Whole tv series on Netflix.  Long discussions about said series.  Novels.  Doing art.  Blogging.  Talking.  Story telling.  Entertaining.  Eating out.  Snuggling under blankets.  Eating hearty soups and fatty treats.  Aren't dark, cold nights wonderful for indulging one's fancies?  And with our environment being so hostile and unrelenting, don't we feel righteous in some indulgence?

Sixth, gratuitous learning.  I love learning.  I've been on a practical kick the last two years, reading hundreds of books and websites on various homesteading topics.  I was like a kid in a whole new candy shop and I'll blog about what we've learned in Year 1 later.  Loved do-it-yourself stuff for a change but I've hit my saturation point with practicality.  This winter, I've really enjoyed getting back to learning for its own sake.  CD's on How to Listen to Great Music.  DVD's on The History of European Art.  Astronomy.  Geography contests.  Middle Ages literature.  Learning about cathedrals and stars and madrigals is pure pleasure.  I don't have to do a single thing with any of it but follow my interest and indulge my curiosity.  I don't have to make a plan to shelter it, figure out how to finance it, or get uncomfortable to manage it.  Heck, I don't have to do anything but learn.  What a treat.

Seventh, bracing breeze.  I do like a good breeze and am particularly fond of stiff, cold ones despite how uncomfortable they can be.  Idiosyncratic quirk.

Eighth, quiet.

Ninth, beauty.  I walk down the driveway with Tim at 5:40 a.m. several times per week to go walking with my neighbors. Wow.  The full moon beaming like a spot light, casting blue shadows on the expanse of snow.  The white moon through blackness of bare branches.  So still.  The landscape so open the limited light reflects and bounces everywhere.  On the mornings when there is no moon, the stars show brighter in the deeper dark.  Big Dipper.  Orion.  Cassiopeia.  Pleiades.  Milky Way.  The moon over the corn field glinting off the snow- some patches shiny with ice, others dull with drifts.  Then there was the morning the crescent moon and Venus rose together in the middle of a breath-taking pink sunrise.  Wow.

Tenth, limits.  The more it snows, the more work we have to do on the driveway and the less we can drive elsewhere.  The more extreme the day, the more water refills the chickens need, the harder it is to psyche ourselves up to go out there at all, and the more important it is that we do.  The longer it has been frigid, the more I enjoy those isolated warm days to get out, do chores, and take walks.  The colder the air, the brighter, clearer, and twinklier the stars are.  The twinklier the stars, the more I want to linger and the less time I can tolerate outside.  This delightful push and pull, supply and demand, limited resources becoming more valuable intrigues me.  I have a hard time respecting my limits as I'd always like to have and do a little more.  But Minnesota winters don't care about what I like and they don't negotiate.  I can't always get out of my driveway so I appreciate when I can and revel in a good snow day when I can't.  My plans fall through so I enjoy the miracle of the ones that come together and learn from the relief of the ones that don't.  I never get my fill of star gazing so I always look.

The end of deep winter is coming soon.  I draw strength for this spring and summer and fall by looking ahead to the rest and beauty of next winter.

I'm going to bundle up extra well these upcoming last few cold nights, turn off the lights, breathe deep, and look up for as long as I can.

It'll never be long enough.

Isn't that marvelous?

Uncharitable thoughts

While I've been hiking up and down my driveway in all kinds of unfortunate combinations of cold, wind, and wet over the last several months, I've had many opportunities to regret all the uncharitable thoughts I've ever had about people who complain about the cold winters in Minnesota and especially about those sensible folks who move away to somewhere warm.

Please forgive my lack of charity and good sense.

I've done my penance, I swear.

It's not about the chickens anymore

After finding Mark and Anjali's favorite chickens, Brownie and Sh-eagle, miraculously alive after a subzero night of exposure, I called Tim, and said, "It's no longer about the chickens.  It's about my kids.  We've got to do something about keeping those chickens warmer and safer today."

And we did.  We moved their coops out of the fenced and netted compound we'd spent hours setting up and put them in the greenhouse with deep straw bedding and a heat lamp.  

My chickens were going to be winter hardy.  My chickens would eat snow when they were thirsty.  Natural selection.  Prepared for hard times.  Keep themselves warm with their own body heat.  A few combs would be lost but heck, who needs combs?  We were not going to pamper our livestock.

We have now reinvented the barn but sunnier, more expensive, and breakable in the form of a greenhouse.  We lug warm water out three times a day and set aside kitchen scraps on top of feed rations and even defrost special goodies we saved for them in the freezer chest.  The fact that it's too cold and dark to collect more than about 3 eggs per week is just frosting on the cake.  Believe me, the irony of this is not lost on me. 

