Is this the last house?

Martyn and I have been talking about the major home renovations we want to do in the coming years. A new roof -we are thinking metal-in the next  few years will be needed and new first floor windows in wood for improved energy conservation, and appearance. We have talked a lot about a heat pump but there are problems with one in this old house so we are holding off on that for now. They are all the rage and I understand why.

But the window is closing as we enter our soon to be be mid sixties in the next couple years. What seemed like years to do things now seems shorter, and one really asks, "What do I want to do with my time?" More of the same, since I love what I do...but, what else?

I've always been a homebody, as is Martyn–besides fishing that is, which he hasn't done much of for years. I like a day trip, but I've done a lot of extensive travel in my time, and now I'm content on the farm and in my garden, sitting with Martyn and the dogs–perhaps boring to some, but peace to me.

But I also love the challenge and excitement of moving. I never thought we'd leave the last farm but after 13 years we did, and it was the best decision. So glad we did. I sometimes find myself wondering, is this the last house? I suppose it might be. My parents kept moving, it was in my father's DNA. My mother was a pro at packing and moving on her own, as am I. I was the one who coordinated the move West, not Martyn. I've fixed up about four houses before I met Martyn. But I also came to a point in my life where I realized that if my life had challenges and excitement on a daily basis in my work, I didn't have the urge to move so much, like in my upbringing [we moved a lot, sometimes just down the street].

This home has some issues for someone growing old in it, but one of the first women to live here, a mother of 7, lived in it until she was 100, in the 1800's. Imagine how different her life was than mine. Imagine.

I always loved May Sarton's memoirs. In her later years she moved to Maine, into a rather large house by the sea. I've always got that in the back of my head-a house by the sea. But it would have to be on the sea and I doubt that will happen not only do to money, but do to the challenges and availability of something. 

I love the house. It has some things I wish we could change-like having a bigger, proper mudroom and closets. That would be my dream. But all in all, we are content. And so for now, it is still where we are meant to be, and will be. I have been through this before, where one thinks they will never leave this house, or this place, or this 'thing', but things are fluid in life, including desires and dreams. 

The msytery of our 1760 house...I love it even more

 

{I am documenting the work over on Instagram]

What does any sane person do the day after Thanksgiving? Rip out the ceiling in the kitchen!

Our house was built in 1760, one of  the first houses in the village along with the Hilton place [this is my research anyway, still uncovering the history here]. It is a post and beam structure, and the only addition was done in the 18880's sometime when they added what was to be used as a Quaker meeting room [ a Quaker cemetery sits on the property line, property that was once part of this property which at the time covered 300 acres and went from the cove to Pemaquid Pond - I so wish I could see it like that! 

So anyway, we have remodeled many houses and the Yamhill house was a huge job. So the kitchen here is so small it is not that big of a deal. Um, sort of. But taking the ceiling out to expose the original beams is our goal. You never know what hides up there. A lot of mouse dust that is for sure. There was sheetrock from about 2005, then a layer of concrete from about 1800's and original hand hewn lathe under that and then the original pine floor boards and hand hewn beams.

I have to say, I feel like a kid again. This is how I grew up-with an architect father who like to remodel old houses. I thought of my mother a lot yesterday, as I did the hauling of the mess and MArtyn ripped the ceiling. How many houses did she do, a lot, and with two little kids. She never complained.

We found an old sheet from the Lincoln County News, from 1890. So cool. 

I am going to whitewash the ceiling and beams, the kitchen is small and needs the light. I am going to paint the walls and cupboards an antique white. I love the green, a color I've had in all my houses, but lately I want white and off whites. I was also inspired by the roughness and simplicity and sparseness of the Olson House. We will replace the outdated 1970's looking counter with pine wood and a new sink and fixtures, and new lighting. We also will take down the fireplace area roof -we think it will fall easily, it is the oldest in the house.

And we pulled all the old flat nails and will save them or reuse them.

But as we sat, exhausted last night after two days of demolition, I was so proud and felt so connected to this house. I loved this house the second I saw it online, as I sat in Oregon, panicking, since we needed to find something. It came on the market that very day, like an hour before I saw it, and I had email alerts on several sites. I called the realtor that day and put an offer in. We got it, with two other offers that same day. 

I feel like by taking the modern ceilings down, it's like setting the house free. We sat imagining the people that probably were outside the house hand hewning the lathe and beams. I wondered what they wore? Knickers? Probably not. The history of this area is intense. There is not a spooky bone in this house. I have done some research and have gotten to about the 1950's when it seems the house sort of sat uninhabited. We think at some point who ever was living here was living  pretty rough. And then around 2005 someone came in and modernized it-some of which was...mediocre, but none of it was unlivable and it allowed us to live here and work on the barns first.

