Choices, Choices

April 30, 2017

I am suffering from Decision Fatigue. There are so many choices in building and outfitting a house, and thus so many decisions. I am starting to feel overwhelmed.

I have always made all our family’s domestic decisions. DH is an easygoing person with very little interest. Over the years I have chosen the cars, the clothes, the furniture, the cups and saucers, the food on the table. He is agreeable about it all. But now I am looking at decisions with big price tickets and potentially big ramifications. I find myself gripped with the anxiety that I am going to make a bad mistake.

I was horrified to discover the cost of kitchen cabinets. I looked at gorgeous hardwood doors from one company’s line after another, sunk in gloom. After weeks of dithering and worry, it belatedly occurred to me that I do not care about kitchen cabinet doors and that my goal should be function above all. (I hold onto something my brother-in-law told me long ago in this process: “You just need a house.”) Were the boxes and shelves well-made and sturdy? If so, fine. In the end I chose cabinets built entirely of 3/4″ plywood, with white MDF (Medium Density Fiberboard) doors. My hope is that these doors will work for our family. If someone with deeper pockets buys this house in the future, they can replace the doors with fancy ones.

Similarly, I’m going to have either IKEA butcher block or Formica countertops, both inexpensive options. You can replace them, I silently tell my future home buyers. I just need a house.

But this is just the tip of the iceberg in the number of decisions I am facing. Dishwasher, refrigerator, stove, washer, dryer. I have to research them all. Meanwhile, Nick wants to know what paint colors I am using for the interior, and will I have accent walls?

Colors? I am paralyzed by this sort of thing. I only know one interior color: white. I have never had or known an accent wall. Lucy and Amanda have been holding my hand and leading me through the process with the Benjamin Moore line. Lucy would like a pale yellow kitchen (shade still to be decided) and a cottage bedroom in Spring Mint. Amanda found a warm cream called Navajo White for the rest of the house. All the trim and doors will be bright white, easily washed.

Now, onto the light fixtures and bathrooms!

Shopping for used furniture on Craigslist seems so much easier. The only questions are: How far away? Can we afford it? And: will it fit in the car or truck?

*    *   *

This has been a week of tight schedules and many meetings. Next week will be worse with two late nights and a weekend school trip. I have weekly lists, daily lists, weekend lists, and seasonal lists. I have lists of furniture still needed. I have lists of house decisions still to be made. I have my teaching notes and overdue student reports to write. My brain is whirring all the time. On Friday, rushing to a financial meeting after work, I was distressed to realize that I’d totally forgotten a scheduled walk-through before work with representatives from the house company (to confirm door swings). The appointment just fell out of my brain. Similarly in recent days both Nick and the financial people have asked me simple questions in response to which I have found myself staring blankly. The information was there but the circuits were overloaded. Push, push, push!

Though it is hard to take the time, it is also a relief to walk the dogs for their daily exercise. Yesterday was our first hike after snow season on the Olympic ski trails behind the farm. Ruffed grouse + happy dogs = mental peace.


The Waiting Land

April 21, 2017

The past week has felt pressured and rushed, each day jammed with too many tasks. (Volunteering last summer to do a friend’s taxes was perhaps not my wisest move, especially as all his circumstances had changed and he had lost much of the attendant paperwork. Thankfully, however, I was able to help straighten out the various accounts and I submitted his taxes just under the wire.) With Lucy at college and Jon and Amanda in Connecticut, DH and I had a quiet Easter, just the two of us saying grace over a much smaller feast.

We’ve had grey days of cold rain and bright days of spring sunshine. I’ve tried to drive the dogs to the farm for a walk every afternoon after work. They have enjoyed the mud and puddles.

This is always a tantalizing time of year for me at the farm. The snow and ice retreat more every day, revealing the waiting land. It is brown and bare. Every chore ahead is evident. Pull that rock. Straighten that post. Fix that fence. Cut those briars. Weed that garden bed.

What is different this year is that I can now imagine that a day may come when I do not have a mountain of other chores which prevent me from starting this work. Someday, I will able to address spring tasks in the springtime because I won’t be planning, packing, moving, dreaming, scheming, and worrying. This uphill fourteen-year push will be over. We will be in our own home! As always, I find it hard to express how exciting I find this thought.

For now, I am hiking the fields with the dogs and making notes of all the things to add to the To-Do list.

 


Dogs Before and After

February 16, 2017

The dogs got haircuts yesterday. Here they are on a walk Tuesday.

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And here they are yesterday afternoon, after I crept through a snowstorm at 30 mph to bring them home after work.

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DH is always distressed at these times. “I don’t really like the pointy look,” he says, wincing. Lucy, however, thinks that when they are shaved down, they look like endurance athletes.

I am purely practical. I am congratulating myself for remembering to pack Toby’s winter coat and Stash’s calf jacket.

* * *

I am enjoying being free of one of the extra jobs I took on this year. So sad: no link to the school server here at the farm! Oh dear, I can’t do the work for six days! Having this extra hour every morning feels almost like vacation. It certainly makes my days less frantic.


