Sara Quiz…

At Sara’s Day we made everyone take a quiz on basic Sara knowledge. We might be grieving, but haven’t lost our sense of humor.

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Sara’s Day- The Book

At some point I will post my reflections and pictures from the day, for now here is the printed eulogies that were given to those who could make it. It was an amazing day!

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Shit Sandwich Part 3-The Spicy Pepper Anger Sauce

Some people skip this ingredient on their grief sandwich. Many folks only have a couple angry spaces they have to pass through in their mourning, and some of us get extra. This ire can be directed at the universe, oneself (with regret and remorse for things done, or left undone), or (in my case) the deceased.

When someone’s death is a direct result of their action, earth swallowing rage is hard to avoid. When someone dies in a completely preventable, foolish manner that anger is multiplied, but must be dealt with all the same. My dear sister decided (sober) that since she was locked out of her room, the obvious plan of action is to free climb between stone balconies over 30 feet in the air. It had been raining all that day and the easy looking free climb for an experienced, lifelong climber was too slick. 

She fell, and died. 

She could have woken someone up to get a spare key, slept in the common areas or bunked with someone else, but no, scaling a mountain side hotel in the fucking middle of the night is the only reasonable thing to do. When I was first told what happened, there was not a single cell in my body that thought this choice was odd or out of character. There was not a second when I entertained an alternate scenario. It was simply something she would do, an activity in a category of activities mom and I were sure would eventually lead to her death. 

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Shit Sandwich Part Two- The Meat. 

Let’s talk about death, shall we? 

Hey wait, where are you going? 

Why does everybody do that?!

In this sandwich metaphor I’m embracing, it should be no surprise that the meat of this process is the grieving, and that meat is raw. Honest discourse about the realities experienced by those separated in death are rare to encounter in modern culture. Most of the popular notions about grief seem to be for those adjacent to death. A peripheral population of people who have yet to move through a loss that disrupts their daily life. This tool box is full of platitudes and euphemisms, words and practices that seem like they should be useful, but up close and personal they are often a metric wrench set for a standard nut. Sure, sometimes they work, but it often feels more like a coincidence than a dependable device or service. I have my theories about this, but they can wait.

For starters, there is no expression for a person who has lost a child or sibling. I find it woefully inadequate that we only have a word for someone who has lost a spouse, a title that tells people with a single word what you have been through. That label and its implications come with as much good as bad, yet- there is language for it. An acknowledgement that in many ways, this will be an enduring characteristic of one’s life from now on. The closest I came to an accurate description of my current status was “bereaved” which I find lacking, mostly because it seems to denote a period in time rather than a life long descriptor.

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Everywhere I look, there she is.

Since she was born, it’s always been this way. During our childhood everywhere I looked in our small house there was a reminder of my sister. As we grew, the physical there-ness of her was inescapable. We shared a bed for many, many years and a room till our teens. We had more belongings that were jointly owned than separate sets of things, and it was joyous. I always had a buddy, a partner and a mate. Even though she was three years younger than me, It wasn’t till she left for college that we stopped cohabitation. For 18 years, I was immersed in her being. 

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How do you write the obituary for the one who writes the obituaries?

She was born Sara Caitlen Gobets in Santa Cruz, Ca, July 23 1986. She died “Gobbi,” in Sabana de la Mar, Dominican Republic, July 25, 2022 from a fatal accident while working as a counselor for an adventure guide company.

She left behind friends and family all over the world. This is not an exaggeration or hyperbole, in her short time on this earth she traveled around the world many times. As a youth, she toured the USA in the years before her passport would be filled with stamps from remote locations and countless adventures.

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Shit sandwich part one- the bread

I was folding towels, of all things, when my phone went off across the room. Expecting nothing pressing, I kept folding towels. It went off again, beeping that a voice message had been left. I kept folding. Then it buzzed some more, with another call.  As if my phone had decided to become a square flightless bee of some sort, strange. I crossed the room and looked, it was a Dominican number, but not one of the ones my sister had used before to call me.

Picked it up, and it broke my life. 

There had been an accident, a fatal one. My sister Sara, was dead. It was two days after her 36th birthday.  “Do you want us to call your mom?” Said the sad anonymous voice on the other side.

“No.” I squeeked, “I’ll do that.” 

It would appear that the worst phone call I ever received would be quickly followed by the worst one I had ever had to make. There we were; both faces in a small box, keening and sobbing in turn, on opposite sides of the country, now the only survivors of a once four sided family unit. 

