"You Ain't Gonna Throw That Away, Are Yuh?"

I think every rural community can boast that they reuse things, but nothing can beat Yankee thriftiness.


I have a friend who recently moved to the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont from the deep South. He coined my new favorite You-Ain't-From-Around-Here phrase: "You Ain't Gonna Throw That Away, Are Yuh?". He comments on the near-phobia in Vermont about throwing away or recycling such items as: broken down cardboard boxes, wood scraps, glass bottles, or pretty near anything that is still recognizable. There is a deep, quiet pride that exists here about getting something to run longer, or squeaking just a little bit more use out of an object in an unexpected way.

When I was in Massachusetts, the mindset was very much that objects were expendable and disposable. There was unspoken agreement that if things were not up-to-par, one must dispose of them immediately and get the next best thing. If something seemed to be a bit shabby, that was to be looked down upon, unless it would qualify for the "pleasantly surprised face" if brought to Antique Roadshow, which then would be a lovely item indeed.

Our good friend Scott inherited a wood splitter from his brother-in-law. I have no idea who owned it prior to that, but it may date back to when the first TV appeared on your block. A wood splitter is a prize commodity in our area. Most people heat at least in part with wood. It's less expensive if you get wood delivered in large pieces and split it yourself. The log splitter has been passed from owner to owner, and as it began to break down, each owner fixed it using the resources available to them.  It's old and well-used, but still running by God. No one wants to be the one who throws it away.

May I present, a real treasure in You-Aint'-From-Around-Here-Ville:

The Log Splitter. 

night noises, and not the good kind

We woke up several nights ago to the most horrendous noise we had ever heard. It was beyond screaming. We both bolted out of bed, sure there was an animal in the henhouse, slaughtering the girls.

As we ran out of the house, the screaming continued. I realized halfway to the coop that it wasn't coming from within, but from the trees surrounding our yard. My only thought was that some creature broke into the henhouse, grabbed a hen (or four from the sound) and was murdering them in the trees. When I got to the coop, all of the girls were huddled in a corner with their necks stretched up, peeping at me. I counted once, twice, three times. They were all there. If they were all there, what in God's name was making that sound.

I ran out of the coop and started pacing the outside, wondering if something had been trying to climb the fence and scared the chickens. I was vaguely aware that the screaming had died down. Sean called me from across the yard. His voice was tight. "Noel! Come over here. They're in the tree!" "What is in the tree, Sean?" His voice got tighter. "I don't know what they are."

That never makes me feel good. In my mind, Sean knows everything having to do with The Great Outdoors. If he doesn't know what they are, then they are clearly some sort of rabid, horrible fanged, death creatures that drool acid. He tersely said, "They are looking at me."

My maternal instinct went into overdrive. THEY? Who is THEY and they BETTER get out of my yard with my chickens!

I stood next to him. He was shining his headlamp into a tall pine. Sure enough, green shiny eyes about halfway up. There is nothing more unsettling than two flat, shiny discs halfway up a tree. Unless you count the one about five feet above that one, then the one that was about ten feet up from that.

Sean said, "I'm going closer." The eyes blinked off and on as he slowly made his way there. "Raccoons!" he shouted. "They are raccoons!". We sighed. Now we knew what was eating all our bird seed, the compost and destroying our recycling shed. Raccoons. We have lived here almost 13 years and never had them before. Bad news for chickens. Raccoons will eat them, but they didn't want them that night. They were fighting, which was the awful racket we heard.

After a few minutes of watching them, and them watching us, we decided to go back in. We'd figure out what to do about the marauders in the morning.

As we laid side by side in bed, listening for any sounds of raccoon destruction, Sean's hand grabbed my arm. Out of the darkness I heard "I *HATE* eyes in the dark!!".

I know just how he feels.

Tomato, Toe-mah-toe.

I got a Facebook friend request from a high school acquaintance the other day. We were never really close, but in a graduating class of 70ish, you know each other fairly well.

It was nice to hear from her. She was from a neighboring town, somewhat more chi-chi than where I grew up.

She posted on my wall "Do you live on a farm? Love it!".

I was taken aback. Do I live on a farm? I never thought I lived on a farm. What an insanely easy question to answer, but it wasn't.

It took me three days to come up with an answer. My paradigms have shifted so much over the last decade that I was stunned that she saw my life that way. The way I live now is just the way our community exists. Sustainability and self-reliance are such a part of our fabric that it goes unmentioned. Farm? A farm means getting up at 5am in December to milk the cows. A farm means that you have loans to Tractor Supply for your harvester. We have some laying hens and a gentleman's garden. But to her, we have a farm.

Her simple question raised so many thoughts for me about perception and the barriers that exist to change peoples' thinking about sustainability and green(er) living. We have many friends who raise their own meat, eggs, fruit, and vegetables. We think it's weird when someone doesn't have a compost bucket. Frequently that family's compost bucket goes to the chickens or the pigs. People take pride in making their own syrup, jellies, pickles, and relishes because they are doing it for themselves and it means more to them. How can I explain that to someone who doesn't live it?

I ended up telling her that we didn't live on a farm by Vermont standards, but we had some hens and some veggie plants.

