October Snow—Oh NO!

October Snow—Oh NO!      November 2nd

            “Welcome to Little House on the Prairie,” I greeted my son when he came home.           

“No it’s worse,” he said. “They had either a smaller room to heat or fireplaces in each room.”

It was Tuesday—the fourth day after the snowstorm—day five without electricity and heat.

The power had gone off at 4:30 pm on October 29^th. We had been warned on radio and TV by weather gurus and public utility reps that an early snowstorm could bring down trees with the extra weight landing on the colorful–not yet fallen leaves.

            Sure, a snowstorm, I thought. How bad can it be? The ground’s still warm; it won’t stick. Predicting doom and gloom helps the ratings.

            But I was wrong—they were right.

            So, during a lull in the storm, while I was shoveling the wet, heavy snow, we lost power. As the dull daylight got even dimmer, I lit candles—half a dozen on the dining room table framed by an aluminum tray for reflection, two in wall sconces, two over the mantle, several over the kitchen sink, and one in the bathroom. To say I’m fond of candles is, of course, an understatement.

            “It’ll get cold in here when the temperature drops outside,” my husband warned.

            “Why?” I asked. “Isn’t the pilot light on the gas burner still lit?”

            “Yes. But the mechanism that tells it to turn on is electric.”

            “Oh.”

 So we sent our son to the garage to retrieve wood for the fireplace. Luckily we had scarcely used the half cord my brother-in-law had gifted us several years ago, having lit fires only for our annual Christmas Caroling party and on Christmas Day itself.

My husband declared he’d make dinner by memory—and by 3-candlelight.

During dinner the lights across the street went back on. No problems for them; they’d have light, heat, phone service, computers and TVs. I washed dishes by candlelight, grateful that we at least had hot water. I knew in other parts of the state, no electricity means water can not be pumped.

The next few days, when I awoke, the temperature was 51^o. I felt like a pioneer—at least, I thought a great deal about those who had settled in New Jersey before there was central heating and electricity. When I worked in the school system we took our 2^nd graders to visit the Lenni Lenape area of Waterloo Village each fall.  In winter the Lenape community lived in long houses—sleeping, bundled in furs, on bunk-like platforms within the perimeter of the lodge. We were told it became quite warm with the central fire and all the people there.

Seeing the long house each year, all I could think of was how cold it must have been to trudge out into the snow whenever nature called. I found myself wondering the same thing when my husband and I visited Clifton’s historic Hamilton House a few weeks ago. Out houses must have been frigid in winter.

This morning, trying to heat up some bread on top of our thank-goodness-not-electric stove, I was reminded of that historic Hamilton House. Living then and there, I’d have had to add wood and stir up the fire in the huge kitchen fireplace and pump water by hand to make my morning tea. Today I only needed a match to light the stove. However, Hamilton House had one device I could have used—the iron platform that held two slices o bread upright. You placed it on the floor in front of the open fire and, when one side was browned, you pushed a knob on it with your toe so the other side of the bread faced the fire. You stirred the bread by toe—a toe-stir. Today I was quite unable to brown my toast evenly on the gas stove.

My son had worked on his computer last night until the battery ran out. Of course the Internet was down. So today he had left early to spend the day at Starbucks and with a power-ful friend.  The PSE&G spokesperson said—via battery-powered radio—that some customers would not have electricity until Wednesday or Thursday. I gathered more wood from the garage.

At one historic house I had learned that the 2^nd most common cause of death among colonial women—after childbirth—was death by fire, when their long woolen dresses caught a spark from their walk-in fireplaces. I also thought of the stories of Lincoln reading by firelight. Well, I can’t do that, not even with my half-dozen candles.  But Lincoln’s eyes at the time were younger than mine now.

So I sit, wrapped in a blanket, watching the dancing flames, while my husband, in another blanket sits nearby on the couch. We have become so dependent on conveniences that there is little else to do once the sun goes down but go to bed.