I floated the idea that we really didn’t have to tell anyone else, this sorrow could end with us. We could tell the rest of the world that she decided to move to a tiny tropical island, and devote herself to the study of some new creature. The illusive Sara bird perhaps. We could say that this particular island was so remote there were no communications and dedication to her work would mean she had to live there year round, you know, “for science.” An old joke among Team Squeam members to justify any ridiculous plan of action, these things were always done in the name of “science”. 

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“Into the woods I go, to lose my mind and find my soul”- JM

Reflecting at the lake always gives pause to my bounty of existential distress. In order to be still and alone, I walked away from the cacophony of the lakegoers, along a path that is barely there, praying for perspective.

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Pysanky 2022

I often refer to this season as the ‘dregs of winter’, when snow still covers the earth and spring seems like a dream. Since 2014 I have been crafting Pysanka eggs around March when the hens increased laying reminds me that spring is inevitable. 

I came to this practice without any link to Ukrainian heritage, only a deep desire to learn more about such a sacred craft. Now, almost a decade later, it has become much more than a way to celebrate the lengthening days. As I apply hot wax to shell, I pray for peace not just for Ukraine, but the world.

This time around I’m not sure if it feels more like synchronicity, tragedy, or irony that this practice and the unprovoked attack on Ukraine coincide. It feels frivolous and callow to be decorating eggs in this ancient way while so many suffer. 

I almost didn’t bring out my supplies this year out of grief. My heart bleeds for people I will never meet, but as I cleaned my tools I could feel a connection with hope and love. Daring to dream of summer days during cold dark nights; and peace during war. Traditional Pysanka eggs were not hollowed out, but left whole and intact, to be placed on the land as offerings and protective agents for the crop, livestock, bees and people. Though it is a craft of the ancient times, due to the nature of the object there are no examples left of truly old Pysanka. 

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When Not Sharing, is Caring for Yourself. 

The pitter patter of cats playing brings me back from waking dreams to the present moment, and this attempt at writing, before distracting me again. Waves of feline driven attention lapping consciousness’s shore. This pleasant early morning dance between grounding myself in the now, and communicating with others in the ether, accurately depicts my last couple years. My motivation to write, share, or participate in any community larger than my family has been at an ebb tide. 

While trying to figure out a revenue stream as a stay at home mom, I thought I would get good at ‘the gram’. I posted consistently and at the right times of day, followed other like minded profiles, made sure to share stories of my posts, I honed my ‘brand’, got to know my ‘audience’ and made sure to engage them daily. It worked, my likes and followers grew, but I was left feeling more and more hollow. 

I learned the kind of daily effort involved in growing my online presence and after about a month, I was over it. Sure, I got results and attention, but for me the cost was too high. I have never cared too much about the opinion of others, so to constantly sell myself to strangers is foreign to me. The things I create speak for themselves; even if it is a whisper no one will ever hear, and that’s fine. I feel bad (not in a ‘I’m so superior’ way, but honestly and empathetically) for those whose livelihood is tied to these online Wendigo entities, and their constantly shifting rules and algorithms. I have seen many of my friends’ small businesses suffer with the change of an algorithm. Overnight, the stable foundation for their business platform they were promised, becomes endlessly shifting quick sand. A carrot always out of reach. 

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Before my dad passed, he published a book. It was meant to be the first in a series of outdoor/camping books, but he never got to the rest of them. It was called How to Build a Campfire with One Match. Growing up, we heated our house under the redwoods with wood, much like our little house here. 

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Our Fluffy Angel

This November, I woke up early to try and get some holiday tasks done, but it was not what my day would bring. Instead, I realized I needed to get Isis to a vet, never thinking she wouldn’t be coming back home.

She had been noticeably ‘off’ during the weekend. Sunday, it was undeniable that something was wrong. We assumed she had eaten something from the compost and that it would pass, sadly this was not the case. I dropped her off (COVID protocol meant I couldn’t go in with her), still expecting the worst case would be a huge vet bill (I was not wrong about that, it boggles my mind how quickly these things add up). Her blood work came back in the afternoon, showing a bilirubin level of 40; 1 is normal, 15 is very sick. An ultrasound revealed a large stone blocking her gallbladder duct. The vet said that the surgery would be over $10K and aftercare more still. Even in a very young dog the prognosis would not be great, for a 9 year old dog there was really only one thing to do.

