“I took it as a sign when my phone died while I was splitting wood, sometime around mid-day. It was probably stupid to try to listen to an audio book outside today. Sensitive technology & wind chill -37, not a good match, I guess. The good news: in frigid temps, the wood splits readily, the gnarly, twisted pieces of yellow heart wood separating at first strike, with a satisfying crack. I admit, it was likely my motherly instinct that propelled me up the hill, to prepare more, smaller pieces of what was left of the dry chunks, for tomorrow’s Airbnb guest. Watching the snow whirl & dance sideways across the bleak winter landscape, I sent up a silent prayer, for this unknown human, and strapped my boots into my snow shoes on the back porch. My carpenter stuck his head out the door. “I think you should offer him an upgrade him to the cottage”, he said, hair flying from under a neck warmer, worn as a hat, which is a true sign of a Vermonter taking winter seriously. I nodded, vaguely, not ready to concede defeat, on behalf of my future charge, not yet. Some people come here who have done Alaskan peaks. Who am I to coddle such souls? I’m way less of a survival freak. Me, having built structures for warmth & safety, in my own life, over, and over, again. But this weather has scared, even the best, as it should. My feral cat friend is still at large tonight, and I’m worried, and will be until he shows up for supper, worried he won’t. Yet he’s done all of this, in his own way, without me, without a mother, without a home, without a designated driver, save his wits & his health. I’m a mere add-on. A novelty, an island of strange enclosures, of blazing heat units, and bowls of food. Nothing can be counted on, or trusted, in full. Although an unexpected haven, counts for something, in this world. Perhaps I’ve adopted this, as my code. Chopping ice at all hours, at the corners of unfinished buildings, so that the risk is lowered, that someone might slip, and fall. Hanging curtains, to shield others from observation, who might seek privacy, so uncommon, in our culture. Setting faucets to drip, through the night, so that pipes might not freeze, denying access to fresh mountain water. Kicking rubber tubs, at outdoor spigots, to make sure the collection of life giving fluids, are sure to remain accessible. God bless the travelers, and the animals, on a night such as this one. My black sled, a gift from a similar-minded friend, has tugged fire wood from one building to the next, moved kindling to boxes, and carried my axe, clean ceramic diner mugs, extra toilet paper and clean linens, across the frozen tundra of my yard, to bring small, but meaningful amenities, to those in extremis. I don’t need to know who they are, not specifically, but perhaps our ships passing in the night, will one day reunite, under less adverse conditions. My shovel’s become useless, a confluence of fickle winter rain, and of brutal icing followed by snow, giving us up to the elements, for now we are all walking perilous, upon unpredictable terrain. It’s not like we didn’t know. Or did we not know? How much can we know, of what the future will bring? Will it bring us to our knees, or into the tender ministrations of a fellow human’s beautiful, caring response? Oh crap shoot of life, you seem to contain a mysterious arbiter. I’m sort of tired of it being a proving ground, and reckless dive. Some days I curse my own ingenuity for mayhem. Other days, I revel in my resourcefulness. There is no solid ground.”