Anyway, I was sort of dreading the ceiling demolition...such a mess, chaos...but I have to say, I am so energized and it has opened me up to all the other 'little' projects we want to do. And it generated some ideas for short stories I've been percolating for a year. I feel I owe it to the house. I feel like the house likes us and understands what we are doing for it. 

I love our house even more than the day I saw her.

Don't be afraid to make a big change

Five years ago we landed in Maine. This is still one of my favorite pictures of Martyn. I took it the morning after we arrived. We had arrived the night before at 10pm in the dark so the next morning was like Dorothy stepping out of the house to Oz. The grass was tall and lush. There was one little barn and none of the gardens or fencing you see now in my photos. There was something really vintage about the fact the house looked out on a sea of grass. But we of course had needs with the animals, so Apifera began to take shape with lots of fencing and outbuildings and barns.

I think back to that trip-six days and five nights-driving from Oregon to Maine, to a house we'd only seen online, to a town we did not know or a state we had never ventured too [I was there once in college somewhere]. It was courageous, people said. I guess it was. But it was not the first courageous thing I'd done and I knew that even with moments of fear, even when leaving a wonderful home or life, the next stage opens up even more remarkable encounters, sometimes in ways one can never imagine. 

I remember one person, I hardly knew her, only online through my blog, questioned me when we announced we were moving. "You said you'd never leave your farm, Katherine,"she wrote, and I felt a bit of resentment in her tone [part of the problem of online conversing, there is a lot of room for misinterpreting one's intended thought]. She had always wanted what I had, and here I was leaving it after 15 years of blood, sweat and tears. "I'm leaving here, I'm not leaving Apifera, dreams evolve," I told her.

I was leaving the land though and the friends scattered under the dirt in the land, and Old Barn, the one who had spoken to me when we first looked at the property in 2004. It was all a collaboration then, between me and Martyn and the animals, the land. It was so important, that time in my life. To be a shepherdess and learn good animal husbandry was so helpful to all I do now even though we no longer raise sheep. The zero supply of farm vets here in midcoast-real farm vets, like the ones I had out west who also farmed- I am grateful I had a lot of basic skills before getting to Maine. I was warned there were not vets in my area for livestock, and it is true. Lots of equine vets, many who say they know pigs or ruminant or camelids, but they really don't. I think that is the one thing I miss about the west, my farm vets.

But back to change. I felt compelled to move. I remember when I first knew we would move, and it was something I had not even asked Martyn about, I just knew in my head and heart we were going to, and it would not be down the street. I knew it would be far away but I did not know why or how or where. It took me a couple months to even ask Martyn about it. At that time, the thought of leaving my farm made me sick. but one day, I asked Martyn,

"Would you ever move to Vermont with me? I asked.

"Sure!" he said.

And that was the beginning. At the same time a good friend was moving back to her original homeland of Maine, and said we should check it out, that the prices were much lower than Oregon. And they were, which allowed us to buy our house. 

From the minute Martyn said that one word, Sure! I was on a mission, and it went fast. I had many moments of fear, and heartache-I knew the flock could not come with us, and I had to leave much behind, including my riding buddy and 83 year old friend and mentor. She died a year later.

But every time I got scared, I would get his very strong, positive message, "You have to go, and you have to go now, as soon as possible." I think within 6 months from Martyn's, "Sure", we were on the road.

The first night on the road, sleeping in a tack room at a farm, I think in Idaho, was cold and scary and unsettling. All the animals stayed in the trailer except the three dogs. The next night was more comfortable and a sweet little barn and by the time we got to the next two nights the anticipation of arrival was rabid. Entering the part of the country that felt like New England was just so wonderful we were both meant to be here. We were meant to be back there, and alsom meant to move here.

I had a list of homes as prospects, but many were in slight different areas. They had to have a barn even if it was too small. And the house had to look like Maine-those were my requirements. When our old farm sold, some of the places I had found were already gone and that was a scary moment. But I looked at the realtor sites constantly and had email notifications set up, and one morning, bingo, I saw this house. It had literally gone on the market that morning. I could feel sensations looking at the photos, I knew it was our house, it had to be. The house we found-I had seen it the morning it went online, and called the realtor and put an offer in on the phone-could not have been more perfect for what Apifera was about to become. There were rough spots-the busy road was something that depressed me immensely in the first year, but my mentor pointed out "You need to ask what the road can bring you." She was right. And we have since done lots of privacy upgrades.