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The Sweetness of the Long Night.

Hidden inside lush darkness live things too precious for the harsh light.

This is our time to rejoice in the slack tide of the year wheel’s revolution.

Our future possibilities growing unseen, cradled in the Abyss
Like seeds encased in frozen earth, safe, dreaming of the sun in their dark womb, we wait.

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Perennial Heaven

I remember planing our first garden at this house, I was looking at a pack of asparagus seed and reading the fine print saw that it would take a whole year to get actual asparagus. “Who needs that?!” I thought. I was blinded by the quick turn around of annuals, but things have changed. I have come to appreciate the patient nature of a perennial plants and truly love the fact that they come back year after year, timing their emergence with the receding snow without me having to do anything.

After I had our daughter and began life as a stay at home mom, I had time to expand the perennial beds around the house. I bought a few different types of lilies to add to the ones already here. Many of the lilies that came with the house started to divide and I begun rearranging and relocating. My favorite, is what I believe to be a High Tea lily tree, they are about 10 feet tall with abundant fragrant flowers that I look forward to every July.

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Nature’s composition is Flawless

This summer we’ve spent a lot of time in the woods. Every mushroom our daughter sees, she tells me to “take a picture” so I do. The abundant rain this year has made so many little mushroom scenes its hard to get through the woods without stopping every few feet. What a change from last year!

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What a disservice it is to define magic in Disney terms. Reducing it to a stream of glitter leaping from a wand, but mostly because by those impossible standards, it cannot exist. 

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Mama Baba Yaga

What grows within that fence of bones? Motherwort, with its thorny flowers towering above Jack-in-the-pulpit’s striped hood. Perhaps she has Poison ivy in the window box and thistle lining the walk.  I imagine her garden full of plants that enforce their sovereignty, without fail. Like Baba herself. 

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The Little Girl and the Flag

Squinting into the sun, I could not see what was right in front of me. 

The boys bounding over rocks, leaping casums and laughing at the day. 

Their little sister, trying to keep up, but trailing far away. 

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Hindsight is 2020

This summer will be 9 years since we bought this property. We, the world, and this little bit of land have changed a lot since then. When we bought this little house it sat in a sea of perfect lawn, it was the quintessential little Maine ‘camp’.

I was cleaning out our secretary recently, and I came upon the original MLS listing sheet for the property. The description reads “NOTHING TO DO BUT sit back and this sunny home…” (caps are not mine) We interpreted that as a challenge, and haven’t stopped ‘doing’ things since. In most cases, what we have done is the opposite of the New England esthetic in our quest to turn a lake house into a homestead. In keeping with some East Coast traditions, we started by making a rock circle in the backyard. Where we were married that fall.

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Usnea! “gazuntite”

I have always found lichens fascinating. From the start, nothing is what it appears. They grow in a myriad of different structures and forms, all over the world. Lichens are not plants, instead it is a symbiotic relationship between alga and fungi. The fungi offers the structure of the lichen and the algae photosynthesizes the sun to provide food.

Here in Maine, they are some of the only green things to wildcraft during the winter. Lichens should not be gathered off of trees, I like to go around after storms and gather from downed branches or just wait for them to blow along my path like tiny eastern tumbleweeds. Most lichens are incredibly slow growing, so it is important to harvest respectfully.

Lichens have many uses, and ID can be difficult since there are so many variations. Some are powerful medicine, others can be used as dyes and they are all beautiful. There are a few that are poisonous, including Letharia Vulpina or wolf lichen. Bright, almost neon green, it can be used as a dye and was once used to poison wolves. One of the most widespread and medicinal lichens is Usnea, sometimes called Old Man’s Beard. Usnea comes in many different lengths, colors and formations, but there are a few things that are very specific to Usnea that I use when identifying it.

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A narrow path emerges from the shadows of winter skeletons. 

Their fallen kin, line the way to a distant sun drenched clearing. 

Although I can see it, and even convince myself I can feel the opening up of space around me, there is a way to go. 

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Stalking Plants

I have been tracking elder plants in my area over the last few years. A lot of the time I visit them, just to say “hi”, and I would be lying if I said that this behavior was pandemic related. It’s been like this for a while now. Out of the dozens of patches and plants I watch, only a handful of them will be harvested. Last year was a sad one on the elder front, we had a drought in Maine and New Hampshire and these water loving plants suffered mightily.

