Last Child in the Woods? Not Yet.

When I was about ten years old, my family moved from a small suburban home to a couple of dozen acres of freshly harvested pine forest. The land was littered with branches and huge stumps, with smaller trees leaning in to fill the empty spaces overhead left by the fallen pine giants.Even so,  I found those woods to be magical, and we were surrounded by plenty of undeveloped woods. Until then, my idea of "forest" had been an acre or so of woods tucked between our neighborhood and the nearest main road. The reality of a couple of square miles of trees, trails and streams was amazing.

I just love trees!

I learned to go deep into the woods, far enough to hear nothing but birds and rustling critters. When I wrapped my arms around the larger trees, I could feel the earth and wind through them. The rough bark on my cheek, the constant whispering of the leaves, the ankle-deep moss, soaked into me, made me a country boy in no time. Inspired by Robert Frost's poem "Birches," I climbed leggy trees until they bent to let me down. I felt that call to climb into the heights of the branches, and beyond, but also the pull of the earth below, so eloquently described by Mr. Frost nearly a hundred years ago. As he wrote, earth's the right place for love, but also, one could do worse than be a swinger of birches. 

Beeches in winter

Inspired by the Tarzan novels, I made pathways among the trees, lashing cedar logs between the upper trunks with nylon baling twine. I would run along these balance-beams, hanging onto branches, from one tree to the next, and the next, and never fell. I know that my father, who grew up with a forest too, not far away, knew the importance of giving his children such an opportunity. Those seasons among the trees impressed me deeply. Years later, when I was at last able to build my own home on that same acreage, using some of the trees that I had known as a boy, it felt like I had never left.

Among the hemlocks that I cut, peeled, and dragged out for floor framing was one that had grown around some knotted nylon baling twine about twenty feet off the ground. When I discovered it, I realized it was the only remaining trace of those treetop trails I had built. Those days of playing Tarzan came back to me in a rush, and I gave that particular log a place of honor in the house. I know exactly where it is under the floor-boards now. I think of how I've come back to a new beginning, and how a new generation is now held up by that log as they follow their own youthful, dreaming paths into the world by way of these acres of woods.

Think how those logs beneath our floor, cut from trees that I grew up climbing, are the foundation for the same kind of magic happening all over again. We're giving our kids the great gift of learning the smell of spring leaves, the feel of a tree beneath you swaying in the wind, the music of crisp leaves underfoot, and the crack of freezing bark in the middle of the coldest winter's nights. If I can borrow a phrase from a really important book, "The Last Child in the Woods" is still out there, and I would say that there are many of them, since I know of so many who are raising nature-aware kids. Not everyone can leave the cities and suburbs, but I am so glad that our kids have this chance, and encourage anyone to find ways to get their children out under some trees as often as they can.

How to Clean a Chimney

This is creosote build-up (photo by Honey)

I skipped my annual chimney-cleaning last year, partly from laziness, and partly from faint rationalization. If you have some idea that it's easy, just because it's called "sweeping," think again. Some chimneys may be easier than others, but mine requires numerous repetitions of crawling into the basement, pulling really hard on a rope and breathing ash and creosote dust, then climbing out and up to the roof to pull really hard on a rope while trying not to fall off the chimney. It has become what I think of as the hardest scheduled task of the year, since putting the firewood by is spread out over so many days.

Soren reaches deep...(photo by Honey)

 The rationalization comes from my having talked myself into thinking the chimney was clean enough. It wasn't, and I began to suspect as much this past spring, when the stove started to smoke after no provocation at all. I mistakenly believed that the galvanized-steel trick (more on that below) let me off the hook for cleaning.

It would be easy to write this post as an extended metaphor (for keeping your house in order, for not letting the debris of the past clog your present endeavors, for taking on big challenges with support rather than alone, possibilities abound), but I'm going to try and simply describe the process while celebrating this first time of having two fine young men to help. This will free you to read into it whatever metaphors or lessons you like; I only know that it was a rewarding day on several levels, the clearest of which is that we can use the wood-stove again!

(photo by Honey)

First, the thing about galvanized steel. I've heard from some old-timers that if you burn scrap galvanized steel in your fire occasionally, something about the zinc coating affects the polarity of the ions or some such thing that's beyond my schooling, and what happens is that the inevitable creosote buildup flakes off and falls down to your clean-out door at the base of the chimney. I think this works in a way similar to those chimney-cleaning powder tubes that you can buy at hardware stores. Based on the amount of granular ash in my clean-out, I believe it works up to a point. Unfortunately, it didn't work well enough for me to justify skipping a year's cleaning. The whole reason for this exercise, by the way, is that when a woodstove doesn't burn completely efficiently, and none of them do, unburned gases from the smoke condense on the inside of the flue, gradually creating a flammable, sticky deposit of creosote, like heavy tar. This is the fuel for chimney fires, and should be cleaned out regularly.