It was a lot of creative thinking to get here-how to pack the animals in the trailer, all 33 of them, including 4 surprise piglets born to Eleanor four days before we left. The equines left a month before us, and stayed at a stable until we got here. That was hard, but they got here safely.

I was telling a friend I've known for ever that my life here is like all the things I did in the past 30 years in both my career, and my life, it all came together and was wrapped in a bow when I arrived. The work I wanted to do with elder people out west never happened-we were way too far out in the rural area and there just was a different mindset to what I was trying to do. And where we landed in this part of midcoast is so perfectly entwined with our mission, it is kind of a miracle.

I think I am doing my most creative work, in both art and writing. And while I don't crank out paintings as much as I used to, I feel the work is stronger than most of what I did in the past. I have reached a point in my art career where I can say 'no' and I do say 'no' and mainly paint and create what I want. I have no patience for impatient deadlines, I've been there, done that and I did it well which is why I am able to do what I do now. I paid my dues over and over.

The non profit takes a lot of creativity too, but I like that. I love it all. I love my elders-both human and creature.

So, if you feel a rumble inside of you, a voice saying change is coming, listen to it, don't fear it, just remember change expands things...it can be unsettling and exhausting, and yes, scary, but change will settle and you think, "I never knew I would be doing this, here, and I never knew it would be so good or better than I already had it, but it is."

Maine skies

I like Maine. I feel very at home here, with the terrain and feeling of the area. Of course, Maine is big and varied, I might not feel that way farther north I don't know. Maine to me is a mix of my homeland of Minnesota and my memories of New England when I was in college.

But the sky here is very intense. It changes dramatically on an hour by hour basis. We are on the coast so the storms that blow through gives us drama in such a beautiful way-tones of Payne's Gray all over.

I caught this photo the other day and I especially like it.

Okay, we will miss snow covered Teapots

Spring is upon us...really, it is. It has been sunny and 40's for two entire days and the ice is dropping and birds are singing, the pussy willows are popping...and just two days ago this was the scene. It has been a long, icy winter [for so many] and as difficult as that can make farm life [or any simple tasks for all of you reading] I have to say I loved seeing the The Teapot and donkeys in their snowflake suits. So I guess just as we yearn for the tulips and spring blooms this time of year, come November we will look forward to seeing our little short and stout masterpiece in the snow. The donkeys and her are getting along well, although Old Matilda still thinks she is a bit forthright in her attitude. The Teapot comes into a separate stall at night to prevent overeating. Earnest, the poor chap, has given up on being friends, I think. He moved his bed to be near Boone's area. I thought it was sort of sweet, he has always liked Boone and can commune through the fence.

Yelling at frozen poop and the universe gets an earful

{Before reading this post understand there is humor in this, and that all is well.}

This morning I think I finally hit a wall.

This winter has been not as pleasant as I usually find winter. Part of it is there is ice everywhere-everywhere- and it has been here most of the winter, making walking difficult, and just simple chores. Cold temps have hung around and it makes manure management in the equine area difficult, some mornings impossible to get it off the ground. Then they have to walk on the hrad stuff and they can get bruised-which heals, but...I hate not being able to get the frozen lumps off the ground. If it is around 20 and sunny I usually can.

So this morning I just went a bit bezerk with the frozen poop, and started beating it with my rake. The donkeys, sheep and Boone, and teapot, just ate their hay contently and let me vent, like they always do.

Then I had a good cry and told the universe I was mad at it. I continued on and told the universe I was also mad at the worms in deer that got into the slugs that passed it to Birdie. And I was mad at Maine. In fact, I was mad at a lot of things and just poured my heart out to the universe, with many expletives. And I was especially mad at the frozen poop. It was a good release. The donkeys understood completely and I hung out with them. The sun is out today, more cold temps tonight, more snow sometime soon. I can hear my mother, "It will be hot before you know it."...and then I'll be mad about flies. So, we forge on, on ice, and poop.

Birdie has had two days of not great therapy sessions. She had swelling for a day, so I put her back on anti inflammatory which made it go away. She was not cooperating this morning, I felt she needed a morning off. It is an up and down journey we are on.

Poetry out of the sky

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A post shared by Katherine Dunn / Apifera Farm (@katherinedunnapiferafarm) on Feb 18, 2019 at 10:52am PST

Don't worry, The Nose has it under control

Weather is such a crucial part of people's lives, especially those of us that live more in the elements in rural areas. Since I don't have to drive to a job, nor does Martyn in the winter, I actually get sort of jazzed up for big winter storms, especially since we have a generator now. I am afraid of lightening storms even though I love them, but a good snow storm is comforting in some way.