"We still have limits.  We still have some principles," I assure myself. 

We did not follow Joe's advice to "Keep warm.  Sleep with a chicken…."  Although we did have some good laughs about it on those record setting frigid days when we were housebound and chilly. 

We do not put diapers on our chickens like the people at the feed store in Forest Lake whose pet bantam rooster roams the store in his protective undergarment.  Houle's Feed Store.  Check it out.

Last year, I felt confident that I would never do certain things.  I even wrote a No-Can-Do List for my farm, the things I would never let happen when I farmed:

1.  Knee deep mud
2.  Old machinery rusting around the yard
3.  Nasty manure smells
4.  Animals in my bath tub
5.  Large equipment laying around disassembled and in disrepair
6.  Animal skulls nailed to the fence posts of the front gate

But then I got an old pick-up truck and brooded chicks in my basement bathtub.  I've also lusted after dirt, gotten jealous of corn, slaughtered chickens, chased ducks, killed three deer, and paid to eat road kill since then.  

Apparently, I have no idea what I'm capable of or what will happen next, so today I'm celebrating that it hasn't come to diapering our poultry.  Yet.

I still have my dignity. 
Well, a little.
So far.

I tell my dad the story of the lost chickens and the found chickens and the newly-ensconced-in-the-greenhouse chickens.  "It's no longer about the $5 chickens," I say a bit embarrassed.

"It's about a relationship," he replies without missing a beat or batting an eye.  Just so.  The wise grandfather knows.

It's not about the chickens anymore.  It's about my kids and their hearts. 

And me and my heart, too.  I can do better for them so I must.  If we couldn't, then they'd eat snow and huddle.  But we can, so we must.  

I told the kids, "How we take care of our animals says more about us than about the animals.  The chickens are just chickens, but how we take care of our responsibilities is about us.  Just like how we treat people says more about who we are than about who they are.  If someone is mean or rude to people, then that's about their heart and not about who they are talking to.  How we treat these chickens is about who we are."

Mark's still really hoping that who we are will eventually encompass Brownie sleeping in his bed wearing a diaper. 

I'm really hoping not.
But, heck, this is only Year 1.
Imagine where Year 2 might take us.

Lost and found

Back in December, on the first super cold, way below zero night, neither Anjali's favorite chicken, Sh-eagle, nor Mark's favorite, Brownie, tucked themselves into their coops at dusk.  Nothing to do but hope and wait for dawn.

Next morning, we went out to care for the chickens and Anjali found Sh-eagle alive, stiff from cold and roosting under the front ramp. We returned her to the flock with rejoicing.

  
We hunted for Brownie- all the way around the house, all over both levels of the garage- but could not find him.  We piled into the van chilled and running late.  Mark was grim and calm.  I asked him how he was feeling about Brownie and he burst into sobs.

"Brownie's dead, I know it.  I'm never going to see him again!"

Brownie was dead.  Almost certainly either frozen or eaten.  A superfluous second rooster worth a couple bucks.  Except that he is the sunshine of my son's heart.  When my son's sunshine is missing, what else is there to do but go looking?

I re-snapped my down coat, mobilized Anjali back into search and rescue, and told Mark to stay under the blanket in the van.  We'd give it five more minutes. 

Anjali and I hike up the driveway reviewing where Brownie liked to hang out along with all the other places we'd searched for him already.  Looking pretty futile.

Then Anjali's head snapped up.  "The other coop.  The one we've been moving the roosters to at night.  Maybe he's back there.  I'll head to the top of the septic mound and Mom, you take the path around the side."

I prayed and hoped and despaired and waded through snow while Anjali climbed up for a better view.

"I see him!  I see Brownie!  He's all white."

"Is he alive?  Is he moving?"

"He's alive!  I saw him move a little.  Mom, he's alive!"  

My heart leaped and I cheered "Praise God!"  My knees were weak and I started to cry.  It was a pure miracle.  My son's joy was alive. 

Brownie was covered in frost and unable to walk but alive.  Anjali grabbed him up and we waded back to the greenhouse.  I sent Anjali the Hero to tell Mark the good news and Mark came running as quickly as his snow gear allowed.  Brownie didn't perk up so I told Mark to bring him inside.  Mark kept him company on the tile floor with a bowl full of water and a handful of seeds.  Now that Brownie was found, he must live.

Five minutes of warm TLC later, Brownie was well on his way to recovery.  