That's us. Changing the world, one Facebook chicken picture at a time.

It's Not You, It's Me.

Our chickens have been outside in their coop and pen for a week now. It was a toss-up as to whether or not it was too early to put them outside without a heat lamp. Sean and I erred on the side of safety and would tuck them in every night with their heat lamp on, and then put tarps over the coop just to make sure they were toasty enough. Hey, it gets cool in Northwestern Vermont, even in June, and they are only a month old.

We decided yesterday during the day that they now have enough feathers and the overnight temperatures would be mild enough that they would be okay without the heat lamp. After all, we don't want to roast our girls.

As dusk was falling last night they were in their pen showing no signs of wanting to go into the coop for bedtime. They were happily scratching around their enclosure as we puttered inside the house. Suddenly, Mairead said "Dad, something is wrong with the chickens!". Sure enough, we could hear them squawking excitedly. We all thought "PREDATOR!" and ran outside full steam.

We didn't see anything amiss, which doesn't mean there wasn't something that hid when the clumsy bipeds came barging out of the house en masse. The chickens were really squawking though, not at all like their standard melodic chirping. Sean and I decided to put them in their coop for the night, just in case something was out there after all.

We opened the coop door and called for them. They squawked and squawked: really unusual. One jumped in my arms and sat there for a few minutes, chirping at me. It was very odd. They usually go right to bed when we open the door and turn on the

...heat lamp.

The heat lamp. Could it be the red light tells them it's bedtime? Sean trudged off to go get the electrical cord and lamp that had just been stored away. Meanwhile, chickens were doing everything they could but semaphore to tell me how unhappy they were.

Sean and Mairead stretched out the cord, reattached the light, and BAM! near silence. The hens all began their soft happy chirping and cooing, filed into the coop in an orderly procession, then arranged themselves for bed.

Seriously? They wanted their lamp? How could we raise the only chickens in the world who need reassurance at night? Can anything live in our house that doesn't have some sort of nighttime issue?? Do we attract needy, anxiety-laden creatures, or do we create them?

Nature vs. nurture, baby. No clean answers.

I Have Been Assimilated.

Recently Sean and I were standing on the sidewalk in front of our house looking at the trees between the sidewalk and the house. We were trying to decide whether or not to cut a large pine down. A small Audi swerved to the side of the road close to me. I sighed. Massachusetts plates. Obviously lost. I mosied on down the sidewalk before my dog could jump up on their car and scratch the nice paint job. It was a young couple, very nicely dressed. She had on Chanel sunglasses and an expensive jacket. I became acutely aware of my three layers of fleece, no makeup, and dirt covered jeans. The man said "We are looking for Route 15."

Without missing a beat, without even thinking, I furrowed my brow and said "Well you are goin' the WRONG way!".

The couple just smiled tiredly at me. They KNEW they were going the wrong way, that's why they asked for directions.

I realized in that moment that I had become the Vermonter that I would tell stories about to my Massachusetts friends when I would return to the safety and anonimity of the city. I was alternately horrified and hysterical. I couldn't explain to them that I was once like them, and I knew what they were thinking. I just pointed them in the right direction, took my lab and the chainsaw and headed back down the driveway.

Speaking of Phone Calls...

Sean was on the phone with another neighbor, Jim, a few nights ago. I hear "Flatbed truck? Maybe. I can check at work.".

Pause.

"I don't know. I can ask Noel."

"Noel? Do we have any cupcake wrappers?"

Seriously? Flatbed trucks and cupcake wrappers?

"I think all we have are Christmas and Halloween ones, but he is welcome to them."

"He'll take them!"

I love our life.

Sunday in the Hoosegow

We get really random phone calls. Tonight Sean answered the phone; it was our neighbor Chris. I heard Sean giving him the town Animal Control Officer's name and closing with "if you need a second pair of eyes, let me know.".

When he hung up, he quietly said "Huck has been gone for five hours.". Huck is our neighbors' elderly chocolate lab. My heart sank. Five hours. The worst went through my mind, as I could see it going through Sean's. We finished dinner and got the kids ready for bed. Sean said he was going to go see if he could give Chris a hand looking for Huckie.

I couldn't stop thinking about the last time I saw Huck. He's always been so special. He's the quintessential Lab. Big head, big paws, loves people, loves his life. I was hoping he wasn't hurt somewhere in the woods, but moreso I was hoping that Chris would have an answer one way or the other before nightfall.

Sean came back within ten minutes. I was afraid to see his face, afraid of the truth. I looked up and couldn't read anything. "Huck?" He started laughing and said everything was fine.

Apparently, Huckleberry takes a short walk every day to the center store to get himself a creemee. Today he overslept. When he woke up and made his way across the green to get his delicious ice cream, some kind soul stopped and picked him up. They saw an old dog with no ID tag, he saw a chance to go for a ride with some nice sounding people.

Huckie spent Sunday afternoon in the pokey. He was with the Animal Control Officer. Sean got to Chris' driveway just as they pulled in with Huck. It cost them $30 to spring Huck, and he didn't get his ice cream after all.

Tomorrow Huckie is getting an ID tag and a creemee.