And I got everyone midget sized insulated overall bibs. They are pretty content. We are well prepared here with our barns and shelters, electric water buckets in the most crucial stalls and frost free pumps. And now a generator which we haven't had to use, but could have used a million times before we bought it. Why we waited so long I can't say, although money is always an issue but we have the kind you fill with propane and it does what we need.

The beautiful snow, about 8" so far is sadly turning to sleet. I doubt we will venture out tomorrow either. The temps will be very cold for a couple days, and then warm up. My biggest challenge as the sleet takes over will be keeping gates and sliding barn doors free of ice. Having the electric water buckets for the outer barn is such a god-send. it took some doing to make it safe, but I'm so grateful I have that this year.

The happiest camper right now? White Dog, and Marcella too, they love the cold and snow. The Nose wants you to know we are well, and he has it under control.

A house built for tiny people full of cats

Our house is small. It is cozy. We are lucky that nobody destroyed the integrity of the house, built in 1760, and when we moved in we basically freshened up wall colors and wood work. I still have to paint the upstairs which was painted at some point for young children and is not my taste. but it was a relief to move in and not hate the interior. In our last farm, we spent years and lots of sweat equity to fix it and take it out of it's 1970's outdated and not-to-our-taste decor, not to mention just fix everything that was outdated. We have things to do here, the kitchen needs help...but basically the house is what it was, and will be for the remaining time we are here. Not only do we not have the money to expand it, it would ruin the house, in our minds. I would love a lager entry with a real mud room, instead the 'mud room' is an uninsulated 8x8 room, stuffed full of recycling, boots...and 'whatever needs to go somewhere until it is gone' room. I was at a friend's beautiful old home, small, but they remodeled it and it has an entry and mud area that I coveted. But then I got over it when I returned to my little oasis.

This house is cozy, as I say. I joke it was built in a time when people were much tinier. I imagine what it was like for The Rhoades with all those kids, and that was before they added on the 'meeting room' in the 1800's, I believe. I imagine the kids all slept in one room.

The good thing about this small house is we have to think about any thing we bring into it. There is no chance for gathering a lot of stuff. I've never been a knick knack person, but this house has very little storage. We have just enough glasses and plates to fit in the tiny kitchen. If I wanted to rob a bank and splurge on new linens, there would be no place to put them.

So that is that. We live simply, always have, and are content.

And just because we have little storage, does not mean I can't stuff the house with animals. Three cats, two dogs and some birds...oh, and the bunny. I think Omar, Oscar and Mister Mosely fit in with the wall color and furniture quite well, don't you? Our fireplace area where we have our tiny dining table, has a beautiful wood floor like the rest of the house-it is covered in dog beds. But somehow, it all works.

I like it.

Present day ghosts

Inspired by the many who have lived on this land before us. This winter I'll be diving deeper into the history of our 1760 property, first homesteaded by The Rhoades back in 1760, one of the first houses along with that of the Hilton's. I've been to their burial plots, and the history is rich, I feel it when I walk around, more so in the southern Wood. Then again there is the Quaker cemetery over there too.

"Present Day Ghosts" 12" acrylic on wood, now avaialable at the shop.

Opie goes to the sea and meets new friends

Yesterday was a big day for Opie, and me. We drove an hour and a half down to Harpswell, a beautiful area on the sea here in Mid Coast. Our destination was The Vicarage by the Sea, a private home for dementia elders. It is nestled in the woods, with open spaces for their gardens and views of the sea.

I had somehow stumbled on the place somewhere online, and was attracted by their philosophy for person-centered dementia care, and how they believe in allowing residents to explore nature, and animals are also considered a therapeutic entity. There is not a lock down mentality here-locking doors to keep residents 'safe' does not happen here, instead, because of the high staff-to-resident ratio, residents are encouraged to wander if they need to [supervised] and go on short walks out side. They have a trail they call "The Freedom Trail" where residents can explore. One of the residents had just done such a walkabout when I was there, and she came back with a smile and enthusiasm in her face and voice.

I have never worked, per se, with dementia people except for mild cases in my family. So this was a stretch, a good stretch, to put myself in. The care manager and staff were just lovely, enthusiastic not only about their jobs, but the residents, and as importantly, about Opie and what we are trying to do here at Apifera. I want to work with people like this, that truly value animal related therapy, and demonstrate they care by telling me.

