Kittens Vs. Biscuits

"Just because your cat has kittens in the oven," the old-timers around here say, "you don't call them biscuits."  Meaning that it takes more than just living here to be a real Vermonter.

I accept this, but have not abandoned Vermontishness as my goal.  I do my best by buying potatoes at the farmers' market, attending game suppers, buying clothes at the village rummage sale, and shipping gallons of Vermont Grade B (the darkest and most flavorful) maple syrup to friends and family.

But if you're trying to approach true Vermontishness, it's important to look the part.  And a big part of that is boots.

When my husband and I were house hunting in Vermont, I was amazed at the boot collections that I saw in people's mud rooms and closets.  There were big boots and little boots, light boots and heavy boots, tall and short, leather and rubber, barn and town boots.  Why, I wondered, did Vermonters own so many boots?

In Maryland, I remember owning only two pairs of boots, one for hiking, and one for direst winter but still fashionable wear.  But once I moved to Vermont, I quickly acquired a couple of pairs of boots with snow-tire treads for walking in the icy woods, and one super-insulated pair for sub-zero days.  For semi-dress, snow-and-ice occasions, I bought two pairs--one black, one brown--of fuzzy on the outside, furry on the inside low-heeled  boots.

I also own a pair of up-to-the-knee no-nonsense rubber boots for cleaning out the hen house, and a shorter pair of bright blue ones for walking on the rail trail when spring turns the world to slush.

So far, my seven pairs of boots had fulfilled my needs.  They were not particularly flattering, but they kept me mobile in most weathers.  But global warming has arrived in the north country.  Last year we had very little snow or ice, so my fuzzy, furry, low-heeled boots were de trop.  I realized that now in Vermont there were many weeks cold enough to justify wearing boots, but not so snowy and icy as to demand the prudent low-heeled, fuzzy kind.

Accordingly, I now own an additional two pairs--one black, one brown--of moderately high-heeled, moderately fashionable boots to wear during the mid-Atlantic weather that seems to have become the norm in Vermont.

The winters may no longer feel so Vermontish, and I know I'll always be a kitten, but with the help of time and appropriate footwear,  I'm coming closer to that golden, flaky, biscuit look. 

Wolfie Earns His Kibble

(Please note:  Blogger is still not allowing me to respond to your comments, but I do read them faithfully--and respond to them in my heart.)

Drove to Philadelphia last weekend, to attend the mother of all birthday parties.  We saw bare ground for the first time since December, and on Saturday ate lunch in an open porch, without coats, hats, mittens or even sweaters, in the proximity of a hydrangea bush loaded with buds.

We saw a lot of bare ground as we drove back north in a downpour, but in New York state, there was still  snow on the ground.  The Hudson, which on Friday had been frozen solid, was a soupy mess of ice and water.  In the meadows, as the warm air came in contact with the cold ground, the snow appeared to evaporate into a thick white fog.   We crossed into Vermont, and I heard a pinging on the windshield:  an ice storm had come out to welcome us.

We unloaded the car at the house, glanced at the backyard where for the first time in months a corner of the fish pond was visible, and rushed to fetch the dogs from their B&B before the roads got worse.  On the way back, as we turned right by the big dairy farm, the Holsteins cozy in their barn, munching their eternal silage, the car slid gently all the way across the road---hardly a heart-stopping moment, since we were the only moving vehicle in the landscape.  By the time we got to the house, the corner of the fish pond had disappeared again.

This morning I let the dogs out while I shoveled a short path for them through two feet of new snow, but all they wanted was to get back inside. They didn't like crashing through the ice-crusted snow.  They didn't like having buckets of the stuff thrown in their faces by the howling wind.  They are winter-weary too. 

A few minutes later, standing at the kitchen window, we saw a weasel or a fisher (neither is good news) running through the woods in the direction of the chicken house.  Wolfie figured out that we were looking at a critter, and started barking.  I took him to the back door, said "go scare it!" and let him out.  In two seconds he was in the woods, and the weasel/fisher was running for his life.  Fortunately for the w/f, Wolfie stopped at the invisible fence, where he did some marking, to ensure the critter wouldn't be tempted to come back (no pasaran!).

I called him inside and went upstairs to my meditation spot.  I unrolled the yoga mat, put down the cushion, sat down in sukhasana.  Wolfie lay himself down with his back tight against my legs, and went to sleep.

