Thank goodness for the howling wind and ripping snow slashing across the fields. After all, it’s days like these that make splitting and stacking wood worthwhile.

We are still gnawing away at the pile of bucked logs that represent but a few of the thousands of beetle-kill trees removed from the ranch’s 360 acres of dark timber. I love splitting wood, or, to be perfectly correct, I love using our log splitter to split wood. It gives me kinship with the chipmunks who’ve been diligently storing seeds for the winter. Stacking the wood on the breezeway, knowing that at first drifts will pile up behind them, gives me a sense of properly putting by for the winter. Those stacks are better than a calendar. As they’re depleted they’ll no longer block the snow from the walkway to our front door. And that’s a sure sign we’ve built enough fires that surely spring will arrive one day soon.

I have a strong sense today of what the near future holds for me. First, some chapped skin from shoveling snow as my cheeks are scoured by icy particles. Then, a rip roaring fire as my reward. Last July I cut several armfuls of rhubarb, sugared it and cooked it down to a beautiful pink compote, then froze it all. Once I’ve thawed my fingers, I’ll be baking a rhubarb pie, to bring back the glory days of summer.

The poetry of wildflowers

“That does sound good, Al.  But you know what?”  Here I pause, to build the suspense.  “I’m going to have what I had last time!”  And Al, despite his 84 years, knows exactly what that is.  A cherry phosphate.

There’s a precise order to what follows.  First, he squirts a liberal dose of sweet, scarlet, cherry syrup into a tall glass.  Then, he ceremoniously brings forth the small glass bottle with phosphate from its hiding place and shakes a few drops into the syrup.  He peers up at me quizzically till I tell him to stop.  The more phosphate, the sourer the soda. (more…)

As soon as I say I’ve come for a soda, Al squares himself up behind the counter, ready for action.  In front of him is a glass-topped freezer for the ice cream tubs.  There are three flavors only: strawberry, chocolate and vanilla.  As with the rest of the shop the flavors are nothing fancy, yet everyone is guaranteed one they like.  On a narrow counter behind him are the tools of his trade:  the shake maker and the ice shaver, various stainless steel containers for mixing floats and malteds, and tall glasses, some tapered at the bottom, others straight, for pouring the thick, foaming result into.  On the scarred and flaking cream-colored wall hangs a black felt board with red plastic letters stuck in it, crookedly listing the offerings:  phosphates, malts, shakes, floats and sundaes.  There’s enough room to list various syrup flavors, too.

Al plants his hands firmly on the ice cream freezer, eager to get going and perhaps using the freezer for a little support at the same time.   He eyes me expectantly, bushy grey brows waggling.  Even if you’re a regular, which I am, Al always allows that just this once you might surprise him. (more…)

When I push open the glass-paned door to the soda fountain, a hanging bell tinkles a discreet invitation to stay awhile. It jingles again as the door clicks shut, leaving the billowing skiffs of dust that were accompanying me to blow on down the sidewalk in the searing dry breeze.

It’s as if I’ve stepped onto a movie set of 1950s small town America. But this is my town and it’s the 21st century. Inside the long, narrow shop it’s warm enough to inspire thoughts of thirst, but cool enough to be calmed by dust motes slowly rising and falling in front of the smudged street window. A wood bench, thoughtfully positioned with its back to the glare, is empty of visitors. From somewhere I can’t place, a radio turned down low twangs out country tunes. Outside, the sputtering rumble of diesel pickups slowly cruising Main Street on this sultry summer day, recedes. (more…)

Even though I’ve lived on this ranch for 12 years, I am still surprised nearly daily by what I see.  Today it was the arrival of a late hawk.  He’d clearly been casing the joint, because he perched on a tree right next to the house, overlooking the area where chipmunks have been scurrying about for months, stuffing their cheeks with seeds and rushing off to bury them somewhere safe for the winter.  If ever there were an easy place to catch oneself a nice, juicy rodent snack, the front of our house is it.

Go south, young hawk!