There was a gentleman there who I sat next to when I first arrived, and he held some small rocks in his hand. I asked if he collected rocks and he said he did, and he spent a lot of time petting Opie. But what I noticed was how deliberately he stroked Opie's back, not in a over handed way, but in a very intentional way, with each stroke making an impact on him, and the goat. I believe in the power and healing of touch, and I think many people are afraid to be touched, or touch others. Some of us did not grow up being touched much as young people or adults. So I found it very moving to watch him touching Opie. And i think having these animal encounters allow people to touch when they might not do so otherwise.

I also really liked the way the staff spoke to the residents. They did not talk baby speech to them, and I recognized they were letting the people be who they were, people with memory lapses, but there wasn't this need to control them or correct them.

I don't know if they will remember us, I doubt they will when we return, but it doesn't really matter. When you are there, they are with you, they are getting something out the moment.

We are planning to go back in the early fall, hopefully with Martyn in tow, and the llama and some other love ambassadors. The staff was all for it.

And then, I had promised little Opie he could visit the sea. He has seen the cove here from our property across the way, but never the giant sea. He reads about it in Earnest's books. So after our therapy visit, we ventured only about a mile down the road, and there it was, on both sides of the road, vast and full of big and small vessels. But what was even more spontaneous, we noticed a young woman in a wheel chair, with two older women. They were clearly celebrating something. I wondered if I should approach them with Opie, thinking they might get a smile from that. I hesitated not wanting to intrude. But they called out to the little goat. I asked to take a photo and they agreed [I didn't feel right putting her face in this post] but she was all smiles. It was a brief interlude for her, and me, and Opie. Of all the places I could have pulled over I somehow stumbled on that one. It was s gift for all of us.

So that was the day the little love goat went to the sea.

Do you like Maine, they ask, would you do it all again?

M'Lady Apple from my studio

We have been here exactly two years now. In 2016, we loaded up 33 animals and headed from our first farm in Oregon to make the 6 day journey to mid coast Maine. One of the first beauties we met was an old crabapple on the property, always in my view...I call her M'Lady. She is in full bloom now and simply stuns me every spring.

I can say that as we go into our third summer here, I am more grounded than the first two. Part of that is...logistics and getting through the upheaval any move has on a household, and in our case, a farm. We had to build a barn, and are about to start the third one. We had little or no fencing here. We created our gardens and stone walls and privacy areas. The house needed little attention in the beginning, it felt perfect in many ways, small but quite open for it's size. I have since done painting mainly and have slowly been recreating the rooms to our needs. We left a lot of furniture behind. I knew it would not fit in this little house. I sadly left all my father's studio teak work tables behind but I really had no choice. I left the couches too. In fact, the one thing I can say I would do differently is the personal property we left behind, for free. At the time, we were under the gun. The first buyer, who we grew to see as not the buyer we wanted for the farm, fell through. Even though we were relieved, we had many reasons we had to scramble and do as we did. I did my best. But...the only option would have been to possibly lose the house we are now in, and lose the $3000 downpayment we had on the equine hauler, slow down the sale of the new buyers and stay put and hope for the best in finding another place that fit our needs. It was either rush around and try to sell things, or move. But...I would have insisted on a separate payment for the probably $10,000 or more of personal property, including the 10 year old Kubota. That is one thing that I still get angry about, that I didn't do that. There were other things in the sale I can't think about because they make me mad, so I don't. I can't tell you how stressful the sale was...and all the logistics of the move I had to handle with the animals.

So, it took time to resettle, emotionally and physically. But we have.

And yes, we like Maine. I hate the bugs and flies, but you could put me anywhere and I would tell you summer, despite all it's pluses, is not my season. I love the winter here, really I do. So does Martyn, he gets to be on the farm working, the summer people are gone, it gets beautiful and quiet. Back West, Martyn was driving a total of four hours a day just to get from the farm to his landscaping clients. He was home by 7:30 on a good day. He was running out of steam after running his own crew and business for 20+ years. Keeping up with his estimating and billing was really getting problematic. I sensed at some point we weren't going to be able to sustain ourselves emotionally for another 15 years when the mortgage would be paid off, and we would have been 70 by then. And then what? We saw a lot of people wait too long to sell their land and farms as they grew older, and they would get into trouble.

