Sugarin’

Since I was a little kid, sugaring has been one of those events that heralds the coming of Spring. In fact, Sugaring is really kind of another season of its own, here in New England; at least in the New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts corner of New England that I live in. It falls between Deep Winter and Mud Season, although there are plenty of years that the seasons overlap and a few where one of the three seem non-existent. To those uninitiated with any of these seasons, Sugaring falls somewhere between the last week or two of February and the first week of April.

When I was just a little guy, living in Keene, we experienced sugaring season only by seeing the sap buckets hanging on the maple trees along Summit Road or Old Walpole Road when we went for a drive. It usually meant that at some point during the season, we would get maple sugar candy treats, often at Grandma’s house. On those weekend drives with Mom & Dad, my brother would be beside himself with excitement, and he would fill the car with screams of “Buckets, buckets, buckets!”

We moved to Westmoreland when I was 9, and our new place had scores of big giant old maples along the stone walls running through the woods and at the edge of our field. Dad decided that first winter that we could try making our own maple syrup, and so we went up to Bascom’s sugar house in Walpole and bought 25 buckets, lids and spigots.

When February school vacation rolled around, we got all our gear together, put our on snowshoes, went out, and tapped 25 trees. It was amazing. We drilled the holes with a brace and bit, and no sooner had we pulled the drill bit out, but slightly sweet tree sap started flowing. We hammered in the spigots, hung up our buckets and lids, and listened to that beautiful sound of drips in the buckets that would echo across the field to the house.

We didn’t have an evaporator for boiling the sap back then, but Dad knew how to make anything. He took an old oil drum, welded some legs, made a door and chimney and cut a hole in the top for an old refrigerator pan to sit in. We set the contraption up in the middle of the backyard between the house and the barn and boiled sap on the weekends. It felt magical.

During the following years, our technology progressed. First, we moved the “evaporator” into the barn. We spent so many nights, Dad, Mom, David, Dan and I, hanging out in the barn, watching the sap boil. I can’t really express the tranquility. Its hard to define… you have cold wet feet and pant legs from gathering sap, your face and hands are alternately chilled by the cold outside and burned by the fantastic heat of the fire. You stare at the sap bubbling and roiling steam, and it seems as if time stops…all of a sudden its dark and 9:00 at night and time to go in. Most nights, Dad would drain off the “almost syrup” and bring it into the house to finish boiling on the stove.The whole house would smell of sticky sweet maple syrup.

The next boom in technology was the sugar house and a real evaporator. Dad built the sugar house one summer, and then designed and built the evaporator. He made it with angle iron, thick sheet metal, fire brick and stove pipe and he had stainless steel pans made up for boiling the sap in.

There was a top pan for warming and a lower pan for hard boiling. A spigot allowed the top pan to slowly drip into the bottom pan and the bottom pan had a draw spigot to drain off the syrup when it was done.

A friend of mine and I picked up 50 more sap buckets sophomore year in high school to boost production. We had an old 1000 gallon milk cooler to store the sap in. There were a few years during high school that I spent long hours out in the sugar house during sugaring season, boiling sap, making syrup, and trying my hand at other artisan activities, like carving and blacksmithing. There may even have been a few beers involved during some of the weekend sugaring events.

Now its years and years later. At least that’s what the calendar says. It certainly doesn’t seem it. I have my own kids and we have our own place with our own maple trees. When we first moved here, I hung up a few buckets, but it was a poor year and we didn’t really have anything other than the kitchen stove to boil sap on. Boiling sap inside makes a sticky mess on the ceiling and windows, and isn’t the optimal way to go. Nobody seemed that interested anyway, so we didn’t do it again…. until this year.

This year, Grace began asking around Christmas time if we could tap trees and make syrup. I decided why not, and we planned to tap around the first week of March. That week, I stopped at Dad’s house and picked up 6 buckets and lids, since the old ones we had were really no good anymore. Grace & I went to Agway and I bought her 6 spigots and we came home, got the hand drill out and tapped trees. 

