Off Grid on Goose Creek

This “slice of life” from 2013 also published on Jan 28 to Medium.com where you can see better views of the images. You might consider “following” my Medium.com articles and essays, and “recommend” a few if you find merit.

Off the Grid on Goose Creek at Medium.com

Rhythms change when the lights go out…

Even into the third month of round-the-clock wood fires in the stove, it gets no easier to hoist yourself out of bed in the mornings to feed it. Some are harder than others. I vote for yesterday as this year’s prize winner. So far.

The prolonged very-cold does not suit the energy personality of this 140-year-old house. She treats us well into the twenties, the teens if there’s no wind. Below that, there’s no love.

Here, after weeks of below-freezing days and below-zero nights, this old house (circa 1870) begins to suffer hypothermia, the normal heat retention and circulation pattern dis-eased by tiny cracks and chinks. The stove’s continuous gasping for replacement air pulls arctic cold in faster than the throbbing heart can radiate body heat into her living spaces where we sit huddled and blue.

At four a.m. I reluctantly heaved off of me every blanket and quilt and comforter we own. I would have stayed in bed, not to sleep but to avoid morning shock. The cast-iron tyrant was unforgiving of my hibernation hopes; she demanded a feeding. Meals come close together lest pipes freeze or wives whine when it is this cold for this long.

The percolator made encouraging groans. I squinted at the indoor-outdoor thermometer next to the kitchen sink (water trickling constantly for a week): minus 6 outside, 57 inside it read. For the next twenty minutes, my hands mindlessly did what they do to gather kindling, stovewood, matches, and a pine cone or two and start fires in both stoves. I can do it in my sleep. In fact, I think I did just that yesterday.

At last, chores done, I assumed the morning position, monitor, keyboard, mouse and microphone just so, and began brainstorming on some upcoming projects. I was really making progress when the lights went out.

…to stand listening to the silence of a snow

I poured another cup before the percolator went cold, and aimed my flashlight towards the frosted window: -8 now the thermometer said, the coldest so far this winter.

And long story short, it was 12 hours before the power came back on in time that we didn’t have to eat supper by candlelight. But we could have. And, as often is the case with such “emergencies”, we were reminded of how dependent we are on the life force of electricity and also, how in our particular situation, we can still go on without it. For a while.

Yes, we have a generator, and it’s true it has never been called to service in this kind of situation. Partly, that is because our outages ha been brief enough not to threaten the freezer contents (or cold enough outside that we have a substitute freezer), but mostly because neglected small engines do not like me and I fear rejection.

When, after the matriarch finally emerged after a few hours of having the quilts all to herself, I held a match to the top of the cylindrical wick of the shaded kerosene lamp I had fetched from the back room. It cheered up the room considerably.

We re-heated what I had not drunk of the coffee in a pot on the gas stove, and casting shadows against the cabinets, she seared the meat for the 32-bean soup that would soon simmer on the wood stove all day.

No two snowflakes — and no two frozen creeks — are ever the same. We see an infinite variety of things water can do in winter.

After sun-up I hauled wood, the pile I showed you a while back now, covered in goose feathers-–three inches of the driest snow I think I’ve ever known. She ministered to chickens, and Gandy had a playmate come over in the afternoon, his master also without power and bored.

Water water everywhere, but not a bucketful for flushing

Water saved in milk jugs we used as labeled—for drinking or flushing-–and good thing we had them stored in the basement since the creek’s water is inaccessible under a good six inches of solid ice. We’ve used a sledge hammer before to break through to flowing water, but I think I remember we were younger then.

On the loveseat, the warmest place in the house, stove in front and the afternoon sun off my shoulder, I spent a couple of hours reading with the dog curled up against me. She and I took turns solo-dozing, and then did a duet for a half hour.

And on the night the lights at last came on, I did some serious angst-ing over being behind in my projects, from having “lost” the day.

But some things, too, were found. Good books, warm granny quilts, hot chocolate and tea, the absent hum of the engines of home economics, and time slowed down to a crawl by an Earth now slowly tilting back towards bud and bloom, green and growing.

To everything there is a season. I, personally, would welcome the one that is now distantly waiting in the wings.