The hardest transition, for me, was losing the more rural feel. But now we live in what I describe as a postcard New England village setting. Old houses from the 1700's dot the roads in midcoast, the sea cove is in view, old apple trees, the smell of the sea...it's all different than the Wilamette Valley. Oddly, I've met quite a few Oregonians who moved here, some who are small farms. The appeal of paying 1/2 for a piece of property [versus what it would cost out West] here is what first intrigued us. As freelancers, especially for Martyn, at some point you might not be able to put in the hours to feed a mortgage. So we don't have one now. We live simply, and hope our health holds out, but who knows.

I miss my vets. I was warned by one of my vets out West who had hands on knowledge and experience with the situation in Maine of the large animal vet care, or lack there of. I believed him, but thought, well, that was 20 years ago, surely it is better now. It's not. Equine vets a plenty. But farm vets? Nope. I have not found a clinic yet that I can I say I honor and trust. I started working with a highly regarded place, but just to get them to the farm is $100, anything they do here, such as coming to examine a goat, has a $150 minimum. I talked to them about this, that they are treating small farms like people with pets versus herds and flocks. She understood, and I really liked her. But, that's the way they choose to operate, it's their business, not mine. I feel sorry for both new farmers and the animals in their care-the vets I had in Oregon taught me so much, over time. And they weren't cheap, no vet is. But what would have cost about $375 total the other day was almost $800 here. So I'm grateful I had 15 years under my belt and know the basic treatments and do most of my own vetting thanks to the vets I had out West.

Would I do the move again? I always find this question odd. It's like asking, "Would you be born again if I had a choice?" Hindsight is 20/20. I would do it again, but I wouldn't want to, and I would do a couple things differently. It was hard leaving my farm. That farm was my dream, a dream I'd had since my first encounter with my Uncle's farm in North Dakota. I write about that dream in "Donkey Dream". But it was not a question of should we leave or not. I felt we had to leave. I felt compelled to move, as fast as we could really, and I felt it had to be Maine. I will live by that and swear by that. There were invisible reasons we had to get out of there at that moment, and get here at this moment. I just went with that, i believed and let that internally. Martyn is so happy here. I knew his work schedule was killing him back West. Mistakes were being made too that were effecting our finances, he was just...spent. He gets up at 5:30 now and goes to work 15 minutes away, for a small landscape company. He is treated well and works with a great boss and crew. He has no ego about not having his own company, or not being the boss. He works on beautiful ocean properties and doesn't have to think about the logistics of the job, he just shows up and does what he loves-landscaping. He doesn't have to worry about billing. And I know exactly what money is coming in and it's easier on me too. It feels much more manageable.

When I had my riding accident last year, I asked Martyn, "Would you stay in Maine if I died?". He didn't hesitate, he said, really in a positive happy tone, "Oh yea, I love it here."

Martyn gave us so much over the years, and still does. I think more than anything, I love Maine because Martyn does. He deserves so much.

And I have people here, and creatures, I love now. I love them. I wouldn't want to have not met them, including my elder friends, and including M'Lady.

"How many times can she photograph my snowness?"

I can't resist it, every snow day presents photo opportunities galore with White Dog. I've become like those people on Instagram that can't simply live and enjoy moments with their child, they have to IG everything.

No, I really haven't.

But I am glad to photograph him. There will be days ahead I will want these photos to hold onto. I know, because I have photos from the old from I hold onto of the animals I've had to say goodbye to over the years. I never want to Benedetto to die, without me. But of course he will, or I will. Until that time, he is a loved subject of my lens.

How much snow can a donkey shovel

It snowed a wee bit. Just a tish. Then it snowed a tish more.

Or as we say in the barn when it's just us Misfits,

"That's a ##$%^##@ lot of snow."

I must follow my own code of ethics–no weather whining [unless it involves biting flies, then I can whine because I am usually bleeding from wounds]. But, even us winter lovers do get worn out this time of year when these storms keep coming back to back...to back.

But, oh it is beautiful.

This morning I stopped midway to outer barn, just to look. Imagine, I thought, if you had never seen snow and you woke up to this?

Imagine, if they told you today is the last day you will see...or hear the way the snow sounds as it lands...

I had planned to be in the studio which has sorely missed my presence, as has my bunny studio mate, but the time I got done shoveling in the front barn, I was already sort of pooped [for the record Martyn was good enough to shovel all the way to barn for me, since it was well past my knees, usually I just trudge on]. I arrived at the outer barn, and I let out an expletive-in amazement. Then I counted heads to make sure all Misfits were accounted for.

The way we positioned the barn means the exits are under the metal roof, and sliding snow creates mini avalanches. I will say last nights snow off the roof created a great wind barrier for the donkey stalls. And it was pretty cool, it reminded me of when we had so much snow in Minnesota as kids and we would carve out forts from the huge snowbanks.