Adding to the problems faced by these amazing beings, is that they are slow growing and incredibly fragile. The woody structures are hollow and snap like dry twigs even during the high season when they are full of life. I bet in southern parts of the country they grown much quicker, but harsh New England winters make that difficult. They love having “wet feet” and this affinity for water means they often grow on the side of the road in runoff ditches and are subject to mowing in the summer and plow damage in the winter. Even a head high bush can be mowed to the ground with ease. Every August I find myself mourning my friends, destroyed and torn asunder along with the grasses and brush. Erasing years of hard earned growth in seconds.

In a natural situation this breakage is a means of propagation but it seems that when assisted by man this possibility fades. When they are mowed the branches are chipped and damaged too much to come back and damage by plows happens at a time of year when the broken bits will die before spring.

Of the dozens of shrubs I track, many are rendered inaccessible by either location or the plants that surround them. Often the road side patches are edged with poison ivy and I don’t dare try and make it through. Two summers ago, I notices a huge elder in the middle of a field close to our house. The field is full of wicked brambles and during the summer harvest, a sea of hip high, tick laden grass fills the spaces between gnarled, sickle throned brambles and poison ivy. I have admired it from afar for a while now.

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Thirteen Mothers Before Me

This quote has been making the internet rounds and while it is a very catchy meme, it has really started to bother me. I like the sentiment, but it confounds the most devastating details of the ‘burning times,’ in many essential ways. Primarily, it implies that those murdered had no family, and that it is only the linage of those who outsmarted persecution, who remain. It erases the generational trauma that these executions created and makes light of the mechanism used to control any who would dare step outside the boundaries of the patriarchy.

This quote is misleading from the start; executions for witchcraft were often by hanging (especially in the US), not burning. It also implies that they were not mothers and grandmothers snuffed out. Those persecuted were not old barren hags who lived alone and apart from the world, perhaps in forest cottages on chicken legs. They were stripped from the arms of loving husbands and children to be taken to the gallows. They left behind daughters and sons, grandchildren, husbands, wives, and siblings. 

The burning times were not a culling of outlying populations; it was the public display of the power and authority of the church to deal-out death, at a whim. A reminder that what didn’t fit the mold of the patriarchy would be destroyed physically, and slandered eternally. 

As a child, my mother was told that one of our ancestors was executed as a witch in colonial times. This story was a way to invoke a woman unjustly accused, a woman history tried to erase. A person that our family was tasked with remembering for who she was, and not how she died. During the not so ancient times of dial up internet, my mom got really into genealogy. She managed traced our ancestors back to Cambridge in the 1600s and Elizebeth Cogan Holly. After coming to the colonies from England, Samuel Holly died, leaving a parcel of land on the South side of the Charles River to his wife, Elizabeth and son, John Holly. Elizabeth soon remarried John Kendall (a younger man. *gasp!*) and became Elizabeth Holly Kendall. All of this can be easily verified though Samuel’s will, marriage records and land deeds.

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Gaia’s Grief

Mama Gaia was almost ready!

The deep blue ocean teemed with life.

The mountains all lush and green, ready to provide food, shelter and medicine. 

All the other creations waited patiently for their new brothers and sisters. 


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Is and Isn’t

Last week, a beloved friend of mine posted a beautiful letter to her mother on the second anniversary of her death. I tried to think exactly how long it had been since my dad passed, and I couldn’t do it. 

Was it 2012? Or 2013? What month is it now anyway? Is it seven or eight years gone now?

What a change from years past when, like her, I knew almost down to the minute how long it had been since he died. Then the other day this picture popped up in my “memories”. 

Hi dad. 

His smile, that shirt, his hands, all reminding me of the time before. I have done a lot of writing about his death. The creation of this blog was largely inspired by it.  A way for me to write down all the things he was missing, each post an unofficial letter to him about what is going on in my life. Me, reaching out for a hand that wasn’t there anymore.  Very often, ten hands reach back to me. Ones I can still hold, and that has been a great comfort and tool throughout this process. 

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Stir Crazy

PJ and I are very fortunate to be able to stay home, so we do. During the warm months it was easy to spend the days outside; walking in the woods, playing with the chickens and tending the garden. Winter has given those outdoor activities a time limit before she turns into a toddlercicle. I keep on flashing back to when the boys were this age, and all the cool stuff we would go do during the winter. Trampoline parks, indoor play areas, museums, walking around the mall, movies, etc. New England is well equipped to get active kids through the winter months.