Many Words For Snow

Wikipedia informs me that the notion that Eskimos have several dozen words for snow is a degrading myth that ignores the diversity of tribes and the structure of languages designated by the coarse label "Eskimo."

When I lived in Maryland, I had only a couple of words for snow--"light snow," and "stops-all-traffic snow." (There wasn't a lot of difference between the two.)  Now, after six years in Vermont, I can make up for whatever the Eskimos and their languages have left unsaid.

There is big-flake-plopping-down snow, and tiny-flake-making-swishing-noise snow.

There is all-gone-by-morning snow, and stays-on-forever snow (the kind we've got right now).  And drives-the-parents-crazy snow, when school is cancelled yet again.

Outlines-every-branch-and-twig snow is beautiful, even in will-Spring-ever-get-here Moon (late February).  On the other hand, rots-by-the-roadside-gray snow turns your winter-weary stomach.

As the days grow longer, we get melts-and-turns-to-ice snow, which forces me to shuffle down the driveway like a nursing-home resident.
 
And if the temperature is just right, we get snowballs-on-Bisou's-feathers snow, which form in thirty seconds and take ten minutes to melt with the hairdryer on Low.

Finally, there is spinach-planting snow, which comes just as the supermarkets and hardware stores put up their racks of seed packets.  Get your trusty planting stick, drive the eyelash-thick seeds into the white stuff, and I guarantee that you'll be eating fresh greens in April.  (Also known as sanity-saving snow.)

Bisou In Winter

In a word, she loves it.  And for someone with a 300-year history of intensive lapdog breeding in her genes, she is remarkably sporting about it.

Some of her littermates have been donning coats and booties to go out in the elements this cruel winter, but I don't think Bisou stands still long enough to get cold.  She plows straight into four-foot snow drifts,  then emerges, head covered in snow, swims back to the relatively dry conditions of the driveway, then finds another snow drift.

Yesterday she had a play date with her brother, B.  B's owners have a securely-fenced yard, and prior to Bisou's arrival they had snow-blowed (sic) a network of paths for the dogs to run in.  Since we were having a heat wave--the temperature had risen above freezing for the first time in recent history--we left B and Bisou outside to growl and chase and roll each other and went inside for a cup of tea.

A while later one of us looked out and...no Bisou!  Polite panic ensued, followed by understated relief.  She had climbed up on a big pile of snow, walked over the fence, and was retrieved from the driveway.

This morning, when I took the dogs for our driveway walk, Bisou was in her glory.  Overnight the short-lived thaw had covered the snow with a sheet of ice hard enough to withstand her nineteen pounds.  She scaled the ragged wall of snow formed by the snow plow and took off into the pristine field as fast as her legs would carry her.  She ran and circled and sniffed and ran some more until she was a mere red speck in the distant whiteness.

I saw Wolfie look her way, approach the snow wall, then back off.  When he couldn't stand it anymore he scrambled up the wall and leaped into the field, and crashed through the ice.  Bucking and twisting and thrashing he got himself back to the driveway, and tore a branch off a tree in frustration.  He didn't try to follow Bisou again, and was subdued and downcast for the rest of the walk.

Now it's snowing again.  Even the hardiest winter lovers around here are starting to whine a bit.  But not Bisou. Tomorrow, when she catches me looking in the direction of my boots, my fearless would-be sled-dog will be scrabbling and moaning at the door, dying to throw herself body and soul into winter, once again.

In Winter's Grip

It's cold, cold, cold outside, and will stay that way for several days:  highs in the single digits, lows wherever.

Served the hens a hot breakfast, then went back at noon to give them some sunflower seed treats, which they love, and found them perched on their roosts.  They never roost during the day, but I guess the floor of the shed is too cold for them, despite the foot-thick mattress of hay.

Lexi has been going out with me and the other dogs for walks up and down the driveway these days (the snow on the field and woods is too deep for walking).  Wolfie gets whipped into a frenzy by the chill, which means that he tries to entice Lexi to play by bumping into her--despite my shrieks of "GENTLE!!!"--which makes her fall.  Luckily, there is soft snow everywhere for her to fall on, but I still worry that she will get hurt.  On the other hand, I don't think that leaving her behind would be good for her spirit, so I usually opt for the physically risky alternative.

Today, however, there was no debate:  at 3F Lexi, in her wisdom, chose to stay inside.