Just like when I was a kid, as soon as we pulled out the drill, the sap started to flow. Her face lit up as she pounded in the spigots and they began to drip. By Sunday, we had 6 full buckets, so we decided to boil. If you follow me at all, you know that I have a fantastic fire pit of stone that I built a few years ago and this became the base of operations. I inverted an old metal grill stand in the center of the pit, put the grate in it and placed a big lobster pot on top. We built a fire underneath and spent all Sunday afternoon boiling down our little cache of sap. In the end, we made about a pint of delicious, amber colored maple syrup.

The following weekend, we bought a 10 gallon metal trash can to store sap in, and by Saturday morning, it was overflowing. I had to work on Saturday, so Tracy and Grace lit up the fire and started to boil on Saturday afternoon. The whole weekend was perfect for sugaring. The sun was shining, there was a nice breeze, and the snow was corny, warmish and melting. The temperature dipped to 19 at night and rose to 45 during the day. Sap was dripping furiously into our buckets, so much so, that we gathered 3 more times over the course of the weekend. 

This time, the whole family spent the day outside. While the sap boiled, I cleaned up winter debris from the patio, took down Christmas lights that had been buried in snow and cleanup up my work shed. The kids played around the yard. Tracy was in and out all day.  We all drifted back to fire every so often to check on the sap and stare at the steam and flames.

By supper time, we were all mentally and physically exhausted; from sun, from cold, from fire, from steam, from the difficulty of walking in the wet snow and from the fresh air.  Coincidently, this was the weekend of the “big moon” and the vernal equinox. I finally brought the sap in around dark, to finish up on the stove. We ended up boiling from Saturday morning until Sunday night and made about 1-1/2 quarts of darker, yet still delicious syrup.

There was such a change in all of us after this. I felt a huge increase in my own mental, emotional and physical energy levels, and noted the brightened moods and tranquil minds that we all seemed to share. There were lots of smiles and happy faces. Even Tracy, with her recent surgery and pain, smiled and felt better.

Sugaring for us isn’t about making syrup. I don't really use it, and the kids will have probably eaten it up in a few months, so its not a food source or a money saver. Sugaring is a ritual of Spring, a ritual I have known for at least 35 years, and now something I love that I have shared with my family, and that hopefully, my kids will someday share with theirs.

Life in New Hampshire

One of my favorite things about living in New Hampshire? By the time you are tired of the current season, a new one starts, and excitement and energy fill up the air all over again.  The last couple of days, the weather has been so warm… 50’s in February. I’m sure it’s just a warm spell, and I’m just as sure that Old Man Winter still has a few snowflakes to hurl in our direction, but he’s past his prime now.

I love the winter; and this winter has been a classic one.  Record snowfalls in some parts of New England, deep freezes for days on end, sub zero weather…the whole kit and caboodle. It does present a conflict in me… as an outdoor enthusiast, there are so many opportunities for fun… I look forward to fantastic snowy winters.

As a surveyor…. deep snow is a death knell. There is not much you can do when the job is to map the edge of the parking lot and all the utilities, and you have no idea where they may be under the piles of snow and ice. A stone monument marking a property line under 4 feet of snow in the middle of the woods is NOT an easy thing to find. 

So, you have to find the good and get over the bad. Enjoy the season that is upon you, until the next one arrives. I’ve been snow shoeing. I’ve enjoyed the cold air outside while the fire in the woodstove roars inside. The kids have been snowboarding and skating every week. We’ve made snow forts. Even the hard work of shoveling the snow out to the shed or off the roof was fun. Good exercise with a tangible end result.

But now… the winter has worn on me.  I’m ready to start doing something else. And low and behold – the weather turns, and its 50 degrees and sunny out. The patio ice melted away yesterday. The roof is bare.

There are some funky smells in the air… rotten, wet, frozen things have surfaced with all their pungencies…yet still…they are smells of spring… of life and death still happening under the frozen mantle of snow and ice.

