Our little alarm clocks scampered down the hall at an unholy hour this morning, waking us before dawn by crawling into our bed and sticking their cold piggies on our skin. And to think I was worried we’d oversleep. I could see my breath as I stumbled down the hill to feed the chickens and let them out, my flip flops sliding a bit on the wet grass. Coffee, but not too much coffee, because today we were going to the fair!

We picked up my mom and were on the road only half an hour after our target departure time. We made good time, and though it was brisk, everyone was happy and comfortably attired in sweaters and knit hats. And that’s about where the day stopped going to plan. No, nothing dreadful happened. It was just a typical attempt at a day out with a 2-year-old and 4-year-old. Potty breaks. Demands for snacks. In the stroller, out of the stroller. Onto mama’s back in the pack, back down on the ground. More potty. More snacks. Those grand plans of doing? Abandoned, first unintentionally as we sought food for hungry bellies and  missed the talk I really wanted to attend, and then just totally written off.

I came home kind of cranky, but going through the photos just now, I can see all the fun we did have, even if it didn’t look quite like we had hoped. The girls slid down the big hill on cardboard boxes and leaped off of a huge hay bale into a soft pile. They got their faces painted, looked at all manner of critters, and patted the oxen team. Beanie got to see her beloved tractors and eat popcorn. We heard excellent music, and I even fangirled a little when I saw Amanda Soule and family at the Taproot booth (she is real!). We ran into some neighbors at the blacksmith shop and did a lot of people watching.

It was a good day with good people. My people.

Tomorrow we are headed to the Common Ground Country Fair, a “celebration of rural living,” as they call it. We didn’t do much while we were there last year, choosing instead to wander the grounds, wide-eyed. This year, however…I browsed their schedule tonight to see what was being offered tomorrow: beginner beekeeping, blacksmithing demonstrations, antique tractors…yes, please!

We’ve been doing quite a bit of rural living here this week. Pansy and Petunia breathed their last, and are now safely stored in the freezer. I was asked if I’d watch, and the answer is both yes and no. I felt an obligation to observe the actual hatchet blow, though I passed on most of the dressing process. The girls both wanted to help pluck, and so they did, later pulling up their little chairs to oversee the rest of the work. Once each bird resembled a store-bought roaster, I took over – washing, plucking any errant feathers, wrapping and storing. I was surprised that they were both mostly dark meat, and J speculated that it’s because they had such freedom to move around the yard, really using all of their muscles. I haven’t done the research to confirm, but I suspect he’s right. If that’s the case, isn’t it interesting to put the pieces together and realize just how all that prized white breast meat in the store is achieved. These birds are on the small side, and definitely aren’t buxom, but I’ll find a use for them, and be grateful they lived well.

We picked apples as a family earlier this week, ducking out on our lunch break to visit a local orchard in that small square of time between when I finish my paid work for the day and when J leaves for his own job. In a matter of fifteen minutes, we had half a bushel of Cortlands, and almost that many Honeycrisps, fresh off the trees. Part of our apple haul became pie – one for the table and another filling for the freezer – and I’ve made one batch of crockpot applesauce already, with more to come.

There was a chill in the air today, and so something warm for dinner was in order. Steaks and butternut squash soup, all ingredients locally sourced except the onion. Pie for dessert, of course. I managed to cycle two loads of laundry on the line, and make a trip to the library with the girls so Daddy could study in peace. It was so very nice to have everyone home, working together on our own little projects.

 

1. I have really amazing and funny friends. And it would be really amazing if they all lived close enough to hang out all the time. Alas, that is not the case, and so we text. The other night, I learned about chicken shaming. I think Petunia needs a sign. That darn rooster escapes the run every morning around ten, and poops on my picnic table while crowing her (his) brains out. Here’s your sign…

2. Speaking of roosters. I put the call out on Facebook to see if we had any local friends with “processing’ experience. We’ve decided to “dispatch” the Twins. Yes, it’s a very real event and I should probably stop speaking in euphemisms. We’re going to kill two of the roosters and put them in the freezer to eventually eat for dinner. I feel very calm about the decision, and I think that’s good. J doesn’t seem at all bothered by the actions to be taken; his only worry is having sharp enough tools to be humane. Even the Facebook chatter has been really supportive – lots of input from experienced friends, though sadly, no one local enough to join us for the day. We’ve done a lot of reading, but part of me really would like to have someone here who has done the deed before. I suppose we’ll have to wing it.