Here's the process. first, find the clean-out door at the base of your chimney, and shovel out all of the ash that has fallen to the bottom over the past year. That part's pretty easy. This year I found almost ten gallons of ash, which meant that it was stacked high up into the chimney, and I had to loosen it with a long flexible stick. Next, carefully remove the stovepipe from your woodstove to your chimney, take it outside, bang the creosote out of it, and put it back in place. If you don't put it back before moving on, you'll get a houseful of ash!

An ancient skill passes to another generation

Next, assemble your tools. I use a wire chimney brush, basically a bottle-brush made of spring steel that fits my 8-by-8 inch flue, pushed down by several threaded fiberglass rods that connect in a row. They are too springy to push the brush all the way, so I have to also pull it through from below, like flossing. To do this, I tie a weight (splitting wedge) to a sturdy rope, with the other end attached to the base of the brush. Drop the weight down the flue, start the brush down after it, and then go down cellar and retrieve the weight, which allows me to pull the brush through from below.

In a normal year's cleaning, that would be enough. Pull the brush down as far as the stovepipe connection, pull it back up again, repeat several times, clean the bottom of the chimney out again, and put the tools away for another year. This year, though, having skipped a cleaning, we couldn't get the brush any lower than about five feet above the stovepipe connection before it got completely stuck in built-up creosote. After a lot of wrestling, we realized that we would have to clean that section by hand through the stovepipe thimble! After plenty of creative cursing, scraped arms, mess everywhere, and proctology jokes, we were finally able to proceed, scraping away two years' worth of creosote and making the chimney ready for another heating season.

The best thing about this year's cleaning was having the boys help me. With one relaying instructions from me by walkie-talkie, and the other up on the chimney doing most of the pulling, it went faster than usual, even with the excessive creosote, and was far more fun and less frustrating. Now, when I talk about running the stove too cool, and how it can add to our build-up in the chimney, they will have a first-hand understanding. And wherever they go in life, they'll know how to clean their own chimney!

On Adversity

Okay, I have been slow to write a new entry here.Things are happening at the Hollow for sure, but something about having kids in the house, bringing pathogens home from school with their homework, has slowed me down a bit...but I've decided that I can type and cough at the same time, so here we go!

Before I get to today's topic of adversity, let me throw a teaser out there. For many years I have cleaned my chimney alone,and every year it has been a "dammit" kind of venture. This year I waited deliberately until after Honey and the kids had moved in, so the boys could have a taste of country living...or so I could get some youthful vigor added to one of the toughest jobs of my year, you decide. Coming soon, I'll write about Sunday's chimney-cleaning adventure, but I want to do it justice, so I will work on that when I don't feel like a virus-ridden dishrag with a breadstick for a spine...

My Honey has been unwell a couple of times since we've joined our lives together, and I've been just thrilled to be able to help. There's a funny thing that happens when independent types try to care for each other, and we've hit all the bases. 

"Honey, I made you some valerian tea with a special tincture, and a salad with lots of bacon..." God, I love puttering in the kitchen so I can bring her some comfort.

"What? Aren't you late for work?" Oh yeah, right, forgot that.

"But I want to take care of you!" More than anything else in the world.

"I'm fine...cough, cough...you don't have to do that...is that chocolate?"

The loveliest trees here are the ones that helped each other through adversity.

And so on. It's funny and beautiful all at once; we're each used to being independent, and at the same time we crave being loved enough to be cared for. So my last words before falling asleep last night were (in between coughs and sniffles) "If I'm better in the morning I'll do some bacon and eggs for the kids." Yeah, right.

Honey's last words were, "Harper, you're sick! Stop that!" And eventually I awoke to find the most wonderful woman in the world waking me up with a tray of coffee, bacon, orange juice, pumpkin bread with chocolate chips, and some ibuprofen. All served with that smile that melts my heart.


All I could think was, "When it's my turn again, how will I top this?" I'm thinking, herbal tea, chocolates, flowers, massage, a troupe of riverdancing rednecks, whatever it takes to care for my woman the way she takes care of her man. Is there anything in life better than this? Hard times come, that's just reality. We get sick, we have career setbacks, we have issues with friends, family, or neighbors, but if we take on all of those things as a team, loving each other past the hurt that any of it brings, then we are living a simply beautiful life. We live a life to be proud of, to look forward to, to awaken to with eagerness and a strong spirit. Then, when the hard times ease up, we are still together, stronger, in love more than ever, with even more reason to live in gratitude.