I feel the sun’s energy. I’m thinking now of looking at my seed catalogues, planning 2011’s garden… of pruning my fruit trees and imagining the next additions to my orchard… of hanging some buckets on Maple trees to make some maple syrup with the kids. I’ve even contemplated fixing up my mountain bike and getting out and riding the muddied up snowmobile trails.

Sure… there is still plenty of winter to be had… some of our biggest winter snows arrive in March… but then they melt.

.

Another one of my moments…

A few years ago, we had a huge ice storm here in New Hampshire. Thousands of trees were split and shattered, and power was out in our neck of the woods for about two weeks. We lost a few trees, including one 200’ tall, 30” diameter white pine, which came crashing down in a rush and a roar that launched both Tracy and I out of bed. It sounded like the end of the world. 

Well… It wasn’t, thank goodness, but it did leave a big mess of pine boughs, branches and tangled remains of all the little trees that it took with it in the fall. I spent two weekends cutting up the remains of most of the pine and the little trees that were on the bank or in the garden, and I built a big brush pile. Once the snow arrived, we spent a family afternoon burning brush.

The snow covered a lot of the remains, and there was such a tangle, that after the initial cleanup triage, I let the rest of the mess lie. I planned on cleaning it up in the spring. And that’s what I did. Over the last 2 years, during moments here and there, I dragged limbs and branches up to the corner of the yard near a stone wall, where the pile would be masked by the small trees, the bank, and the garden. The pile also turned into a repository for all things wood. Garden baskets that had lived their life, an old wooden bench whose legs had rotted, the board ends from countless back yard building projects. What started as a small place to drag a few branches began to have a life of its own, layers of the seasons work stacked in a mound. And as it happened, we had somewhat of a droughtish summer, so the wood dried to tinderbox quality.

Shift forward to this December Christmas vacation. We had our first substantial snowstorm here in Westmoreland on the day after Christmas. Not a blizzard of huge proportion, really, just the normal snowstorm of years past, and about 15” of white, dry, fluffy snow covered the ground. It was beautiful, and the winds, which accompanied the storm and that remained for days after, sculpted the snow around the house into all kinds of interesting lunaresque landscapes. The wind also blew all the snow off what now was a very substantial, and very visible, brush pile in the barren back yard.

I decided on Tuesday that if the winds subsided a bit, I would burn the brush pile, along with all the paper bags full of Christmas wrapping paper and cardboard gift boxes that filled the garage. Around noon time, it seemed like the winds had dulled to an occasional light breeze, so I began hauling up some of the bags and boxes. I lifted some of the limbs that stuck out from the unruly mound and began inserting the combustible materials. I pushed them deep into the mound, to make sure they would ignite the entire body, and when it all seemed ready, I lit a match. And another. And another. And another.  This wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought. It was going to take a little more manipulation get anything going. The paper and cardboard would slowly catch, then in an instant, erupt into a huge flame, licking the limbs and penetrating deep into the pile, but once the fires had consumed the more easily combustible materials, it left the rest of the pile smoldering but un-finished.

I’m not someone to give up, once I’ve decided to do something, so back to the garage I went for the remaining paper and cardboard, and this time I began to strategically place it where the smoldering limbs seemed most receptive to burning. As things began to burn, I pulled at the mound and draped dry limbs over the flames, to let them lick at the the branches, and slowly, but surely, the fire started to take hold. As luck would have it, the winds began to pick up again, and the fire began to heave and puff, like a living organism. The winds would slow and the fire would lick high, then delve deep as a new wave of pushed into the mound. Then, with only little warning, the pile began to make a rushing sound, and with a roar, the entire mound heaved upward and burst into flame.

The heat generated was enormous. Where moments ago, I had my face and hands close in the brush, working to get the pile to ignite, I now had to back off at least 20 feet to avoid being scorched. The flames roared and reached high above the mound.  Dry beech leaves and hemlock needles, 30 feet above the ground crackled and disappeared in smoke. All I could do for a while was let the waves of wind and flame consume the body of wood and tinder.