Not this year.

To add insult to injury, she is finally at an age when she would be aware of, and really enjoy these activities. Lockdown happened a month before her second birthday and we are soon coming up on her third. The growth this year is incredible. There is a part of me that is super happy she don’t know what she’s missing but I know how much she would be getting out if it this year, so that has been bittersweet.

The other day it was a balmy 16o and I decided it was time to take a drive, and go to the beach. When we first moved east we settled in Kennebunk for a couple years. I loved living close to the ocean as it has always been a big part of my life.

We had an ice storm the day before gilding everything, it’s breathtaking. I tried to get a couple pictures but they hardly do it justice, but you a least get the idea.

I thought of calling them Swarovski shrubs, prism pines, glass trees, gilded forest, etc. All I know is that it’s sublime, each turn in the road brings about a new vista dripping with light.

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Sharp Knifes and Powerful Herbs

With our Christmas money I got us a present, a new set of Global knifes.  After over 20 years of professional kitchen work, I have found there is no better kitchen tool than a very sharp knife. Globals are my favorite. All metal, light, perfectly balanced and just right for my smaller hands.

True to form, within the first week of ownership I whacked off the whole side of my index finger. It was my fault for trying to go quickly in-between toddler demands, while using a serrated utility knife, I knew glances slightly to the left, to cut a butternut squash. It was operator error entirely. There was a lot of blood. I had cut it clean off and applying pressure was excruciating. The only thing worse was when the bandage shifted at all, rubbing against the rawness there, plus any sideways pressure shifted the clot and caused more bleeding. I needed a way to stop the bleeding before my daughter got up to anything else.

What could I do?


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A Mother’s Prayers

I look at this little creature and I see myself. 

My face, eyes and hair, all copied in this little elf. 

It stops my breath and I plead “please, little one- don’t be like me.”

Then we walk in the wood, she grabs my basket and takes the lead.  

I remember she is made of so much more, 

The thirteen mothers that came before.  

Her father’s people guide her too, 

A long and noble queue. 

The woods stop their spin

I am grateful for the company we’re in. 

She is not looking at my footsteps to see where to go. 

And that is all I need to know.

Tales of a Toddler

Most days during this pandemic, I start by calling my mom and telling her all the things her granddaughter did to me the day before. More often than not, she laughs at me without remorse. After she regains her composure, she tells me I should write about PJ’s antics. Toddler shenanigans have delayed those efforts but I have been piecing this post together bit by bit.

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Processing Valerian Root

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Winter Haikus

Snow covered fruit rest
Waiting for light to return
I will wait with them

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Decking New Halls

Right before COVID took over our lives, my Oma made a huge decision. At 94, she realized that it was no longer the best idea to live alone in her home without help. After carefully weighing all her options she made the very practical decision to move to a live-in community and sell her home of over 60 years.

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Howling Hearts Can’t Be Broken.

Thanks to the miracle of FaceTime, I could read the excitement on my mom’s dimly light face as she sat on her deck high in the redwoods, listening to the howling. “Can you hear them?!” She asks through her grin. 

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Valley of the Sempervirens

We grew up in backyards full of fire scarred trees. 

Playing in ancient flame hollowed trunks, making silent promises to the bit of earth that gently cradled our innocence. 

These monuments whispered reminders; that it is this land’s nature, to burn.

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A World in the Weeds

I have worked in restaurants my whole life. Till the little monster was born almost two years ago, my life revolved around executing meal services. Front and back, top to bottom. I have held every position possible in the industry from dishwasher to department manager. Service culture is a universe in and of itself; with its own language, practices, traditions and philosophies.

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Elderberry Kind of Year

Last year, at the first herbal apprenticeship class, we each drew a card from a plant tarot deck. I drew Elder. A plant of wisdom, magic and powerful medicine. I was aware of its existence, but had very little experience with it. I vowed to change that, and dubbed last year my year of Elder.

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Hope is the splint we use to bind and tie, all the things broken by the weight of a lie. 

It is feeling of relief that kindness brings, when we realize the giant is here to help fix our tattered wing. 

Hope is being cradled through worst moments of our lives, with the assurance that action and time will make it right. 

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February’s Rose

Valentine’s Day is often associated with freshly cut long stem roses. The redder, softer and more fragrant the better- as if that is the only incarnation of a rose that could represent love. A soft, fresh, fragrant specimen picked before it has properly bloomed, separated from it’s roots and stripped of all it’s thorns.  

