Photographic Interlude, A Sidewalk Going Nowhere

The photos that complement A Sidewalk Going Nowhere show the 1835 house, a work in progress.

Fields on the hill, with barn behind and house top far left

House in spring, addition behind

Backdoor, brick being repointed


Chicken coop with pasture in front, summer

Wood trim, front door

Shutter dog and brick front


Old window glass


Fireplace trim and mantel


Fireplace trim and oak floor


Living room doorknob and lock


Bathroom doorknob and lock

Back stone slab steps

A Sidewalk Going Nowhere

There’s a battle brewing—within the walls of my house.
As yet, I have not determined the nature of my enemy, except to say that it is “of Nature.”

The 1835 house we live in was, as many original homes in this area, badly in need of work when we found it. But the land was good. After all, a house can be repaired--the land, less so. With a stand of oaks behind and acres of rolling pastures, we bought the old farm 15 years ago, more excited about what we might find in the pond or be able to raise in the barn, than the challenges the old house would throw at us.

The two small upstairs bedrooms were barely adequate for our family of four--not to mention the closet problem. There were none.

The kitchen was what had originally been added to the brick house as a woodshed. An unfinished dark room, tacked onto the back of the house, with bare rafters overhead, barn-board walls, and a sloping floor—really only a problem, if you had applesauce on your plate, or peas.
An electric heater, plugged in under the sink, would prevent the pipes from freezing in the winter.

Our bedroom had what was probably the feature of which the sellers were most proud—its own toilet, placed in the far corner of a green-floored, attic-like space adjacent to it and situated under the eaves. Beside it, the only window in the room.
The perfect place to sit.
And read.

We wasted no time that next summer, putting on an addition—giving us the best of both worlds.
A house up front, with “character” and “charm.”
An addition behind, with everything else.

It is in this space between the structures, old and new, that strange sounds are heard.

(to be continued here)

Six months ago today…

“I took a day to search for God,
And found Him not; but as I trod,


By rocky ledge, through woods untamed,
Just where one scarlet lily flamed,


I saw His footprint in the sod.”

~William Bliss Carman


We came across these Wood Lilies clustered in a grassy area at the summit of Sargent Mtn. in Maine, 6 months ago today.
They’re the native lilies, not like the invasive Daylilies that crowd our ditches—and they bloom with their faces upward. In many areas, they’re threatened, but on this mountaintop they’ve remained safe.
Like beacons, they bloom, magnificent in the bright sunshine.



As the rain pelts my window, another gray day is forecast for tomorrow.
But, I recall wood lilies and granite.
I know what it feels like to be on top of the world.

Sun-kissed planet

The ice will be gone tomorrow.
Today’s sunshine left a kiss—a now frozen starburst within the mosaic surface of our pond.

We skated here last night, under a starry sky—gazing off to the point beyond all brightness. And savored the moments alone with our thoughts.


A speck of life in this vast darkness.

Where discussions revolve around foreign policy and health care, immigration and gun control, budget and economy.

While all that really matters—
revolves around the sun.

When Nature takes her own

White snow, his blanket,
he rests on the forest floor.
Oaks stand watch above.

Dressed in the richness
of these woods—red, orange, brown.
Lord of air, fallen.

Little feet scurry
to see what strangeness lies here.
Still, they touch him not.

I found the body of a Red-shouldered Hawk, perfect in every way, preserved by the snow in the woods.
He appears to have broken his neck.
I wrapped him well and will carry him to CNC.

He will be admired by many,
but remembered by me.

Please click to enlarge.

Have you seen...

I can see my breath.
With each step, there is a “crunch.” The air is dry and near zero.
I am alone in our field this morning.

Faded grasses, bent and broken, shade pockets of snow and cast them barely blue in the early light of day.
Weathered bird houses stand still on tall gray poles, empty of life.
The scores of deep brown teasel heads have been picked clean. On top, only a dusting of white remains. The birds have gone elsewhere.
It would seem that I am truly alone.

But on the berm of the old pond beside me, there is a crystal palace.
Where pillars of white have wrapped the strands of grass. And feathery cushions catch the sunlight with a silvery flash.



The muskrat lives beneath.
Safe and warm.
Unseen.
Except for her breath.


"Have you seen...." is an effort to discover the unusual beauty in things not usually appreciated for their beauty.

Click on image for detail

This dense hoarfrost structure grown from her breath was like nothing I've ever seen before.
And, as I lay on the ground trying to take pictures of it, I could smell what first, I thought was a skunk.
It was her--just within the burrow.

Before and after

Making tracks

The perfect winter’s night--full moon casting long shadows while snow fell ever so lightly--had given us the perfect morning for tracking.

Delicate flakes, still standing apart from the rest in the cold morning air, waiting for the sun or the pressure of a step.
I headed off to the pond—now solid from the week’s freezing temperatures and scanned the flat white expanse, where the night’s visitors sign a guestbook of sorts. The lure of the water’s edge--a hunting ground, even in this deep freeze.


Little footprints—birds, squirrels, rabbits—in clusters, as if they’d lingered safely, foraging here early this morning under the cover of darkness. Then, a trail, skirting the edge, and boldly crossing to the other side, caught my eye. It was fairly large and definitely canine.

Hmmm.
Possibly a neighbor’s loose dog, though I thought not. Very straight-forward and business-like, this trail seemed to be—not the wandering of a roving Rover.
And, although I would’ve liked to find we had a fox—I immediately remembered the coyote resting in the cool grass back here last June.
Had he returned?

I checked the dimensions and measured the tracks, —I would be bold, too—and say, with certainty, “coyote.”



By evening, I was feeling very proud of my recently tested tracking skills, and eager to share the find with my husband returning home from work.
“The coyote was out by the pond this morning,” I said, greeting him. “I found his tracks.”

“Oh, I completely forgot to tell you! I saw him back there before I went to work.”