It seemed like an eternity, but in reality, the burst probably only lasted a few minutes. Soon the fire had taken most of the pile and it began to collapse on itself, although still burning fiercely. As the the heat began to subside a touch, I inched forward to gather stray limbs and push them deep inside the infernal heat… I wanted total consumption. The coals were glowing white and hot enough to easily melt glass. The day was cold, maybe 20 degrees outside with a fairly strong wind blowing now, but the heat from the fire created an envelope around me and I felt nothing but warmth. When heat of the fire ebbed, I would dart in, grabbing whatever I could, and push it back in toward the flame. Not without consequence. Most of the hairs on my fingers and wrist and a few eyebrow and mustache hairs writhed and melted in the process. My cheeks and fingers began to cook with a healthy red glow.

This went on all afternoon, a frantic dance to keep the wind, the fire and the wood working together to an ultimate finish. As the afternoon closed, and it started to get dark, the fire finally began to wind down. I could now sit down and bask in the glow and relax. Tracy brought me out a cup of coffee, and I sat down on the stone wall, with the woods and cold wind at my back and the fire in my face.

And here was my moment. I had been listening to seventies tunes on my iPod all afternoon as I worked. Now as I sat to sip my coffee and stare at the fire, “The City of New Orleans,” by Arlo Guthrie, began top play. I experienced something. The biting wind and cold on my back, neck and ears; the heat of the fire still burning red on my cheeks and hands; the delicious oxygen laden, crisp air coupled with the aromatic smoke and resin of burning pine; the bluesy sadness of the music playing in my earphones, while I happily danced inside and hummed the tune. Between verses, I could hear the cold winds alternately rushing and whispering in the pines above me. I had simultaneously a feeling of solitude, sadness, oneness and euphoria. I wanted to cry and laugh at the same time, but the flames and hot coals drew me in once again, and I could only stare. My thoughts disappeared, my mind quieted, and my spirit vibrated and hummed a tune of joy.

I  sat sipping my coffee, kicking my feet in time to the music, and humming until the coffee was gone. The fire was all but a few larger limbs now, burning slowly in the huge bed of coals. 

I stood up, and with a last look at the pile that was my world for the afternoon, took a deep breath and walked across the darkened yard toward the inviting warmth and glow of my house.

Christmas Dinner Menu - 2010

  Well folks, the big man is due in just a few days and I’ve been digging through my recipes to make my shopping list for our Christmas Dinner. It has become a tradition to host dinner at our house on Christmas Day. We usually do our Christmas’ mornings at our own houses, and then converge on 331 Poocham around 4-ish in the afternoon. We start with appetizers and wine and exchange Christmas presents between the cousins.

I usually serve dinner around 6:30 or 7:00. Usually, its a small gang of about 14 people and we have just enough room in our small dining room for everyone. One nice thing about a small room… it’s not conducive to getting up and moving around, so we all tend to sit, drink wine and chat until late in the evening (at least late for this family, especially after an exhausting Christmas day).

Most years we play a game or two at the table while we eat dessert; trivia, some new board game, or our seasonal favorite….the list game. Its really not Christmas until we’ve shared our lists. (Rules and procedures found here)

Of all things Christmas, the dinner is my favorite. I love cooking a big meal, especially things that are not normal weekly fare. I love the smiles that light up on faces as dinner is served; my guests see the feast in front of them and taste favorite dishes they have been looking forward to all year and then their faces speak of the pleasure that words just can’t express.  I love the party at the table afterwards, when my tasks are done, and I can just sit and soak up all the love and togetherness.

This year, I’m sticking to most of our traditional standbys. In fact, if you peruse last years menu, you won’t note much of a difference, a couple deletions, a few additions, but basically the same. For a few years, I tried to mix it up each time, a whole new and exciting menu for each Christmas, but a couple years ago I decided that tradition was important, too. When I was growing up we always had a certain meal at Thanksgiving, at Easter, on Christmas Eve, and on Christmas day. You looked forward to that meal and all the delicious dishes you knew would be there.

So this is one of my gifts to my family. I may not win any awards from the food network or Top Chef, but I make this meal with love and get great pleasure out of having everybody over and sharing it with them. That’s what Christmas is really all about.

