February Newsletter

***Insert Faulknerian monologue here***

Think Hal Hollbrook’s playing Mark Twain doing his impression of James Faulkner.

January, when the trees snap because the weight of their desolation combines with the character of the wind.

Building Hugelkultur Mounds

January, when the salt and sand on the road, a veritable boiled ocean, will disintegrate the underside of your truck and kill the wildflowers when it all melts.

January, when shelves are as naked as an opossum born out of season, unless you can fashion your own bread from carefully curated stockpiles, rationing out so there is no waste, but still having enough to take an extra loaf to a neighbor.

January, when all those winter root vegetables, the ones you refused to eat as a child despite your mother and stern but kindly aunt switching your hide, start to look and smell like a fine stew.

January, when you have plans and goals but you are trapped inside due to the whims of weather that propels itself across the countryside like some form of Canadian vengeance.

Seed Starting

January, when the speech of crows, cackling their ancient patois, ricocheting from the barn to the wellhouse, reminds you they are always watching and judging.

January, the cruel month that starts with explosions in the sky and ends with burst pipes and failed heat and a truck that won’t start, despite all the precautions.

Icy Pond

That is to say, nothing much going on here except protecting the baby plants, prepping the soil for February and March planting, counting new leaves on cold hardy cuttings and new planted willow, and, of course, as always, art, science, and effort.