In Vermont, December is the honeymoon phase of winter; enamored with the new snow and the hope it will stay until Christmas. There is the romance of the holidays. Vermont is the top destination in all Hallmark Holiday movies. The cold means we haul out the big coats and begin living in boots, which is an easy switch from Birkenstocks to Mucks.
By February we are hibernating. This winter temperatures have been below zero almost as much as above with the wind tossing snow tumbleweeds. Driving down the road I rarely seen anyone outside unless they are clearing their driveway, in which case we both enthusiastically wave through the rolled up window.
Walking into the house with arms full of groceries I am immediately comforted by the warmth coming from the wood stove. Looking out the front windows I notice the icicles hanging, clear stalactites, from the edge of the roof. Peering through them, it feels like we are inside an ice castle, protected by snaggley-toothed guardians.
We live at the end of a dirt road, well off the main drag. We have neighbors, but not in the traditional sense of being directly beside them. I think about them all winter and strain my neck for a glimpse as we pass.
Almost six months will pass before we get a good look at baby Maisie. Like a garden, there is a lot of growing done in six months. Sometimes we walk by with the dogs and see Maisie in the window, new, longer bangs pulled back with a barrette. We wave, as if we, rather than our dogs, are what she is looking at. Maisie will rise as the tulips; strong, straight and lovely. If weather permits, we see her parents walk past, Maisie’s fur-rimmed face peeking from the pack on her dad’s back. They will meander past, stand at the fence and wave to the chickens and sheep.
Donald turned 98 this week. He lives on the exact spot where his grandparents had a hillside farm. Beside his house stands a large apple tree from the 1800s. In the summer we drive our wagon down to his orchard and pick apples to add to ours for pressing cider. The crooked old tree still bears some fruit. Macintosh apples were first bred here and this tree is one of them.
Winters are difficult for Donald. I stop in with a bakery box of treats the day of his birthday and he chats with me from his armchair where he spends most of his days reading or watching TV. We talk about the history of his family’s land and he tells me about his uncle living in a cabin off grid on the land that we own directly across from Donald’s house. He needs to cup his ears in order to hear my responses but his mind is sharp and he still enjoys a good game of Cribbage as well as pie, cake and cookies. As I walk back down our road toward our farm I feel filled by the time spent with him and look forward to seeing him astride his big John Deere when grass returns.
In the middle of our section of dirt road sits a large blue house. When it snows, kids race out and build snowmen and forts. They pop up from their construction as we pass and wave with snowy mittens. This is an inter-generational home; the parents, five children and one set of grandparents live here. The kids are all home-schooled so outdoor time is also recess. The snowbanks are enormous this winter enabling them to create great walls for snowball fights. When we go by, it makes me remember not only our kids playing in the snow, but myself as well. I feel the cold on my nose and remember chewing clean snow off my mittens, my chin wet and freezing. Packing hard balls of snow as ammunition, what it feels like when one bangs you and the icy snow slides down inside your coat. I’m reminded of tromping back inside after playing and removing all of my wet clothing. The grace of finally being dry and warm again, the special tired your body feels after a long day of playing outdoors.
Seamus’s friend, Brody, lives one house up from Donald. Brody’s owner, Scott, is one of Donald’s kids. Cheryl, Donald’s daughter, lives right next door to Scott and Brody, a bit of a conclave. Many mornings I look out to see Scott standing on the road, red leash draped over his arm, and Brody running with Seamus, making racetracks through the snow. If Brody slows down, Seamus has learned to find a stick from the woods across the road and wave it in front of Brody until he begins the chase again. They are pups, Brody being a little older. Both need the release of running. Sometimes Bronte will join in for a few laps but these youngsters can go all day: she is rounding ten years old and saves her energy for herding.
Jason, Lynne and Morgan live in the log cabin perched at the top of the knoll. Jason is the road’s carpenter, the corner post of our neighborhood. He is always willing to help with a project: he helped Paul build all of our farm buildings. I love walking out and hearing him singing as he bangs on a board. We’ve hired him to help with challenging jobs: that is the easy part. Paying him is the tough part. He shrugs, mutters something about, “catching us later,” and disappears. We end up doing some math for a check and also bringing homemade baked goods to square up. That is neighboring.
At the very beginning of our end of the road is a small brown house that sits empty most of the winter. Jeanne was raised on the pond and returns each spring, like the geese, to this summer cottage. Family are housed around her. Jeanne is a retired educator but her husband still teaches so they spend his school year with their daughter in Pennsylvania. Early summer I pass by and the car will be back in the garage. I’ll toot my horn and so it begins. Jeanne loves to cook and entertain. We are lucky when we find an invite in our email. Neighborhood friends gather in the back, sipping summer cocktails and swatting deer flies. Often she and I will sit on two old benches and watch the stream bubble past: Seamus darting off to investigate a frog and then returning with a screech to be sure I haven’t left. Jeanne and I hug our goodbyes in the fall just before the semester begins and write rambling letters through the winter. I continue to toot at the empty house as I pass. Homage I suppose.
Our neighbors, our friends, remind us how quickly time passes. Maisie is a baby like Jason’s daughter Morgan was just yesterday. Morgan now in high school, babysitting our chickens when we take a trip.
Donna had the most beautiful gardens and each spring would find her on her knees planting and pushing the hair from her eyes with her garden gloves, Cooper chasing a ball across their yard.
Cooper is gone and Donna now lives in a care facility. Pete spends his winters sitting with her.
Donald drove his green John Deere down whenever we needed extra tractor-muscle and it was him that used his tractor and chains to place the ceiling we had pre-made for our first chicken coop.
Mayor.
Our kids grew up here. Josh returning to live for several years and get his Masters degree in wildlife biology- a nod to his childhood in the woods. Then all scattered, like wildflower seeds randomly tossed into the summer breeze while Paul and I stood, hand in hand, watching to see where they would land, and eventually where they would bloom.
We pull on our farm boots, wool hats and gloves and whistle to the dogs. Sam and Muir no longer answer but remain in the wind, always part of our farm. The sheep fed and chickens closed in, we trudge through the snow near the wood shed, haul ourselves over the snowbank and begin another walk down our road.