So, without further adieu, here is this years menu:

appetizers

smoked trout
cheese and cracker plate
crab cakes*
curry spread*
parmesan stuffed dates wrapped in bacon
wines

entre

coriander crusted standing rib roast
scalloped potatoes with goat cheese and herb de Provence
green bean casserole*
oven roasted garden carrots in maple syrup
green salad*
devilled eggs*
cranberry sauce with crystallized ginger
homemade baguettes*
wine
  

Desserts

mince meat pie
apple pie
pecan pie
pumpkin pie
coffee

AND….

more wine

Buen provecho!

* contributions by guests.

Taking the early morning air

I love the early morning air. I love the cold crisp chill on my cheeks. So, here it is the 27th of November, and this morning the air is frozen. Ok…its not really THAT cold… the temperature is about 30 degrees, but there is a fairly steady breeze and it chills the extremities.

I decided that I would go out for a walk this morning, before the family woke, before the mental clutter of the day’s chores began… before coffee. Well, maybe not coffee. I’ve been inside so much lately, and by nature I am really an outside person, and I just wanted to feel it… the outside. It’s hard to explain.  The quiet, the solitude, the energized yet tranquil mind at the end of an early jaunt.

So I put on my boots, my Carhart canvas jacket and my leather ivy cap, open the door, and I take that first step out of the the warm, cozy den  into “The outside” I begin my stroll by heading down the driveway and taking a right down the hill, toward Mame & Steve’s. I wanted to start the walk going down hill, to break into the exercise slowly, and then finish up with a hearty uphill blast. So peaceful at the beginning. No sounds, except for the steady whisper of the winds in the pines and the leafless oak branches. An occasional chickadee peeps as I walk along the gravel road and a blue jay is calling from someone's garden compost pile, but other than that… just the sound of the wind and my feet crunching on the gravel. At this point, even my mind is quiet, just footsteps and air, the breeze and breath.

The vistas on my road are beautiful. I really do live in a little corner of heaven. I want some pictures to share with everyone and I stop occasionally to take a shot. My photographer is still cuddled warmly in her bed, and my photographic expertise is limited to a phone camera, so these photos are mine, and just don't do it justice.

Down at the village of Poocham I take a right onto Crossroad. The village of Poocham is a funny thing. Google maps says that’s where I live, and it places the location dot at the intersection of Crossroad and Poocham Road. Historically, I believe there was a blacksmith shop here, maybe another shop, a big farm, a tavern and school just up the hill. The big red farmhouse is still there, and until recently, the 1800’s tavern was still a bed and breakfast, though now it is a residence.

The old, one room school house is having some troubles maintaining structural integrity. We peek in every once in a while, disturbing the mice. The roof has “issues”. The fields around the “village” are now the domain of horses, a large flock of sheep, a few sheepdogs and a vineyard. So… maybe it still counts as a village… it is a landing spot, I guess.

I meet Mame and Steve and Laurel out for a walk on Crossroad, and we stop and chat. This breaks the mental silence of the morning I had been experiencing so far, but it opens a new energy. I’m not a big talker, I guess, but we chat for a while. There are maybe a dozen houses within a mile of mine on the road, and all the neighbors know each other… which is to say, we’ve all at least met each other, and really know each others dogs, trucks and landscaping.  We talk about Thanksgiving and the weather. Then… onward.

I round the corner on Butterfield Hill Road and push on over the last down hill section past the Cemetery. Yes, our village does have a cemetery, too, and although most of its inhabitants moved in around the mid 1800’s, there are a few newcomers every now and again. There is a big stone crypt with a wooded plank door that is always ajar, and the kids like to peek in and scare themselves… Zombies, vampires and ghouls might inhabit this place… you can feel the energy of long dead souls, but I believe they are friendly and wish only to say hello to the newest neighbors.