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Gifts From Gaia

This year, I found myself an unemployed mother. The basic tasks of child rearing are not a problem for me, though the sleep schedule and PTO suck. The most difficult things was adjusting to a feeling I couldn’t put my finger on. Something that grew as surely as she did.

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Homesteading Triage

I stated my Tuesday sure that the biggest challenge I was going to have; was going to be not eating the pie I made the day before. As usual, my assumptions were spectacularly wrong.

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Ashes of Sweetgrass

What was the step too far? Where have we gone so wrong?!  At what time did we lose sight of that essential thing that kept us in balance with everything else? Was it when we stopped roaming with the seasons and started cultivating fields?  When we settled into towns and then cities? Was it the arrogance of proclaiming ourselves better than all the other beings on this earth? What would living in line with our nature even look like in modern times?! Braiding Sweetgrass really flushed out these questions, systematically untangling the roots of the tree that is ‘modern man’ and explored how we can once again participate in the Honorable Harvest.

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She’s Got the Whole World in Her Hands

*I wrote this a while back.  It has taken this long to edit and post. All accounts of the gardens and sheep are not current 🙂

Summer 2018-

Adjusting to having a daughter has been surreal and overwhelming in every way possible.

There is anxiety that at any second I could make a mistake that might result in her being injured or worse.  Pair that, with the change of going from working a high stress job with a three-hour daily commute to being at home for days on end.  I went from talking to dozens of people every day to having only the company of the critters much of the time.  It’s not totally horrible or unpleasant just, very different.  All while healing from the corporal aftermath of pregnancy and birth. (Which IS mostly horrible and unpleasant.)

I judge a “good” day to be one where I keep the baby and other animals alive.  A “great” day is one where I mange to keep the animals out of the gardens so the plants aren’t murdered by two and four-legged assailants.  We (by which I mean my husband) have just started a new sheep pen, so of course the sheep have figured out how to get out of their old pen and have taken to escaping in turns and wreaking havoc on the less secure gardens.


Sometimes, I get to clean the house or eat (but not both.)  Any attempts at art, writing and (let’s be honest) bathing; are so far down the list of “things to do when the baby is not clamped to my boob” they might as well not even be on it but… as this writing proves it CAN happen.

*Insert sinking feeling the sheep have gotten out again and go check the pen.*

Ok, they are still in.

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 A Letter From Baby Jail

Dear mom,

I hope this letter reaches you.  My warden/guard/fellow prisoner will no doubt try to intercept this correspondence. (To date- she has postponed it’s creation by a week, using nothing more than dirty diapers and grunts of discontent.)  She will stop at nothing to make sure that my access to the outside world is limited. On the bright side, she can’t read- so even if she does get a hold of this there’s not much she can do about it.

I hope.

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Well, That Stinks!

Three days ago, I decided I would get some writing done!  I was going to pen (type) beautiful pros about motherhood, growth, life and other profound stuff.  Things did not go as planned.  I thought I could accomplish this feat because Ry is home and could therefore take care of the little snapping turtle, while I roam free.  FREE I tell you!!!.  I sat down to the keyboard and heard the sheep blatting.  My sleep deprived brain thought: “I should use my new found morning mobility go feed the outside animals really quick, then come back in a write.  I will be a hero!”

That’s where things went sideways.

I mentioned in my last post that skunks have been getting into the chicken coop and causing all sorts of issues.  I can say skunks plural, because we have already caught and relocated three this year.  We drive them miles and miles away, so it is not the same skunk multiple times.  My husband has been taking their mug shots as well, in order to make sure we are not dealing with just one super smart skunk, equipped with GPS and a quad.  Last year, we caught four before the summer was out and this morning it appears that we tied that record, and it’s not even July.

Seriously, what the heck is this?!  Are we on some sort of skunk grocery map of the area?

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May? What May?

I don’t know how it happened, but May is almost over.  Shoot, it might BE over by the time I hit ‘publish’ (I have been working on this post for a couple days).  Somewhere in-between midnight feedings and dirty diapers a whole month slipped through our fingers.  Ry went back to work yesterday.  I can’t articulate how grateful I am he got paternity leave at all.  It was amazing to have the time to figure out what our home life looks like now.  He also put in almost all the gardens for the summer, including an expansion of the garden outside the front door.


