the squibix family blog

While I was surprised to run into the end of the year so soon, I didn't let that stop me from celebrating it in style! We hosted brunch this morning with biscuits, doughnuts, eggs, pancakes, and fruit; and kids running around being crazy, as is the custom for events at our house. This afternoon the boys and I headed out to a friend's house to play board games and eat chips, little hot dogs, and cookies. Good times (though Harvey wasn't happy that no one wanted to play a game at his level: the little kids were too crazy and the grown-ups' game had too much reading).

I have some ill-considered new years resolutions, which include spending more time outside (though Leah tells me I'm already outdoors more than she considers rational), and learning to make and fix things more usefully than I can now. My plan is to start big with a bunk bed for the boys; I also hope to learn how to fix my bicycle before I need it to go anywhere. I'm also interested in growing more food and harvesting, storing, and preparing it following a more rational plan; and moving in some way towards being able to offer educational opportunities to kids who aren't related to me. Oh, and learning how to explain my hippy craziness to folks who wonder why I do the things I do.

I also hope to get more sleep. Maybe that's why so many of my days were a blur this last third of 2014. Welcome 2015: show us what you've got!

As an Episcopalian by upbringing I'm held to a sterner schedule. Sure, we count the days of December before Christmas, but that's only Advent, and it's there to hold off Christmas and build up the anticipation. No early Christmas songs—there are plenty of Advent tunes. And of course, Christmas decorations would be totally out of place before the 25th! With all that waiting we can't be done with Christmas in a day, which is where the twelve days come in. There's gotta be lots of time for partying, and for admiring the greenery you put up in a frenzy after dark on Christmas Eve (n.b.: we don't do that; our frenzy is reserved for finishing up gifts).

We actually did a fair amount of long Christmasing this year, what with our big party on the 28th and the extended vacation (thanks to New Years Day being on Thursday). But all good things must come to an end, and Leah asked the other day when we were taking the tree down (even though she says she doesn't really hate Christmas). The thing is, despite my English Church heritage, I'm never quite sure when twelfth night falls. But it's not my fault! It's just that it's hard to keep track of a season that nobody else is observing! Thankfully wikipedia was there to set me straight; but I vowed at dinner this evening that for next year we'd have a calendar—like an Advent calendar—to mark each of the days of Christmas. The boys want to keep track too, if only because they know they can't start eating their gingerbread houses until Christmas is over (I told you we're serious about this stuff!).

Checking the encyclopedia and counting the days three times on the calendar I was able to determine that tomorrow, in fact, is the twelfth day of Christmas, and we'll be taking the tree down accordingly. But as it happens I didn't really need either of those methods to tell me that the season is almost over, since I had a certainer, more ancient sign: I finished the home-made candy my mom gave me for Christmas. Goodbye Christmas for another year; Harvey is already counting down the days until next year's celebrations (that is, when he's not asking how long until we go camping).

I must say, before I smashed it up my house looked quite elegant, as well as tasty...

Surprisingly, it was in pretty good shape. I even took off without feeling like I had to lube the chain (though the clock also had something to do with that decision). But "good shape" for any bicycle of mine is pretty relative. This particular bike currently has a bent front derailleur and two bent chainrings, a rusty stuck spring on the rear derailleur that keeps it from tensioning the chain most of the time, and rear brakes that offer the faintest hint of stopping power when applied fully (which, now that I think about it, didn't apply on this particular ride as the lever was frozen—or maybe rusted!—solid). Also something is going on with the freewheel: the last few times I rode in December there were moments when I found myself able to freewheel in both directions, the pedals spinning wildly without propelling me forward. That was kind of worrying. But then the pawls caught again and I was off, so never mind!