I am getting a bit worn out, but it is better than ice storms, or earthquakes. Or...you know...biting flies.

Being the eternal optimist and lover of all things Nature has to teach us, I took today as a sign to slow down, enjoy time with my flock and Misfits after all the shoveling. I was rewarded in many ways...including with llama love. Birdie followed right behind me as I shoveled out the avalanche on the sheep side of the barn. She was very concerned I think.

We love it, we lay in it, we walk in it, we do not complain, we live

Today we awoke to another Dorothy-enters-a-winter version-of-OZ, the 12" of snow from last night's Nor'easter blanketed the land and encased the fences and trees. But White Dog was there to simply be what he is every day, White Dog. And Marcella joined in.

A day with snow is a day without flies, that is our motto in Maine. It is a beautiful snow, a bit heavy, but there is no more wind today and it's still coming down.

It is hard to resist taking any photo of something snow covered. So enjoy these photos. I hope you can feel the silence of the earth below the sound of the snow...and the contentment of two White Dogs.

Awakening to quiet beauty

Awaking to morning after there has been considerable snow at night is always a magical experience for me, perhaps it takes me back to childhood, when a new snow meant no school, sledding and baking cookies.

It was a heavy snow of about six inches, caking the branches of every tree. And the sky color this early morning was very intense blue. It will be gone soon as its warm, and fifties are forecast for next week, so I will relish in it today.

There is a sound to the snow. But it also leaves a blanket on the interference of the noises of the human world going by the front of the farm. As much as spring and gardening and all the joys that come with warmer seasons, I do love winter for giving me quiet and less intrusion.

Opie puts on his swimming trunks

It's been horribly cold, as you might know, all up and down the New England coast and into the inland areas. We are not as bad off as some inland places and hit -12 last night with little warm up during the day past 0. But I'll take it, and there is no wind, and a beautiful sun on the crisp white.

Still, it starts to wear you down, especially with animals to care for. We did okay though and nobody suffered since we have good barns, lots of good hay and frost free water, and a generator if we need it. Chipping all the water buckets is a lot of work but it got done and was a good workout three times a day. [I had lots of suggestions on keeping water thawed in buckets, none of which work for our set up, this year anyway, so there's no need to give me unrequested advice here on that, thank you.}

Today it really didn't feel that cold to me even though it was zero when I went out. I've had most of animals secured in the stalls to keep the warmth in-the pigs generate a lot of heat in their large stall so they are fine. The chickens are all inside the barn too. In the outer barn, the equines tough it out but have ample area out of wind and elements, and this year for the first time Boone wore a 300g coat-he has a thin hair coat so I got him one and he is warm as toast, as is Matilda who wears a coat in the winter due to her age. The sheep are just fine with their thick wool coats as is Birdie. Rosie is probably the one who has the hardest time in the cold but she has a deep bed of straw about 2 feet thick so is just fine, and also has a coat which often comes off but it helps in this weather. Marcella, Earnest, Wilbur, Moose and Goose also have a large interior area I can shut down to the winds and they were fine. Opie, Tripod and Sophie have an area inside the barn too and are content.

I told them this morning as I did chores that this week the weather is going to warm up, and after this cold it will be just like beach weather. I later found little Opie in his favorite swimming trunks, ready for the beach. Forget how literally they take me.

The blizzard begins

I was up early to do feedings not sure when the Gabonzo or whatever-they-are-calling-it snow storm was hitting. And there at the gate, as a light flurry began, no wind, was my faithful gatekeeper, Benedetto. He's there rain or shine, wind or sleet...knowing breakfast is in my bucket, but also to let me know that everything is alright or he would not be standing at the gate.

The storm is now in full force. It is 2 pm. It is a whiteout and the gusts are strong. A classic Nor'easter is upon us. But this time we have our new generator so we are better prepared should we lose power.

Stay tuned.

When whiskers freeze, Sophie has a slumber party and Matilda gets a coat

Old Matilda with frosted whiskers

It is really cold. Not just a 'tad chilly', it is dangerously cold. But we are fine. It's one thing to have this weather for a few days, but we will have it for over a week, maybe even two weeks. As much as I love the winter, I'll be honest, it adds a lot onto the daily chores-ice buckets, and making sure everyone has extra hay so an additional trip tot h barn in mid day is necessary.