It might not look like much from the deck, but up close you can see the beginning of popcorn on the ridges and black beans in the valleys.  We decided last year that these crops are friends.


We planted two cherry trees and two pear trees in honor of Persephone’s first spring to add to our apple trees in the big yard.


We even got a few flowers on the apple trees this year.


The only things I got around to planting were bulbs, some of which we won’t see this summer.  Others have already come out to play!

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All-You-Can-Take Mother’s Day Pain Buffet

Child birth is often touted as the most pain a person can experience and I can’t say that I disagree.  I can say that it is a fortunate thing the body has no capacity to remember that pain.  I remember it happened and that it was excruciating but I cannot call back the exact nature of the pain and that is FINE with me!

I went into labor early Friday morning April 27th.  My sister is an amazing Photo Journalist and she was there to document the whole thing.  I had contemplated a home brith, but given that the nearest hospital is almost a hour away I opted for a hospital birth.  On my mom’s side the past 9 births over two generations have all resulted in C-sections, most of the emergency type.  For my own birth; my parents and aunt went to the hospital and were told to go home.  Upon their return, almost a day later the nurse couldn’t find my heartbeat.  They had to give my mom general anesthesia to get me out.  With my sister, our mom had another emergency C-section but this time only got local anesthetic.  Again, after 22 hours of labor.  I decided an hour is too far to go if there are complications.  I am glad I made that decision.

At my scheduled Dr. appointment the day before I was 3 cm dilated but other than that not really bothered by my condition.


I had gone to bed with cramps and a feeling different than the now familiar sensations of pregnancy.


The dogs knew something was different even though I was still in denial.


My husband just made fun of me, par for the course in that regard.


When I woke up early the next morning, it was a whole new ball game.  Ry had to leave for work before 6 am and my mom was on a red eye from California set to arrive around 11am in Maine.  By 7 am I could honestly call the sensations contractions though they were not that bad, yet.  When my mom walked through the door 4 hours later I was ready to get to the hospital.  May poor mother had to get right back in the car, she was such a trooper!

On the way to the hospital the contractions had gotten so bad that I was unable to talk through them.  All I could do was breath as they came at ever shortening intervals.  Halfway to the hospital I had a revelation as the timing closed to 3 minutes.  Hesitantly, I asked my mom “are these going to continue to get closer and closer together till there is no time between them?!”

The look she gave me said it all.  This was not going to be a good time.

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Spring Break, Homestead Edition

This week proved once again (and still) how awesome the boys are.  I am officially 8 3/4 months pregnant and in this state it could be a real drain to have two rambunctious kids running round for ten days, but true to form the boys were more of a joy than ever.  Sure, they are loud and have more energy than a bunny on red bull, but it is tempered with kindness, love and a superseding impulse to help.  Lord knows there is a lot around here that we desperately needed to get done so their efforts were appreciated.

The week got off to a cold start with snow and ice blanketing the ground once again but it ended with sunshine and thawed ground!  That is a big deal in Maine.  We were able to drive fence posts and expand the front yard for the dogs to the other side of the rock wall.  The husky as been endlessly pleased with her new territory.

The chickens have forgotten why they have a fence in the first place and have been flying the coop and roaming the yard.

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Spring is Upon Us!

I see the ground!

Before I moved to New England, this would have seemed like a very odd statement indeed, but now it is an event to be celebrated.  Most of the snow in the yard had gone liquid and returned to the land from whence it came.  Daily activities around the homestead have also changed and since I am homebound; waiting for the impending arrival of our daughter, I have actually had time to focus on spring activities, instead of trying futilely to fit them in-between full-time work and weekend boys.

We were late for sapping but still managed to get a decent supply of syrup from our land.  The sap is still running but now has gone bitter as it tends to do at the end of the season.


We did get a bunch of grade A syrup before it turned and that is better than nothing!


I extracted MORE honey from the empty hives and we got the unfortunate news from one of our neighbors that the field across the street from us has been using industrial amounts of Round-Up on his feed corn every year.  Since corn is a grass, the bees collect pollen from it (to make bee bread) but not nectar.  This is the main staple of food through the winter months for the colony.  I’m not too worried about the honey I have pulled but it explains why both hives collapsed or swarmed yet again.


Here we were, for years thinking it was something we did when in reality 300 yards from the house there was a poisoned field of death.  In light of this new knowledge we have stopped apiary plans for now since we cannot control our little buzzers and so bringing more into the area would only perpetuate the problem.  It was sad news indeed, just another reminder that we are all apart of the web of life and the decisions people make for themselves are not isolated to their own harvest.