Opposites Attract

November 26, 2016

On the surface, DH and I have very little in common. He is an athlete and mountaineer; I play no sports and am afraid of heights. He is invariably calm and steady; I am quick to anger or tears. He is reserved, even aloof; I pull the world into my lap for a hug. What we have in common is that we are both decent people who read a lot and have the same sense of humor. Over thirty-odd years, like most married couples, we have come to depend on each other for the skills we lack. Usually, these skills are abstract: DH supports my patience and control; I lend him warmth. However, sometimes the skills are concrete.

On Friday DH asked for my help changing some bindings on a pair of old skis. Now, DH grew up in apartments as the son of a man with zero hands-on skills, and has close to zero himself. Though he is by nature an imperturbable person, on this one subject DH can be a little touchy. He knows that competence with tools is considered a feature of masculinity. (A couple of years ago, he learned the concept of a “Honey Do” list, and was charmed by the phrase. In our family, any such lists are for me.)

dewrdc970k-2rDH was working in the basement, and planned to use my DeWalt screw gun. I wasn’t exactly sure what help he needed, but I followed him downstairs.

He was standing at the table holding the DeWalt, looking worried. “How do you work it?” he asked. When I started to smile, he said defensively, “I’ve never used one of these.”

I showed him how to snap the forward and reverse gears, and handed the gun back to him. DH took it gingerly. He removed his glasses so he could see better for the operation. Picking up a screw, he attempted to balance it on the upturned point of the Phillips head bit. Seeing him bent over as if in prayer, his nose two inches from the wobbling screw, I unfortunately began to giggle.

DH straightened up immediately and handed me the screw gun. We put his new bindings on together.

*   *   *   *

Yesterday morning, Stash was so wired before barn chores, he took off at a gallop. I was terrified he would run onto the highway. Clearly he was not getting enough exercise. I asked DH to set me up with an old pair of cross-country skis. I would take Stash for a few circuits of the back pasture to tire him out.

DH is an expert skier. I have not skied for many years. I skied with both our children as toddlers, but by seven years old, they had each surpassed me. I have no particular aptitude for or interest in skiing. I always say, “I learned to walk at a very young age,” and stick to walking. However, trudging through deep snow is no fun and very, very slow. Stash needed something speedier. Thus the request for skis.

DH throws nothing sports-related away, so we have cross-country skis dating back to the 1970s. He found an old pair with three-pin bindings, and a pair of inexpensive poles that came up to my ears. “These are a little tall for you,” he acknowledged, “but at your level of skiing, they will really be walking sticks.”

I laughed. It’s good to be known. I piled the skis, poles, and Stash into my truck and drove to the farm.

Out by the cabin, I tried to put on the skis. Oh dear. The bindings would not close over the tip of the boot. I knew DH would surely be disgusted if I drove home and said I could not put on a simple pair of skis. I sweated and puffed, leaning all my weight on the ski pole pressing the binding, until I thought the pole might snap. After twenty minutes of struggle, I finally succeeded in attaching both feet to the skis.

Stash was in heaven, bouncing through the snow as I glided (laboriously, thrashing) behind him.

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By the second circuit of the field, Stash was sufficiently winded that he took the easy way and ran along the trail I’d broken. I realized that one reason I have never skied with dogs is that before my pasture was cleared, there was no place to do so. Dogs are not allowed on ski trails. Real skiers are made cross by paw prints ruining the tracks. However, I am not a real skier and I was not cross.

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After three trips, I was damp with sweat and ready to quit. (Stash could have continued for another hour.) I skied back to the truck, and Stash hopped up on the seat. Then I addressed the Problem of the Skis.

I was able to pop the latches easily. However, the boots would not come out of either binding. Stash jumped down to see what I was doing. My skis slid in all directions as I attempted to lure him back into the truck. Finally I got him back in and leaned against the door, the slipping skis barely under control and my brain going 100 mph. This entire skiing experience had been quite pleasant, except for the problem of taking on and off the skis. Obviously, I should just untie my boots and step out of them. I could leave the boots permanently attached to the skis! Of course, this might be a little unusual, but then I am a well-known eccentric. Sure, that would work!

I drove home. Later, DH asked me about my ski. I told him how much fun I’d had with Stash, the slight problem with the boots and bindings, and my elegant solution.

DH has a poker face but I could see an expression of something like concern creep into his eyes. He asked to see the skis and the boots. I brought them into the kitchen. He laid a ski on the table and tried to insert the boot. It was very difficult. He tried to close the binding; DH has a climber’s very strong hands and he had to use all his weight to snap it.

My boots do not fit these bindings.

I felt vindicated. I wasn’t an idiot! In my relief I poured out the story of spending twenty minutes trying to get the skis on, including my contortions with the bending pole, and then trying to get them off, my feet sliding out from under me, the dog leaping between my legs, my decision to leave the boots on the skis — DH’s brow furrowed and furrowed as he listened until suddenly he burst into guffaws. I was startled and then I started to laugh also. We both laughed until we cried.

A little later I heard DH dictating a text to our daughter, Lucy, who is also an expert skier. “So you know Mom hasn’t skied in 15 years, and today she had a little trouble with her bindings. So she decided she would leave her boots permanently mounted on her skis!” 

