Stick season is upon us. I step outside to do an evening check of animals and a cold wind whips dried leaves around my ankles, making me wish I had grabbed a coat off the hook before leaving the house.
We spend part of Sunday winterizing bee hives. We kneel on the grass in our bee suits cutting black tar paper then carefully pulling it around each hive before stapling it into place. We only see a few bees as most have gone down low gathering around their queen, keeping her warm. We spend the rest of the day winterizing our own hive; clipping the pasture, turning cement plant urns upside down, covering the picnic table and spreading chicken manure between rows in the garden.
In the furious pace of preparing for winter, we barter for help. On Tuesday, our friend, Jeff, arrives in his silver Toyota. Our dog races to greet him as he steps out. Dog lover, he takes a moment for a scratch before unloading his chainsaw and gloves from his back seat. He and Paul will begin the day cutting wood they have previously left on the ground. I hear Muir’s joyful barking as they throw logs into our wagon and start up the hill with the ATV. When I look out later I see a pile of round chunks like a misplaced beaver dam, near our wood shed. That weekend my high school cello student, Luke and a friend will split and stack the pile. I hear them laughing over the hum of the splitter. After a while I bring them out glasses of cider that we have pressed. When finished, the empty spaces next to our stone chimney will be filled and the wood shed bulging with two years worth of firewood; one side for this year’s burning, the other drying for next.
During a summer wind storm, a large branch crashed into the metal roof of our shop. At some point during the wet months there was a small but noticeable leak. We put a call in to our neighbor, Jason, who promises to stop by when he has a second. A talented carpenter, he has helped us on many building projects, scaling the rafters of our new barn and wedging a new shower/tub into our tiny bathroom. When we ask about paying him, he always turns away and mumbles that we’ll deal with that later. “Later” normally means that we come up with an amount and bring it by his house. He will take the envelope uncomfortably, happy with anything that we have put in it. Saturday mornings I often see his truck parked in the driveway of an older neighbor, just happening to stop by, but with tools.
In Vermont, snow tires better be on the vehicle by early October. In November, knowing glances pass between Vermonters when someone without snow tires slides off the road during the first snow. Our mechanic, Anson, lives about a mile down the dirt road, his shop surrounded by the land and houses built by his grandparents long before he was thought of. We call to make an appointment. If we are lucky enough to catch him on the phone, we are set. If we leave a message, we’ll just have to try again later, so we don’t. We drop our vehicle off the night before, parking on the side of the road, the blue light from his TV visible from the front window. We leave the keys somewhere in the car but never worry about it. Although you don’t see him, Anson always knows who is there.
I arrive to pick up the truck and stand in the shop for a chat. He is sitting on a stool, cap stained with motor oil [on his head], arms crossed. He is no-nonsense but laughs easily. We talk about his father who has just died and his eyes fill with tears. It is hard, we agree.
We’ve called on a Sunday morning when our truck battery quit, expecting to find a way to get it down to the shop at the beginning of the week. While eating scrambled eggs we hear someone in our driveway. Anson has arrived, without notice, and is putting in a new battery.
We drive our ATV down, Muir’s ears flapping as we roar down the long dirt road. Anson leans down to rub Muir’s chest then changes the oil before sending me on my way. He’ll take a check but prefers to wait for cash.
When the vet arrives to euthanize our old ewe, Mrs. Chubbers, we call Josh to help move her carcass into the back of our truck. We hear his ATV coming from the class four road that begins just beyond our house. He steps off, looks over and, with long strides to me, wraps me in a silent hug. As the procedure is being done, his head appears in the window and he oversees. His presence is large and sturdy, like one of our maple trees.
Josh and Al arrive on cross country skis and borrow tools. I drive over and bring Sunday morning muffins. Paul and Al mix concrete while her father and Josh dig holes.
We sometimes forget when the days are sunny, but when November comes, we are reminded of the warmth of the fabric sewn around us by our community.