Take Two Pine Cones and Call Me in the Morning

pinecones800

Our prescription for an easy fire is this: just toss a couple of cones under the kindling. Then, if you must, use a match. But if you have time, wait for the resin to ignite from last night’s coals.

It has been a good year for the pines on Goose Creek. Not only have they produced a copious supply of cones (and the released seeds our chickens forage for under them) but good for us–the woody “leaves” of the cone this year are heavy with highly-flammable resin.

We have, next to the kindling basket beside the big woodstove in the front room, another, heaped high with cones arranged in a towering spiral, a cone itself, ready for all the fires to come.

Winter is soon upon us in full force. We are ready.

 

Animated: The Spirit of Life

IMG_5887huffvilleView2

The mechanics: This shot came from the parking lot of Huffville Methodist Church and was a still capture from a 15 second video inspired by the beauty of racing fingers of wind across the tall grasses. This dance between Earth and Air is one of my favorite visuals from this time of year.

The take-home: My first impulse was to describe this to myself as the “animation of the grasses.” And from that, I could easily follow the crumbs of this ancient Greek then Latin-derived word into all sorts of enjoyable and edifying webs of thought.

From Latin anima ‎(“a current of air, wind, air, breath, the vital principle, life, soul”), sometimes equivalent to animus ‎(“mind”), both from Proto-Indo-European *ane- ‎(“to breathe, blow”); see animus. Cognate with Ancient Greek άνεμος ‎(ánemos, “wind”), Old English anda ‎(“anger, envy, zeal”)

https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/anima#Etymology

So a tidbit for you ANI-MALS (literally “spirited creatures?”) for your personal consideration this morning. Pay especial notice of the soft -edged fields of Floyd County this week as temperatures become spring-like. Again. The mowing has already begun in some places and pastures will soon become “inanimate”–at least in this special way that makes them come alive, if we bother to notice.

Deep Freeze February

IMG_5379IceBridge480
Click to embiggen. Don’t you love that word? It entered the language via media and space—the Simpsons and string theory. You’re welcome.

So I was too late over to free the bridge, and won’t try again until next week’s thaw and flood melt.

Doesn’t look like so much volume of precip expected now from a complicated mix on Monday and Tuesday.

Do embiggen, and pay attention to the many tiny dots over the ice. Those are flying  droplets of water created  from the turbulence of water flow against rocks.

It is this airborne moisture that freezes first against the rock and then, creating even more froth as the rock grows icy, the frozen lacy cruft of ice grows more than a foot thick. It will persist even after the water level drops, suspended over the water like the ceiling of a crystal cathedral.

I’ll hope for some more “things that water does” images in the days to come. Except maybe not tomorrow, when chill factor will register a dozen or more degrees below zero. I’m just not that dedicated a photog. Doug  Thompson, get out there and take over.

NOTE: the pup is Feather, a 4 yr old labradoodle. She belongs down the road, legally. We tell folks we have a 22-7 dog (Gandy) and Feather who is our 22-7 grand-dog. They are such good buddies. Except in winter.

Gandy is a mix predominated by Rhodesian Ridgeback. She justifies her reluctance to stay out very long to play with her friend when it is this cold by telling us that winters are not like this in Rhodesia, even though they may be in Labrador. So just get off her back!

Over Icy If Not Troubled Waters

Slippery Slope of Winter

CLICK TO ENLARGE AT SMUGMUG

It was a three-dog night. We came up one short. But there will be other opportunities yet to get up after midnight and throw an extra piece of oak on a fire that, despite its good intentions, is not quite equal to the task of keeping Herself warm til morning.

This weekend’s cold will be a glancing blow compared to the persistent “polar vortices” of the past two winters. There is that.

But it sets the stage for Monday’s sour-grapes smack on the cheek to love-dovey snuggles of Valentines. Check it out on the Weather Channel. This one looks likely to bring our first significant threat of ice. Doh!

Weather Underground is calling for 8-12 inches Monday–of ice pellets. Hunker down, homies.

And reminder to self: pull the board Sunday afternoon before it gets frozen in place with melt-flood waters flowing over it. How many times have we retrieved this plank from some distance closer than our creek crossing to the Atlantic? We’ve been lucky.