"Mom, I was praying for Brownie and he's alive," Mark said earnestly with tears in his eyes.  "I asked God and he's alive." 

Cancel the day's responsibilities.  
Take pictures and celebrate.
Sunflower seeds for everyone.
Kill the fatted calf.
Eat lunch at the Wedge.
We won the lottery.
My children's joy lived.  

Taking it personally

My neighbors have urged me not to take the deer thing personally.  These things happen, they tell me.  Deer are dumb.  All one can do is drive more cautiously. 

This is wise and sensible advice based on decades of country living experience.

I'm having a hard time accepting it, though.

This is my third deer incident in two months (here's 1 and 2).  I had no idea going into this homesteading adventure that the things I would become most proficient at this winter would be hiking up and down my driveway, knocking the ice out of my chickens' water bowl, and picking up the pieces after deer accidents.  

Is it my van, Traveler?  Is the black shiny color too camouflaged in the dark?  Should I try a brighter color?  Maybe those deer whistle repellant things?  Or maybe paint glow-in-the-dark predator eyes on it?

Ginger recommended that I take the deer crossing signs off my van.

Maybe a cow catcher like train engines have?

Or maybe deer hide silhouettes on Traveler's sides, like notches on a gun slinger's belt?


Heck, maybe I should try a Humvee or a small tank?

Tim won't let me drive his car.  "Bad things happen to vehicles when you drive."  Jinxed.

Angela and Megan pointed out that the rear of my van is still undented.  Wait for it.  Wait for it. 

Yep, taking it personally.

Aggie, my walking buddy neighbor, weighed in saying that rather than get a humvee, I should keep my van since it has been in three significant accidents this last year with no injuries.  She believes I should drive it until it won't run anymore. 

So, here's to Traveler- faithful minivan, wounded warrior.  
Wear your zip ties and mangled plastic with pride!  
You have kept me and my loved ones safe through it all.
I salute you!

Deer Wars III: Revenge of the Doe

 Last Monday, on my way to walk laps at the high school 

before dawn,

a large doe sprinted out of the ditch

jumped just before impact,

and barely missed coming through my driver's side window 

into the van,

leaving Kifah, Aggie, and I shaken.

Fortunately, none of us were hurt.

We drove on to the nearby high school 

while it rained little glass window bits.

I did my Dukes of Hazard exit, sliding out the passenger side.

 

Then we went for our walk 

congratulating ourselves on surviving unharmed, 

debating the relative merits of leaving or trying to save the meat,

and discussing the capriciousness and stupidity of deer. 

 We drove home grateful

for safe cars and near misses,

balmy near-freezing weather and good friends.

By 2:00, 

my window had been replaced, 

the glass bits vacuumed, 

the dent pulled out so the window could go down

by All Auto Glass of Forest Lake

 at the bottom of my driveway for a good price.

By 3:00,

Ginger my chiropractor was realigning my spine.

And by 5:30,

I was home, 

pleased at concluding another deer misadventure 

within 12 hours for under $200. 

Feeling groovy

Tim and the kids are visiting his folks in Florida and I'm stay-cationing.  They are certainly getting their money's worth.  It's snowed multiple inches and dropped below zero.

This morning, I've done circuit training homestead style.  I walked down the driveway at 5:35 admiring the gorgeous full moon.  I went walking at the high school with my neighbor and we walked and talked for an hour.  Then I came home.  I shoveled out the mailbox for 5 minutes, hiked up the driveway, tended chickens for 10 minutes, dragged the recycling can down the driveway, shoveled for 5 minutes, hiked up the driveway, dragged the garbage can down the driveway, shoveled for 5 minutes, and hiked back up the hill.  Fire and ice- sweating muscles and throat burning cold, panting like a dog, and feeling gloriously self-sufficient and powerful. 


I've always been a bookworm and never saw the appeal of the whole honest-day's-work-physical-labor thing.  Wow, was I wrong.  

Now granted, I can't keep up that pace for hours and hours and even after 40 minutes, my back was aching.  But I could do 40 minutes of chores following an hour's walk.  I took bioplasm and homeopathics to reduce the swelling, did my new PT and took a hot epsom salt bath to relax my back all by 9:00 a.m.


Not only am I feeling great, I'm feeling righteous.  It's 9:20 a.m. and I've got the beautiful day to myself with 90% of my responsibilities behind me.  I've had a fabulous conversation, done real meaningful physical activity, and now I've got nowhere to go and no promises to keep.

Here's what I'm humming today.