Watching the Fauna

     We saw the blue heron at the bottom of the lake. He stood statue-like, with that long, long neck and beak, the stilt-like legs. Watching him balanced on the dock, I was reminded of the dance of the ostriches in Fantasia. He looked as if he might be that awkward. But then he unfolded his wings and took off in a graceful arch, commanding the sky. I couldn't take my eyes off him.

     Back in Montclair, I encountered a young groundhog in my backyard.
     "You're back!" I said.
     He scurried into the driveway and stood about 12 feet from me, looking directly in my eyes, waiting for my next move.
     "Where do you live?" I asked. He's very cute-smaller than my large cat and quite fuzzy. But I don't want him to over winter on my property. He, or someone from his family, did enough damage to our garden this season.
      I took a few steps toward him and he crept along the narrow strip of hostas next to the house. He, or a sibling had made many tunnels there and settled under our sun-room. I had blocked all those holes several weeks ago. Not finding a hole-or perhaps not wanting me to know where his entrance was-he went into our open basement window.
     I called to my husband and ran into the house. We both hurried to the basement to find the young creature standing on top of the TV, just under the window. My husband encouraged him to leave with the straw end of a broom. Returning outside we tried again to find where he was planning to live. But he scooted into some thick bushes and we lost him.
     As adorable as he is, I really don't want him staying and eating more than his share of our vegetables.

Rain Again

            Only an hour ago the radio weatherman said, “Chance of showers.” But now heavy rain is falling. While we are disappointed, we may be in the minority because it sounds as if there is a small crowd on my roof applauding. Strangely, the lake appears almost smooth, like a large field of slate. I wonder how that can be with so much activity. Thousands of concurrent raindrop wave patterns are rapidly intersecting each other.

            There had been a brief shower earlier and the sun peeked out of the gray. We took the opportunity to walk the path around the lake. Evidence of Hurricane Irene, plus the previous week of showers, was everywhere evident in stacks of sawed wood and erosion along the road’s edge.

            It began raining again—lightly at first—when we were two thirds of the way around. Luckily we got inside before we were soaked and in time to view the slate-like lake effects.

Groundhogs' Departure

My groundhogs have abandoned ship. At least they have vacated my property, presumably moving to higher ground. I can’t blame them—fully half of the days of the last two weeks their dens have been under water.

One dry day last week the mother groundhog appeared. She posed fetchingly in begging position and looked me in the eye.

I said, “There you are! Your place under the stump is still muddy. Where have you been staying?”

Perhaps for an answer, she turned and ran toward the back corner of the yard and crouched down in the tall grass. (My son has been happy to use the rain as an excuse for not mowing the lawn.) There had been a back door—a hole she had dug from under the stump—there. But we had blocked it quite a while ago with a large rock. I felt a pang of guilt. Poor creature, like many of the humans in nearby Wayne, she had been flooded out of her home.

“I’m so sorry,” I began.

But she dashed away under the fence to our back neighbor’s yard.

One of her offspring lived under our sunroom. One day after Irene had left everything soggy, I walked out the back door, surprising the kid, who was only two feet away at the entrance of the vegetable garden. The little guy ran around the corner of the house. I followed and saw the flash of a tail as it disappeared into a hole. Deciding I’d trap him and somehow relocate him, I blocked the hole with a rock.

Half an hour later I walked out to hang my wash—and there he was again! Once again he ran around the house. Once again I followed, to see him dash into a different hole. I took a good look then—and found two more holes to his den. Very enterprising youngster! After giving him several hours to leave home, I blocked all his exits and entrances.

I haven’t seen mother or son, nor evidence of their presence since then. While I do feel badly for them, I am grateful. The few vegetables mother and offspring left us in the garden now have a chance to ripen. However, our neighbors have recently found a groundhog hole. I believe they are not so grateful.

Good Grief-Irene!

Mother Nature in the avatar of Hurricane Irene dumped more water on New Jersey than I’ve seen in one storm. The southeast corner of my garden is now a small lake. It covers the upended stump of the black walnut tree which toppled in Montclair’s ‘microburst’ about five years ago.  I believe the groundhog made its home under that stump. With the area now more appropriate for a beaver, I hope the groundhog vacated in time. I would not mind at all if it never returns. Neither would my neighbor. She had been extremely displeased by ‘our groundhog’s’ dining on her extensive vegetable garden.