At the bottom of the hill, I turn left and begin my ascent up Poocham Road, back towards my house. Now the energy is different. My blood is pumping, my thighs are twitching with the effort to keep the fast pace up hill, and my breathing deepens. The cold on my cheeks is now accented by the warm flush in my blood, and I can really feel the chill and the exhilaration. My mind has taken on a different mood, too. The peaceful tranquility has lapsed into something more active, an energized awareness. Although the world hasn’t changed around me, the quiet tranquility of my surroundings now feels more alive, and I begin to contemplate what I might accomplish today.

The walk up hill feels faster, but my watch tells me different. It takes almost twice as long to get home as it did to reach the cemetery. I stop at my driveway, just to take a minute to look at MY house. Yes, I do live in a beautiful place. Poocham Road… Westmoreland… Cheshire County… New Hampshire… New England… I live in the middle of a place that is a destination… people come to visit and have a taste of what I KNOW everyday. I feel so lucky to live here.

As I open the door, the heat from the fire simmering in the woodstove blasts my face and the smell of coffee fills my head. I have emerged from the quiet side, and I’m ready to start my day… and yet the house still sleeps. The dogs manage to roll an eye at me as they lounge in front of the stove, but the cat senses my destination and immediately launches into my spot in the chair. We battle for this spot constantly.

So here I sit, expunging my mind from the thoughts and feelings of the morning, while the fat, chair-hog cat slowly engulfs my shoulders and neck with glacial like persistence. I’d really like to sit and have one more cup of coffee, but to get a new cup, I’ll lose the chair.

Oh well, it’s time to get up and load the truck for the dump, so I submit to her persistent will. I’m ready for the day, now, anyway.

And the beat goes on….

Howdy folks!  As you probably have noticed, my blog posts have been few and far between of late. I’m sorry, if you look forward to reading them; and you’re welcome, if you have enjoyed the relief from them. 

To be honest, I have been entirely uninspired lately. I feel like I am suffering from a writer’s block, if blog posters can suffer that malady.  I really enjoy writing, and last year, I made it sort of a goal to publish a blog at least once a week. For a while, I was doing just that, and I actually felt pretty good about some of the material that I had written.

Lately, I just haven't felt that energy build up, that need for a mental release into the void. And really, that’s what it is for me, too, a big mental release. The idea starts flowing around in my head, and it builds and bubbles, aches and ferments, until finally, I have to get it out. I write it down, tell somebody, and get it out of my head. And just like when I decide to do a painting or sketch, or do a project outside over the long term, I am completely exhausted and wiped out when I finish. Emptied and satisfied. When I am writing (or doing some other creative endeavor), putting my soul into it, and its coming out well, I even break out into a full sweat. The process and afterglow are akin to that other feeling we all know and love.

Of course, its not like nothing has been happening, and I haven’t actually been busy. Work seems to be picking up, the phone rings, we get jobs, I can bill my time; so despite whatever the Media and the all knowing “THEY” say, I think things have picked up. I find that the busier things get, the less time and creativity I have to devote to writing something insightful.

Another detriment to my creative blog juice flow has been the summer project schedule. Around home, my list of yearly projects, my outdoor fun, has been completed for the year. That doesn’t often happen, where I actually find that my weekend to do list is devoted to such things as: Read a book, Go for walk, Watch a movie. I had so many projects on the To Do list at the turn of the year back in January. That has been the mainstay of my weekend warrior time, and for the most part, the main influence for my blogging. Now that they are done, I have to retreat back into the darkness and meditate, pull out some new goals and ideas, new landscaping projects and garden designs to work at. I have been pondering building an outside mud/brick oven for cooking, and a bunny hutch for our furry friends in the basement, but my yard is beginning to look like Farmville.

I guess that the withdrawal from active to passive sort of flows with the season’s rhythms, though. As it gets darker and the Solstice approaches, we begin to hibernate a bit. I know that I begin to do more things of an inner nature, like meditate, read, paint, eat tasty foods and just relax, sit by the fire and chill. Mentally regroup while maintaining energy through the holiday season. Once the snow gets here, and the holidays have past, it’ll be a different story… then I can start snowshoeing, sledding and snowboarding… playing outside in the delicious cool winter air without a whole lot obligatory events to attend.  And so the Wheel turns.