Even with all that in the back of my mind (the way back) yesterday morning I just hopped on and hit the road. That says something about my personality, I think: that I'm a joyful optimist, trusting in God and my ability to deal with problems as they arise, and not willing to let anything get in the way of an adventure (or at least a fun ride to work). Also that I'm lazy and unable to do proper preventative maintenance, and that even when things aren't working it takes me a long time to work up the will to fix them. Leah would agree strongly with both points, I think... if she read them. I really hope she doesn't, though, since she doesn't like to hear about me riding into the city on broken bicycles. Shh!

I'm not opposed to fatbikes; they certainly have their place, if you're riding the Iditarod Trail Invitational or bikerafting Alaska's lost coast. Only I'm not sure how much we need them around here, when we barely ever get enough snow to snow-shoe on. And even then, they're only for recreational cycling—which I suppose is fine so far as it goes (though I'm clearly not much of a recreational cyclist myself). But when I think of how I'd like cycling to be perceived, my vision isn't mainly of big knobby wheels bashing over extreme terrain—nor yet of carbon-fiber frames and skinny tires doing big loops of the countryside. Those things have their place, but they should be sideshows to the regular business of people getting places by bicycle.

As it is, recreational cycling minimizes cycling generally. When you drive to the parking lot at the end of the bike path, you're casting a vote of no-confidence in the bicycle as a means of transportation for people who know and observe you; and you're not supporting the riders who are out in the street and would appreciate some company. When the average driver sees more bikes being carried on racks than actually being ridden, he comes to see that as normal—and then gives me grief for being on the road.

Cargo bikes, now, are totally serious. Nothing fun about them! When you get a bike you can fit your whole family into you're making a powerful statement that bicycles are for getting to the library, or the playground, or even the supermarket. And when we're out on the big blue bike people totally take notice and ask questions and even, sometimes, get jealous. I'm sure they'd ask questions about a fatbike, too, but I like the answers a lot better for the cargo bike. So maybe this spring we can see some of them in the local shop?

I knew butter was easy to make (had I wanted to do it on purpose I would have used the Cuisinart) but I had no idea it could be done that quickly. We haven't made it before since we figured the cost of good cream would make it prohibitive—and bad cream wouldn't be worthwhile—but I was impressed by how much butter I got out of less than a quarter cup of cream. Further experiments may be in order! I know hippies usually make more yogurt than butter, but what can I say... butter appeals to me a whole lot more!

Oh, and naturally having made butter I had to serve some of it up on bread to go with our chocolate; the rest is in the fridge for tomorrow.

You don't notice it so much when you're inside them, but cars are pretty loud—and all the more so when the road is wet. Even as slow as they're moving in town—not much more than thirty miles per hour anywhere along our evening's route—the noise of the tires was enough that Harvey and I had to just about shout to talk to each other, and Zion, talking out of his pile of blankets, didn't have a hope of making himself heard.

I don't have any hope of improving the situation, or any idea of what could even be done in a perfect world. At least living where we do we always have the option, when we want to be able to talk while walking, of heading out to the woods or fields. But that way we don't get anywhere useful. I can't even claim any moral high ground, since this winter I've been driving around town at least as much as I've been walking, and our new car has giant wheels that are probably even louder than average.

There's probably a broader point to be made about externalities here, but I'm too sleepy to come up with it. When it comes to driving, maybe it's just that it's hard for people behind the wheel to remember that anything external to their vehicle even exists. I'll try and fight that as I drive, and while I can't do much about the noise I'll be careful not to splash pedestrians with water from puddles, or honk my horn where it could startle someone. That—and trying to drive a little less—might make the world a tiny bit better.

The woods just around the corner from our house back onto a considerable area of wetland: wetland that is pretty much impassible most of the year. I can't believe it took me this long to think of exploring it when most of the water was safely solidified!

The areas of open water are actually the remains of old cranberry bogs, and though they're gradually silting up—they seemed much smaller than the last time I visited, oh, seven years ago (yikes!)—you can still see how there was once a series of long parallel ponds with dikes in between them. We found a passageway through one of the dikes.