            I’m grateful that our electricity did not go out. The sump pump was—and still is—working overtime. Nevertheless, we had to bail water out of the basement’s utility area.

On Tuesday we came to check things out at the lake—only had to take one detour, courtesy of flooding. Again I am grateful. Our power had only been off a few hours. The only damage was some serious erosion in the parking area.

We walked around the lake, saw a power line down in the road. Out here, where everyone has a well, no power means no water—and in some cases—not even the ability to flush. We passed a teen telling her friend that she took a shower at another friend’s home. Also passed a man and wife who were loading large, dripping wet bags of food stuff in their trunk.

“They don’t know when it will be fixed,” he said in disgust.

            We were surprised to find our small garden intact. There is plenty of lettuce, a yellow squash filling out, and a few cherry tomatoes. I thought they’d have blown away. There was even an Italian tomato that both my husband and I judged would be ripe for picking in two days.

Then it disappeared!

My husband accused a chipmunk he saw in the garden.

“How could a chipmunk carry off a plum tomato? It was as big as he,” I said.

We searched and found the tomato—with a few bites out of it—in a crevice between two rocks. Obviously somecritter thought it already ripe.

                                 

Rain and other woes

           It rained for an entire week. Well, to be accurate, it wasn’t the continuous Noah-time-to-enter-the-arc type of rain. But a week ago Saturday afternoon we had a rattle-the-windows thunder storm and there’s been at least one like it each of the next six days. Twice I hung out my wash, enticed by a burst of sunshine, only to run out and snatch damp clothes off the line during a sudden downpour.

            And forget the garden! The tomatoes refuse to turn red. They are holding out for full sun. Borers have found my zucchini plant. Though it is still trumpeting male flowers, its fruiting days are over. We don’t even have lettuce to pick. The young groundhog took care of that—as well as the broccoli, cabbage and kale plants. He even ate the last promising zucchini.

            I knew a groundhog lived at the far end of our yard. Assumed—I can’t say why—it was a male. But one day I opened our back door and my eye caught a rustle of leaves in the vegetable garden. A small groundhog wiggled through a hole he must have gnawed in my plastic fencing. Young groundhog—the large resident is probably his mom. Now I have double trouble.

            My neighbor has begun to complain, “The groundhog that lives in your backyard is eating my vegetables.” She has volunteered to trap it. I haven’t told her that it is a THEM. I said, “You can put a trap back there, but do not kill the groundhog. Just take it far away.” I think either option is illegal. Seems the stealing of our produce should also be against the law, but our groundhogs make their living by stealing what others raise. Between those critters and the squirrels it’s been a poor year for harvesting. How did our fore bearers ever live off the land?

Water Lilies

The water lilies are in bloom again.  I’ve always loved them though I rarely had opportunity to see them. When we lived in Lower Manhattan and visited the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens I always dawdled around the lily ponds—tried to absorb their form and beauty. Now I’m happy to see them in the lake, though I have to paddle the kayak to the shallow, south end to find them. As a child, I had learned that the flower of my birth month – July – is a water lily so I guess I’ve always felt they should be a special flower for me.  But since the local water lilies seem to bloom in August, not July, either our locale or the deciders of things significant to young girls and lovers, such as birthstones and flowers, are a bit off.  

            I often wish it were more convenient to paint the water lilies, as Monet did from a bridge. Though I’m not sure he thought it convenient, going from one canvas to another as the sun moved. But the area where they thrive in great floating clusters is marshy. No way can I approach them on foot.  I toy with the idea of sitting in a canoe and painting. There’s hardly a current at this end of the lake, still there is drift and an anchor would probably get tangled in the lily stems. Last thing I want to do is capture water lilies in that way.  I try to slow the kayak to an almost standstill to photograph them. Even that is difficult. I hope the photos turn out. I’ll have to paint from them.