So as far as blogging is concerned, maybe I just need to practice, perhaps doing some automatic writing exercises (I think that this post is something along that line actually) just to get the creative juices flowing again. And because part of the process is publishing my little trinkets of wisdom and life observations, you, my dear readers and friends, may just have to wade through a couple three columns of blah before I get my thing going again.

So thanks for reading my mental meandering. I promise I’ll get back to something with a little more meat on its bones in the near future.

A moment in time…

I had a lot of thoughts running through my head on the 25 minute drive into work this morning. Sometimes, my mental ramblings just bounce around in my head all day until I get them out. So, Folks, this morning, you are the lucky recipients of my morning epiphanies. I need to clean house.

I had a conversation yesterday that wandered into “What kind of person am I”  in the sense of a morning person, a night owl, etc. I had some ideas yesterday…” I am this… well, but then I am that… or maybe…” Pondering the question this morning, I came to the conclusion that I am none of these. I am a man of moments.

For while it is true that I am not a fan of leaving the comfy warmth of the bed in the morning, I love catching the first rays of the day, breathing the morning air, sipping my coffee by the light of the woodstove in the quiet before the day. I’m not necessarily keen on the idea of having to go to work every day, but I enjoy the ride in, on most days. The day is still fresh ahead of me, and although maybe I am tired from staying up late, this day is new and hasn’t been mixed with the energy of other people and events.

At the other end of the day, its the same. I wouldn’t describe myself as a night owl. In fact, if there is a lack of mental stimulation, I fall asleep pretty easily, and often early. Of course, if I’m interested in what I am doing, reading a GOOD book, blogging, painting or sketching, writing, or playing a game, I often stay up way past the point where its to my benefit.

I hate the day to end. I’ll fall asleep on the couch or chair, but wake up and resume whatever I was doing. I want to stay on the scene. Tracy and I almost always were the last ones at a party, the wee morning hour people, just so we didn’t miss anything. That’s when the best conversations happen anyway. I love staying up and watching the stars, hiking outside at night, sitting by the fire until it is all but a faint glow of dying coals. Once you find your blissful spot, it’s hard to give it up and call it a day.

Mid day, lunch time, 10 am, 3:30, Supper time, they all have moments for me. I find lately that the 3-5 in the afternoon period is my slow period. I struggle to stay awake if I’m driving. Yet it is also the most productive if I am doing deed research or AutoCAD or working out. Then I’m on fire. I don’t really have a time of day…  and while there are patterns that certain things, like falling asleep on the couch, will happen if there is a lack of interest or entertainment, given something enjoyable to do, I have boundless energy.

So all of this brings me back to my bubbling brain this morning. When I stepped outside to the go to work, I was engulfed by that beautiful autumn air. The temperature was only about 32 degrees, but the air was moist with impending rain, and full of all the Autumn aromas; rotting leaves, wood smoke, frost. Yes, even frost and impending precipitation have a delicious odor. There was a fog or misty-ness about the air, and the sun was casting an orange-pink glow over the sky. The leaves on the trees were brilliant; oranges, yellows, bright deep reds, and they were glowing, seemingly giving off their own light. I wish I had thought to snap some shots with my camera, but probably the colors were more of a feeling than a visual anyway.

  I hopped into the truck and put on a favorite tune on my IPod, Jason Mraz’ “I’m Yours” and headed down to Keene, singing as I bounced along past the beautiful scenes on our dirt road. I was wishing I had a video player to capture all of my favorite, beautiful spots along the trip, which this morning, were in their fullest glory.

My head was reeling, happy, full of thoughts and ideas and yet stunned by the beauty surrounding me and so grateful to live in such a place. My spirit was vibrating!

So yah, I suppose one way to look at it is that I was on my way to work with a long day ahead of me; I had had very little sleep, and that this morning, in concept, was not any different than what I do every other day… but for me… it was one of those moments… a space and place in time that brought me real joy and I wished I could share that moment with you; but I just can’t seem to capture the feelings, sights and senses with words.

You’ll just have to trust me.