As the light retuned to our days, I got busy with processing eggs from the ladies.


When I got backed up I turned them into little temporary planters for the millions of spider plant babies our house plants have seen fit to produce.


I used the lazy vinegar method I discovered a few years back.


I cannot wait for all the indoor plants to be outside again!  I might be the only one who cares though.


It doesn’t help that my husband can grow anything, anywhere.  I mean, we have an eight foot banana tree in the boys room!  That’s just silly.  I have tried to explain that we live in Maine but he just shrugs and keeps on planting.


Since I am no longer spending 70+ hours away from the house each week, I have had ample time for projects and basic chores.  The first weekend the boys walked in the door and the oldest looked around and marveled “It’s SO clean!”

Amazing what one can do when not working full time, managing scores of people and driving three plus hours a day- on the days we don’t have to drive four hours round trip to get or return the boys to and from Massachusetts.

I do miss seeing Mt. Washington up close daily.


But something tells me it will be around when I have time to visit it again.  Easter this year I had time to come up with a very difficult Easter puzzle for the boys’ hunt.


It involved invisible ink and dirty tricks.


When paired with their Dad’s advanced egg hiding; the whole thing took three hours.  They had asked for it so I didn’t feel too bad and in the end they were rewarded with spring bulbs, gardening equipment, homemade maple candies and chocolate eggs molded using real ones.



We have had time for walks to the top with the sheep.  Lulu is in bad need of a hair cut and will be shorn as soon as this baby arrives.  Daisy has started to shed and I am collecting her hair for lanolin extraction soon.


The flock is doing well.  Though the new Guineafowl are as suspicious of me as the old ones, even though they too were raised from day old chicks.


The long and short of it, is that life has gone on around the homestead.  The impending arrival of a new baby has added to the list of things to get ready.  But all, in all, it has been nice to have so much other stuff to keep me distracted as I wait.

And wait.

Soon enough I will have a new critter to worry about, life will continue to change and that is about as good as anyone can hope for.  As we go into this new chapter of our lives I am cautiously optimistic about all of it.

Thank you for taking your time to read this scattered recap, there has been a lot to report but I have allowed myself time during each day to rest.  This has been an important lesson in not driving myself too hard as everyone keeps on reminding me my decisions effect more than myself right now.   I have allowed myself time to sit on the couch, take naps and just be.  Each one of these pictures could have been a post unto itself but look how much time I saved us both!

Be well and happy spring!


What Produce Section are They Shopping In?!

I am expecting my first biological child this spring.  We had been trying for many years.  Just when I had decided it was not in the cards and turned my attention to enjoying all the advantages that came with my step children getting older, we find ourselves on the verge of the decent back into dippers and juice boxes.

I had accepted the benefits that part time parenting of older kids offers.  They can make their own meals, say “please” and “thank you” with no prompting, we can watch more grown up movies and TV shows, they are funny, smart awesome people and I can actually let them play outside without constant hawk like supervision (for the most part.)  I have written many times before just how much I love having them around and that has not changed in the least.

At first, I thought it was sad that there will be such a large age gap between the new addition and her older half brothers but the first time I fell asleep in the middle of the day and woke up to them eating a lunch they made themselves- I realized the error of my ways.  They are kind and understanding about the process I am going through.  They cut me slack when I am exhausted and don’t want to run around or make them an elaborate meal.  I don’t have to do any of the basics for them and they are extremely helpful with anything I need to get done.

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My Hands

Have never known a manicure or file.
They are bitten rather than clipped.
They have been painted less times than there are fingers to paint.
In many places they are more scar than skin.
The fingers on the right appear to have been badly broken long ago, though they never were.
They often spend their days covered in food, blood or dirt.
Lovingly touching things that make others cringe.
They are not spectacular for how they look but for what they do.
They have created meals that nourish and astound, providing me an income for my modest household.
They have made many things of beauty that fill my house and life.
They have healed and comforted the beings I love.
They are strong and can hold fast when I need them to.
I hope they have given more than they have taken from this world.
Because through helping others they have made me whole.
They have become more than the sum of their parts and I believe that they are truly beautiful.
I am grateful to have such tremendous alleys at the tips of my fingers.
Today, I am beyond thankful for the simple gift of my hands.


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