Another sign of the artificial nature of the environment is the dead-straight course of Hartwell Brook, which for this portion of its run is really more in the nature of a drainage ditch. It flows straight from the airport, and when we found it almost completely free of ice I really hoped that was due to the speed of the current rather than any questionable chemicals washing downstream.

Whatever the reason, the flowing stream kept us from crossing over, so we turned north along the bank. I was hoping to hit a path back into the woods from the other side to complete a loop, but the boys didn't know that; as we left the brook to push through the tall, maze-like reeds Harvey eventually paused to say, "I'm a little scared." What, doesn't he trust me to keep my head and sense of direction? Plus, if anything goes wrong there's always the GPS on the phone. Which I mentioned to him and asked if he wanted to cheat; he declined.

Eventually we pushed our way through to higher ground and found a faint trace of a path, but we still didn't have any idea where we were until we found footprints, and a hole in the ice where our friend Bruce broke through on the previous expedition. We were saved! The rest of the trip was easy and uneventful, except that I had to carry Zion and his hands got quite cold once he didn't have the exertion of keeping up with us to warm him. When we got home we had hot chocolate.

There's still more to explore back there; we'd like to make another expedition soon. Want to come with us?

The question led immediately to its answer, which was—I say without any research or actual knowledge, but also without doubt—that they covered things in cloth. Wet cloth, to keep the dough from drying out. So I started doing that instead. It feels so much nicer! I don't know that any chemicals from plastic actually leach out into food, but to me at least plastic wrap is just not pleasant stuff. Plus there's the issue of the energy and raw materials that go into making and transporting it, and then again into disposing of it (how many of you recycle your plastic wrap?). An old cotton napkin from the rag bin doesn't have any of those issues.

I can see why, even hearing my process, some people would totally still be into plastic wrap. Compared to its perceived sterility, a wet rag might seem distressingly permeable to germs, or even somehow dirty in its own right. But keeping our bread dough—or our leftovers—sterility is a pretty modern problem; and with all due respect to modern medicine is not one that should loom particularly large in our consciousness. Under cotton my bread can breathe as it rises, and I'm sure it's better for it. That I'm following the example of countless generations of homemakers before me only improves my appreciation of the method.

I think the evidence shows that, despite our lack of time to properly document his unique charms, Lijah is well-loved by all his family. Cute too!

He does more things now than he did back in the summer when I took all those shots: just today he was standing up to play with the new toys attached to the library wall. Oh how I wish I'd remembered my camera! I will aim to do better in future; expect a more regular supply of current Elijah content in these pages, and complain to the management if you don't see it!

Snow angels have been on Zion's mind lately; he clearly wasn't satisfied by his ice angel and took the first available opportunity to make the real thing happen. It's wonderful to see him finally really enjoying the snow; I guess the problem before was just not being three. This winter he's wholeheartedly in favor: after putting in a couple snow angels he crawled around the ground for the next half-hour being a dog and eating snow.

The real dog ran considerably faster than puppy Zion—he also missed the snow overt the last month and a half. And Harvey climbed the ladder to the maple tree to eat the snow up there—maybe it tastes more rich and rare 15 feet above ground level. We also tried some flat-ground sledding, with me pulling the boys on the runner sled and flinging them forward. The snow was pretty sticky, but after we waxed the runners things ran well enough.

When we got as wet as we could get we went inside and I made an appropriate snowy-day lunch: grilled cheese, tomato soup, and pickles. And hot chocolate, of course; and this time the whipped cream worked.

Later I took Rascal for a walk, and on my way home I was ashamed to notice that ours was just about the only house on the street without at least one gigantic snowman. Never mind that the boys wanted to finish the board game they were playing with Mama, I had to defend our honor. They came out a little later, in time to help me just the tiniest bit, play with their friend from next door, and get in on the commemorative photo.

Then inside again for supper; for desert we had maple syrup poured over a bowlful of snow. What more could we ask for?