Joining, Growing, Trusting

Most of my posts so far have been practical. By that I mean that they have been about fitting things together, creating something from disparate parts, paying attention to detail, and so on. This one won't be. It is about intangibles, feelings, magic, belief, and faith. While I have been focusing on the hands-on part of our life in my writing these days, making a room for the girls, cooking with style while keeping it healthy and budget-wise, teaching the boys to build things, and so on, what really drives my life now is less easily defined. 

I can't take a picture of that moment when my Honey's mothering skills wake me up once again to the finer points of parenting, even though I have been raising children for decades. I can't take a picture of the way that a moment of teamwork, her knowing what I need, me knowing that I can count on her, can do for a challenging situation. I can't take a picture of my Honey empowering me to say no to her, unlearning everything I have learned in previous relationships. There's no way to photograph the moment when she trusts me to parent (and that is one of the biggest leaps of faith out there; you know it if you have children), or when I realize that anything at all she might bring to our relationship will enrich my life, enabling me to carry things through my door that I can't even identify.

That last moment was a great example of what I'm driving at. Unloading a few last-minute things as part of our Great Household Joining, I carried a thing that looked a bit like a wrought-iron Christmas tree. Between you and me, I had no idea what it was, and the point is that I didn't care. I would have moved in a zebra-striped llama without question, that's how smitten I am, but don't tell her that, because she might like llamas. I just figured it was a whoosywingus of some kind, meant something to her, and we were going to find room for it.

Balancing that out, and in the interest of leaving enough room to move about the house, Honey is honestly wanting me to say no to some stuff. This is new to me, and I treasure it. This morning I took a deep breath and said no to yet another bookshelf. We have give-and-take going here, and consideration for each other in everything we do. I could say no to the mitten-dryer (not a Christmas tree after all, and great in a place with a wood-stove and long winters), but I won't. She knows very well that I would say yes to almost anything, but will do everything she can to not overdo it.

This is complicated, and a two-edged sword. On the one hand, I trust her to be making the very best decision, and I believe she feels the same way about me. On the other hand, I believe that if I question something she decides, we can sort that out without endangering our relationship, and I believe that she knows the same thing. Neither of us simply caves in, each of us is empowered, respected, in decisions large and small. As I write this I'm wondering if it is as big a deal to others as it is to me. There must be many couples out there who know this intuitively, but I know that it is new and wonderful to me.

Now that I think back on it, when I said that this post wouldn't be practical, I was wrong. It is about fitting things together, creating something from disparate parts, and paying attention to detail. It's the most beautiful undertaking I have ever taken on, and it's practical, essential, crucial in a very real sense. Life would not be worth living without those intangibles, feelings, magic, belief, faith, and yes, Love.

On Being Taciturn, a Brief Post

tac·i·turn

[tas-i-turn] adjective 1. inclined to silence; reserved in speech; reluctant to join in conversation.

We Mainers have long been known for our taciturnity, our terseness, our brevity with words. Ask a Mainer, "Have you lived here all your life?" and he may well answer, "Not yet." We are proud of saying much with little, of not wearing out a listener's ear by going on and on, of  showing what we mean with actions rather than words. I have never questioned that as a value until recently. 

Lately, though, I've been re-thinking it. How are the people in my life supposed to decode my silences without more clues? I might think that I'm communicating with my smile that my breakfast was great, I love how you look today, plan on fixing a dinner but might need to pick up some potatoes, and so on, but if all you get is that little smile and silence, you could be wondering if the toast was overdone, if your hair is out of kilter, if I might be considering going bowling instead of coming home after work. How are you supposed to know?

Don't get me wrong; I do think that silence is golden...up to a point. Stream-of-thought talk is wearing on everyone who has to listen to it, and eventually people just tune it out or avoid it, myself included. But I am going to try to add details and explanations to my usually brief declarations, and even to my smiles and other expressions. I will smile, and then say why.   

Even though we can accomplish a lot through non-verbal communication, smiles, shrugs, and nods, like e-mails and poetry, leave so much for the recipients to interpret that they may well see things that weren't intended. Or, more importantly not see things that were intended.

A Signpost without the words, while striking, is cryptic...

Snow Drift Love

 Copyright 2012 Eric Robbins

The way the snow drifts,
On and on and on,
Made me think of
A shape for this new song.
Falling past the window,
Blanketing the yard,
Paper said it’s bound to
Come down mighty hard.

Tiny changes in the shape of all the snow,
Underneath is still the front yard we know.