I put out a request this morning to Apifera Angels for another horse blanket for Matilda, and bam, one was purchased. Oh the power of the village of love. Thank you!!Don't worry, Matilda is not in danger, she has one winter coat but I'd like a 300 gram weight one for her to give additional warmth. Matilda went into winter with good weight and is getting 6# of senior feed daily plus hay. It's all about the hay in this arctic weather. And we are going through double the bales but I will not worry about that now. The minute they get their hay, the shaking stops even in below 10 degrees.

All the equines had frosting whiskers and clumps of ice on their nostrils this morning. Boone had frosted eyelashes. I have a 300gram blanket coming today for Boone who never wears a coat but he is going on twenty and has always had a thinner coat. Last winter did help him develop a slightly thicker coat. He is also notorious for ripping off blankets, so I hope he doesn't destroy it. I'll put it on at night in these frigid temps. A horse needs 1-2% of his body weight in hay, and he is getting that and probably double that...so all is well.

I gave Boone a rubdown while he ate hay this morning to invigorate the heat in his body. he seems to like it.

"It's better than flies, Boone," I told him.

So...it's cold. What are you going to do? It does get tiresome after a few days. After the initial onslaught of everyone sharing photos on Instagram of their temperature gauges you are faced with the reality of...

It's %4##@&%$$ cold.

I also brought old Sophie up to the front barn to be with Sir Tripod Goat and Opie. That barn is a tish warmer. She just seemed a bit...off....last night when I did feeding, went to lay down instead of walking around getting into trouble, her eyes seemed dopey. She has water, but I wondered if she had not been drinking. Animals actually tend to drink more in cold weather [in my experience] and I do take care to replenish buckets and chip ice-which is about 2" each morning. SO I took her out last night and she was not thrilled to walk on the cold path with me, but she seemed fine once we got to barn. She has a very good wool coat, and I am pleased I've put a lot of weight on her this year since she has separate quarters. I left them last night and aid,

"Think of it like a slumber party."

They chewed their cud and seemed unimpressed,

"Will their marshmallow treats later, and movies?" they asked.

The donkeys don't have a lot of room to roam in. Last year we plowed but in these temps they sort of hunker down. I was amused that they went out to the paddock, and clearly made a beeline for the barn.

Old Sophie joins Sir Tripod for the winter arctic freeze

The equines went out this morning and did an about face

No matter what light you are in, or not, hang on.

There is something about the land, light and air here that is transforming me-in what almost seems like a rapid way-into my next level of being on this realm. Of course, leaving the West, and the old farm, and coming all the way across the country to start a new life, without knowing anyone or even knowing the house or town, catapulted us into a new phase of our life.

But it is more than that. I feel like I'm about to start my best work, my most important work. I think my painting, writing and photography have evolved so much in the past years. I am always most satisfied with the current work, but still, I think some of my best work has come out in the past two years.

I have some news to share but am waiting a few days to share it. I'm very excited about it, a new project that is juicy, emotive and just what I need to start the new year. I'm horrible at keeping in exciting news, so it will be days, maybe hours, before I say it online.

Back many years ago, when I was single, and had a broken heart, I hung to many little teachings of Nature. I looked to Nature for almost everything really, and I still find it my greatest teacher, companion and partner in the dance of the higher ground. Back then, when I was living in my homeland of Minnesota, I'd watch the winter snows get deeper and deeper, amused as the chipmunks dug and dug to find their middens or dig up nuts. I'd think of all the roots resting under those banks of snow. It was so symbolic of my yearning for new things-we can't see what is percolating under the ground, the little seeds that fell from Autumn tired flowers rest under the dirt and snow. And in Spring, they appear. You don't know exactly where they will pop up, or when, but they always do. The hope of life is we don't know what is percolating, and might present itself any moment, or any day. So hang on, no matter what light you are in, or not, hang on.

The gardens are a place of hope, and a teaching of the cycle of life. There is exuberance and renewal in the spring crocus or tulip first seen after the long winter, and summer is like the teenager who never thinks she'll grow old. Autumn brings us wisdom knowing what is ahead and some melancholy, but also great beauty in the drying leaves like the wrinkled skin of our elders. And winter...it lets us rest but also plan. For some, winter is the end of the road. The frail tree or creature might not live to see spring. But for me winter is restorative, creatively, and as a spirit.

My mother and father loved to garden, and they loved tulips. I planted a round mass of red tulips in the front yard last fall. I thought of them. I can see the mound from my office window-if you look closely to the right of the tree where the light is shining, you can see it too. I look out at it almost every day, not because I'm tired of winter, but just as a nod to Nature, to the higher power in me, to say,

"I know you are in there, and in spring you will be beautiful."