Obviously the world has been pretty much brought to a standstill; no work for anybody today, and I already know I'll be working from home tomorrow as well. That didn't stop us from going outside, though! I needed to give the chickens food and water, but the boys just wanted to experience the wildness. It's very cold. Zion lasted about 15 minutes, and we loved watching Rascal leap and bound in fluffy snow up to his shoulders. After Zion went in Harvey and I did some shoveling; when we made it out to the street we found about 8 inches of snow on it, and 3 or 4 on the main road. Walking into the wind was very unpleasant, but we're tough.

Besides braving the elements we're also keeping busy inside: there's bread rising, squash in the oven, and lots of tea in our bellies. The boys, at peace for the moment, are building a zoo for their stuffed animals. We may survive this storm yet!

Update at half-past four:

It keeps snowing. When I walked Rascal late morning the undrifted snow was well above his belly; when I tried to get him to go into the woods he said, "the snow is too deep here: let's go somewhere else!" Alas, he wasn't able to find a anywhere with less than six inches of snow—besides the middle of the main roads, and I was really nervous walking there because the visibility was very poor indeed. Not that there was much—any—traffic, but I didn't want to get knocked out by a snowplow!

After our leftover pizza lunch there was a bit of a lull and Harvey and I went out to play and shovel. Even after our first small effort this morning the piles beside the front walk were tall enough to demand snow-fort making, and they quickly got a lot taller, but even piled up the snow was much too soft to bore out. We did make a tiny tunnel in the edge of the plow debris, and Harvey made it through once before it collapsed.

Zion came out for about five minutes, and did his part.

Just afterwards they tried to climb the snow collected in the lee of the car, which turned out to be very soft—so soft that instead of supporting Harvey, who was first, it collapsed and sent him plunging face-first into the pile, kind of like an ostrich. We went in after that, and I made us all hot chocolate. Mama did the second round of shoveling while we did some school; now the boys are playing with the big legos while Lijah naps (and are being very considerately quiet!).

Is it bedtime yet?

Further update at nine o'clock:

As Leah wrote elsewhere, "It looks like we made it to supper time! Though in all fairness, that's what I tell myself every day at this time, not just the days when snow is falling." I actually didn't think it was that bad, but I was doing the easy part. But regardless, nobody got hurt, the kitchen ended the day cleaner than it started it, and the rest of the house might be clean again someday! It was a long time to be inside: Lijah never left the house all day, Zion was out for a total of 20 minutes, and Harvey maybe 40. Leah and I each got to take a walk and do some shoveling, which may have been lifesaving (the kids' lives, not our own).

It's hard to see how much snow there really is in the pictures above. Just wait until I take some more tomorrow! While we've certainly had more snow on the ground before, I don't know that I've ever seen as much fall in one day. The piles on each side of the front walk are over Harvey's head, never mind the ones around the driveway. I can't imagine where people who own parking lots are putting all the snow, and maybe they can't either: pretty much everything is cancelled again tomorrow as they figure it out. Hopefully we can spend a little more of the day outside!

There's lots of snow to have fun in. Remember my big snowman?

Naturally, we made a snow cave or two. The snow is so light and fluffy the excavating was a snap.

In fact, it's so light and fluffy I had some concern about the whole thing collapsing and trapping the boys; certainly when I tried to climb any of the piles I sank right in up to my waist. Even the plowed up piles can't support my weight at all, which is pretty remarkable: I don't know when I've ever experienced such light, dry snow before. Leah commented on how white it is with hardly any moisture; no blue in it at all.

To the kids that just means that their snow fights involved only fistfulls of powder.

And to Rascal it means that he can't walk anywhere without sinking in up to his stomach. When he gets really excited he can bound around the yard, but mostly he wants to stick to the paths others have made before him. Not that that's too much of a hardship: with the sunny day the kids made lots of paths, and tomorrow will doubtless see lots more!