  *    *   *   *

Luckily, DH has another set of bindings that will fit these boots … and I have a DeWalt and know how to use it.

 


A Quiet Day

November 25, 2016

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Yesterday was a darkly beautiful day. It snowed off and on. Although I felt wistful not to have my family around me, I knew that this year, a day of no pressure was what this part-time farmer needed. I slept until 5:30, the latest I’ve stayed in bed in months. With no deadlines, it was a relaxed day of puttering through my list. I baked a pie. I peeled sweet potatoes. I washed and seasoned the turkey.

DH celebrated his rare day off with a Thanksgiving sauna. (The sauna was once my toolshed. I insulated and paneled it and Allen helped me install a little woodstove.) Here is DH scrubbing off in the snow.

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While the turkey roasted, I walked the dogs in the back field. The snow has collapsed and compressed but is still over the tops of my boots. I may hunt up an old pair of cross-country skis today, to give Stash a better workout. He bounds through the deep snow with joy, and a tired poodle is a happy poodle.

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Little Toby is game …
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but challenged by the deeper drifts. Whenever he looked too miserable, I picked him up to carry him.

The snowstorm has closed the door on many fall chores I had hoped to accomplish during this week of vacation. I won’t be cutting and installing the rafters for the run-in shed in the south pasture. The horse trailer will not be put away in my neighbor’s barn. The treated 4×4 fence posts and wire panels I bought (with dollars from the sale of beef) for a sheep paddock, a project repeatedly put on hold due to Damon’s tricky health, will now wait for spring.

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It is easy to be frustrated when I look around at everything I did not accomplish this summer. I did not transplant any balsams. I didn’t paint the barn addition. I didn’t sell my heifer or four of my goslings. I didn’t build the missing doors on the sheep stall or the garden shed. I spent many sweaty hours on my future flower garden, but then turned my back to get Lucy off to college and start my own school year, and it got away from me again.

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In my mind’s ear, I hear the prayer of contrition from my earliest childhood:

We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; And we have done those things which we ought not to have done; And there is no health in us.

Luckily I know I did do a few positive things. I drew up plans for our house. I taught Lucy to drive. I fenced the back field. I kept the sheep home to improve our own land. I sold my entire crop of lambs to buyers eager for my flock’s good genetics. All seventeen open acres were grazed and mowed.

Moreover, I am basically healthy and, God willing, there’s always next year.


Ironman and Farmer Tan

July 25, 2016

Yesterday was Ironman Sunday here in Lake Placid, when all the roads are closed from 6:30 AM to 5:30 PM for the triathlon.

Though many locals resent the Ironman, a part of me always looks forward to this day. The road shutdown puts me in a bubble where no other needs can intrude. I cannot drive anyone or shop for groceries or arrange family appointments. It’s like a travel day in that sense, except that I can’t travel and thus can work, uninterrupted, on whatever my heart desires for hours on end.

This year was different in that I have Stash. Stash is a bit like a child, very dear but also young and needing exercise and entertainment. I could not leave him from morning until night. So we drove down to the farm early. He “helped” me move the sheep (having been shocked by the fence, he stays away and runs around the field while I do this) and then watched as I mucked the barn and brought the cows in.

Stash is always on a leash at the farm. It feels important not to awaken his prey drive, which is considerable. When we hike, he will race off at 30 mph and leap into the air after ruffed grouse that explode out of the brush.

On a leash, unable to run and chase, he watches chickens calmly as the water trough is scrubbed and refilled.

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My barn cat, Flossie, twines around him.

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The desire to pounce and play is kept under control. Just barely.

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But yesterday we were done by 9:30 and then I had to think of what I could work on with a toddler at my side. I could not mow. I could not weedwhack.

I decided to weed the future garden.

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Stash was bored but happy to be with me. It was hot but a merciful breeze kept off the biting flies. I pulled weeds for hours. We took occasional breaks for walks to stretch his legs. When my right elbow gave out, I switched to my left.

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I got about a third of the garden length cleared and clean, but it is the wide third — the garden expands from 2 feet deep at the top to 10 feet at the bottom — so in my mind, I’m half done.

Having Stash with me made me much more careful to go inside the apartment regularly to drink water and cool down. At lunch time, I peeled off my sweaty double-front Carhartt jeans and hung them on the deck to dry. As I munched on a peanut butter sandwich, I glanced down at my hand on my knee and laughed out loud.

It’s clear why my family teases me about my farmer tan!

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Cool and Damp

June 12, 2016

It has been in the 40s and 50s and dark with wind and intermittent drizzle several days this week. Others have complained about the weather (“Where did our summer go?” as we all pulled out our winter hats and gloves) but I am grateful to God for the rain.

We actually didn’t get much water — after being a parched and cracked crater, the pond now has small puddles in the bottom — but the land has soaked in the moisture and plants have shot up green overnight.

The forest trails where I walk the dogs are suddenly carpeted with bunchberry dogwood.

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Starting tomorrow the 10-day forecast is for sun and steadily increasing heat. I will try to enjoy it like a normal person instead of worrying anxiously about drought.