3. Our apple tree has no apples on it. I’m not sure how or why, but every single one wound up on the ground, rotting before I could scoop them. The pigs next door have benefitted, for sure: I dropped off another pan of slightly bruised fruit just this week. We’re guessing it’s the drought that caused them to let go and fall, but we’re no apple experts.

4.  We went looking for lighthouses last weekend, and wound up on an island. It was Open Lighthouse Day here in Maine, and my mother-in-law was visiting with her husband, so we decided to be touristy. J took us down to Portland to hop up the coast, stopping at five or six lighthouses along the way. Or at least that was the plan. We parked the car, and bought tickets for the ferry, and somewhere in the middle of the bay, J realized that there were no lighthouses on the island we were headed to. Oops. So we enjoyed lunch together (they were out of lobster!) and then ice cream (Swee’s first cone), and rode the ferry back to the mainland. We did eventually make it to the Portland Head Light, half an hour after the museum closed. Still, a nice day out and about.

5. Hornworms! Good gracious, these buggers are gross. They cling to the tomato plant when you try to pull them off, and then squirm in your gloved hand with a heft that made my stomach crawl. We found four yesterday, the first I’d ever seen in person. Our chickens weren’t interested in eating them, so I wound up just squishing them with a rock. That was a decidedly nasty experience as well: they actually pop.

6. More local eating. We finally investigated a local farm stand that we’ve driven past a thousand times. It’s not right on the road, and I was hesitant to explore on my own at first. But I found a bit of time where I was out and about without the girls, and decided to check it out – and I’m glad I did! Great produce and flowers. We’ve been back several times already.

7. Seven years ago Monday, I walked with my father down the aisle of a tiny stone chapel to meet a skinny, nervous boy at the same altar where I was baptized twenty-seven years earlier, and where my own parents were married just a few years before that. Behind me sat almost every person who had been influential in my life. Next to me stood my best girlfriends, the ones who taught me how to be a girlfriend. In front of me, my own uncle helped our pastor give the message and imparted his wisdom for our journey ahead. The photos look like I heard every word, but really, the only thing I remember is the hand that squeezed mine through the service. I never dreamed then that one day we’d end up here, or that our story would look like this. And it hasn’t always been easy (is it ever?), but he’s never let go.

Where is your story taking you this week?

We hit the beach last week. A last hurrah before we bid farewell to Summer.

It was cold and foggy, with a little drizzle on and off. We picked Swee up at school and packed into my little RAV, and off we went. There were maybe a dozen cars in the lot when we arrived, and I almost wished we hadn’t come.

And then when we walked down onto the deserted beach, it felt a bit like coming home. I grew up spending weeks at a time on the Jersey shore. Not the shore on tv, but a sleepy island town with beautiful white beaches and wholesome families on vacation. Where the horizon stretched for miles and all you could see was water and sky. The beach here hasn’t felt like that, what with the rocks and pine trees on one side, and the rocks and islands on the other. But last week, blanketed in fog with the hurricane-induced waves crashing on shore, it felt like my beach, and almost like home.

Home. How do you get to know a place the way you know the places you grew up? The smells and the feel, almost right, and yet not. Can you intentionally cultivate the knowledge of place that’s naturally born of being a child somewhere?

We didn’t bother with bathing suits, and just slathered sunscreen on any exposed skin before walking the sand in hoodies and pants. The girls clambered on and around the driftwood structures left behind, and chased the huge flocks of seagulls. We jumped in the waves, soaking our clothes, and then stripped the babies down to their birthday suits, little white hineys running and laughing along the shoreline.

I hate leaving the shore, and always stop to breathe deeply before settling my melancholy into the car. When will I get back?