And that’s the way our love grows,
Slowly building like these all night snows
Underneath it all, just like our dooryard,
Never changing since I fell so hard
For you, that’s what you do to my heart!

When we woke up,
Pulled the drapes aside,
Watched the first flakes
Building like the tide,
And we pulled up the
Covers to our chins,
Sipping tea and loving
Being all snowed in.
All the edges gradually shift
Under swirling shapes of growing drifts.

And that’s the way our love grows,
Slowly building like these all night snows
Underneath it all, just like our dooryard,
Never changing since I fell so hard
For you, that’s what you do to my heart!

Keeping It True

In cordwood masonry building, one of the challenges is keeping your wall vertical. The load-bearing potential of the structure is dependent upon the wall being aligned as truly up-and-down as possible. A bit of variation won't be a disaster, but letting your wall wander too much will make for weak support. It could eventually buckle, or crack your windows by shifting over a leaning support system.

The metaphor is important to me. If you have a solid foundation, and build carefully and consciously upon it, then the strength that foundation will be present throughout your structure, providing safety, security, and even beauty because you have respected its gift of strength. Don't assume anything, but rather check as you go along that you and your foundation are in sync, that you're working together. Don't stray from it; honor it, and you can trust it with your home, your shelter, your life.

The most important tool for keeping your walls true in cordwood masonry is a plumb-bob, a pendulum-like brass tool on a long string, used for millennia to line up vertical work over its center of gravity. Mine is somewhat crusted with mortar, and its string is faded by time and weather, but it holds a strong magic, in my mind at least. Except for the first row or three of cordwood pieces, it was used on every single log in my cordwood masonry walls. When I look up at my highest walls, over eighteen feet from the foundation, I remember using it, over and over and over again.

First you mix up some mortar, using sand, cement mix, lime, water, and wet sawdust, along with plenty of back and arm strength with a masonry hoe. Then you carry a bucket of that and some cedar pieces up your ladder, lay a double-bead of mortar with rubber-gloved hands, and squish a piece of cedar roughly into place. Below you is a chalk-line two inches out from the base of the wall. You pull your trusty plumb-bob from your nail apron, along with a two-inch nail for a spacer, and swing it down from the head of the nail. The point of the nail is held steady against the wood, and when you have tapped the wood back and forth into the right position, the point of the bob is true above the chalk-line, making the log true at the top of the wall. Ancient science, the tradition of countless generations of carpenters and masons working through your hands, the magic of a fine metaphor, if you will pay attention to it. 

What's the most important tool for keeping your life true? Opinions may vary, but I believe that tending to your primary relationships above all else is crucial. Always checking that you are treating your loved ones as they deserve, with honesty, care, and consideration, that communication is true, you will know of potential trouble in time to correct it. You will build on that respect for your foundation.

I'm going to loan my plumb-bob, for the duration of their home-building, to Ben and Kissy of Dragonfly Acres, who have already begun harvesting cedar, and milling hemlock, for their own cordwood masonry home not far from ours. The thought of having that ancient and solid tool carry such a metaphor to another home built by people who bring thoughtfulness, love, and care to their endeavors pleases me greatly.

Bacon Parmesan Breadsticks

Breakfast here at Ironwood Hollow is a much busier event than it was when I was alone. Instead of mixing up a bowl of kashi with fruits and nuts added, with milk from the farm next door, which was my old routine, now we're doing a big egg scramble with bacon, or waffles with blueberries, still with the great milk from next door though. I find myself smiling the whole time, appreciating the warm magic of sleepy "good morning" mumbles and the steady rustle that is kids getting ready for school, liking how they pitch in with dishes without being asked, feeling the coffee warm me from within, the family warm me from all around. 

Bacon Parmesan Breadsticks...dip in maple syrup! Yum...

Today I wanted to try something that could be grabbed on the way out the door, for those mornings when the kids might want to sleep until ten minutes before the bus comes. Planning ahead, I picked up a pre-made can of breadstick dough, and made sure we had a half-pound of thin-sliced bacon and some grated Parmesan on hand. The results are great! We dipped them in maple syrup for best effect. One can of twelve breadsticks was not enough for five people, though, so it's a good thing the test-flight was on a weekend day.

The recipe: 

Bacon Parmesan Breadsticks

Ingredients: 

One package breadstick dough

Half pound thin bacon

1/4 Cup fresh-shaved parmesan cheese

Preheat oven according to breadsticks directions.

Cook bacon and blot dry.

Twist bacon, about a half-slice, into each breadstick, breaking it into smaller pieces as needed, then dip each stick into a plate of the parmesan.

Arrange on a baking sheet, and cook according to breadstick directions.

Serve hot or cold, with syrup to dunk in as an optional extra.