As I gently held the fragile pea shoots close to the supporting wire and willed them to grab on, I was reminded of my teenage sons. As they grow, they reach out in all directions seeking handholds to help them along the way. It’s my job as a parent to make sure they hang on in the right places. They can get tangled up with distracting bushes and other riotous gangly green pea shoots. Some even fall all the way back down to the ground when they can’t find any support; those plants don’t die, they just creep off again, often in the wrong direction, horizontal instead of vertical. And really, there’s nothing wrong with that, it just takes these wayward shoots a bit longer to reach the sun and maturity. The good news is that they do all seem to get there in the end, producing lovely, plumb, pea-filled pods of goodness.
I feel a little silly comparing something so transient, and perhaps trivial, as pea plants to my robust, inquiring, amazing boys. A quiet morning in the garden away from the telephone and internet and other life detritus, will do that.

Our glorious, wild, organic, free-range Christmas tree

Ever since I was first married, my husband and I have always harvested our Christmas tree from the woods out back. It’s become a tradition in our family. I scope out Balsam firs through the fall during my walks with the dogs and then a week or so before Christmas, my husband and two sons troop out with me to cut one down and bring it home. In recent years, we’ve included the neighbors in our forest forays. The best trees usually are tall and we trim off both the very top and bottom for the best shape.

Bringing the tree in from the woods

When we first started we settled for fairly small trees. They got bigger over time.

Each year when we get the tree in the house, I exclaim, “this is our best tree ever.” And everyone else rolls their eyes because inevitably our trees are bit lopsided, and maybe a bit sparser than the ones you find at commercial tree farms — ok a lot sparser. But I like them that way because when we put the tree in front of our living room window, we can still see through the limbs to the view outside of the forest, the mountains beyond, and the seasonal Christmas star that lights up at night on top of Mount Battie.

The view out our window to the mountains

The great thing about living in rural Maine is that other people get their trees the same way. The other night at our annual Christmas party a group of us got to talking about the concept of the wild tree. One friend recounted that he used to drill holes in the trunk to add extra branches and bushiness. Another said her husband has been pleading with her to let him wire two trees together. We all agreed, though, that we hate it when people coo about our “Charlie Brown” trees. Somehow that demeans this fragrant, wild piece of the forest. I’m convinced that it’s really just a matter of marketing. Don’t call it a Charlie Brown tree. Call it a “wild, organic free-range” Christmas tree and I’m sure everyone would want one and maybe even pay extra for fewer branches.

There’s a transitional period in the fall when chilly air combined with water still storing summer’s warmth creates fog on the lake— like last Wednesday when I went for an early morning row surrounded by a thick mist that swirled in and out.

One moment I was bathed in bright sunshine, the next engulfed in a cold, gray void. As the fog and sunlight battled each other, I took this photo right at the edge. Looking at it later got me thinking about how we see things. An optimist might say the fog was the blank canvas. Blue sky and green trees emerge as the brushstrokes of light expand.

Me? I know that these misty lake mornings, like the red leaves on the maple in my yard, mean winter’s black-and-white palette is creeping relentlessly closer — the fog is just the advance guard.

By Friday as the temperature rose again, the mist was gone and the lake felt summery enough for me to go swimming after my row.

But the grey will be back, and it will eventually erase all the color.

Some mothers get breakfast in bed, fancy bouquets, or maybe even taken out for breakfast on Mother’s Day. I am luckier than that. My Mother’s Day celebration was a bumpy drive to Appleton in John’s old Jeep truck to pick up a load of lovely composted manure from Cheryl at Terra Optima Farm for my garden.
To top it all off, just at the end of the day, Jack and Sam came in with a small bouquet of cheery daffodils, and better than even the flowers, big hugs for me.

The boys wrote me this poem a few years ago on Mother’s Day.

Lizards have them
Little frogs have them, too
But no one in this world
Has a mother who’s
As sweet and fine as you!

Poetry, poop, and hugs. These boys know the way to their mother’s heart.

Today was a 2-lake skating day – Chickawaukie in the morning and Megunticook in the afternoon. The ice wasn’t great, but getting out and about was.

One of the best things about skating on lakes around here is checking out the ice fishing shacks. These fishermen’s homes away from home are extraordinary examples of whimsy combined with practicality. Utilitarian shelters designed to keep fishermen warm and provide a cozy refuge on the cold, windy ice, they also are lovely examples of creativity.

I have seen shacks painted all sorts of colors, such as bright blue and red ones. Some are sided in spectacular sheets of steel that relflect the blue sky and white snow. Others are rigged on skis to make transportation easier. Today, I saw a shack with a rounded roof and gables that looked like halved wagon wheels. The owner invited me inside to share the bacon and eggs that he and his friends were cooking on a small woodstove. Overhead hung a miniature set of deer antlers (it’s small because this is a small house, the owner said) and a fan of pheasant feathers. The owner explained he designed his shack to have lots of head room since he is tall. He sheathed it in treated canvas to make it light enough for him to move and set up without outside help.

I’ve read about Minnesota where people tow huge houses onto the ice, complete with large screen TVs and kitchen. Here in Maine, ice shack architecture, like the landscape and its people, is economical and functional, but also quirky and wonderful. Why waste money on something big and gaudy when smart and small will do?

As the gentle January snow fell outside, I decide to make a lovely beef stew with carrots and onions from the cold cellar, celery grown in the kitchen window and tomatoes put up last fall. Seems a pity to pollute all that goodness with store-bought thyme (currently masquerading as lint in my pantry). So down to the snow-covered garden, we trudge (the dogs come with me). Despite a December defined by subzero temperatures and deep snow, January has been warm. Today’s snow marks the return of winter. Still, even in the silently falling snow, I do not need either a hat or mittens. Shriveled brown stalks of last fall’s broccoli point this way and that over my raised beds like small scarecrows, and straw insulation protecting garlic bulbs pokes through the snow. I have to dig a little to find the thyme. But the reward is a handful of stalks with fragrant green leaves, shining like emeralds. It’s a reminder that even when snow and ice turn the landscape black and white, the color remains for those who look, a hint of tenacious life and of the promise of spring.