Arts, culture & entertainment
Page 18
February 17, 2023
A winter wander There’s a looping path in the woods behind my house. It offers a steepish climb up and a balancy hike down, a good way to get winter blood moving. I’ve been walking there daily, up and down, up and down. Again and again and again. And again. It’s good exercise, but not really mentally stimulating. And ever since the snow melted, I’ve been pulled to ramble beyond its well-trodden confines. There’s deep woods behind my house, small cliffs, a stream, vernal pools and old stone quarries. I explored it all frequently when I first moved to this part of the world, but had to stop when a wave of invasive pines grew to the height of faceslap. A pine desert, a forest expert called it. Torture by tree is more like it. But time has altered this dynamic. The brushy tree babies have suffered the fate of their own success and over-competed themselves into widespread failure. Overcrowding made them tall and spindly, a state incompatible with tree health. Many have now died or fallen, which makes much of the woods human-walkable once more. It’s been fun to wander again, re-acquainting with old landmarks. I re-found the chipped stone boundary markers for a long-gone farmstead, the tracks of the dirt road my neighbor Helen said she’d learned to drive on, the huge crumbling ledges topped by ferns and heaps of rock.
Susan Krawitz
And there have been new findings too. A wood-chip footpath now snakes through several deep-woods acres. The old quarry with its borders of laid stone walls is now neighbored by a house. And there are deer stands, deer stands, deer stands; so far, a total of six. I used to tramp these woods with a wander party that included goats, a dog, sometimes cats. Which was fun but maybe limiting, because without them, I’m seeing things I never saw before. Like old house foundations, including one just 50 feet from the road I live on. It still has stone steps leading into a root cellar and bluestone flooring for three tiny rooms, and a companion foundation built against a cliff that probably held livestock. Yet another, smaller cellar hole is sited far in the woods. It’s in a flat spot between hilltops and ringed by an amazingly firm-walled stone fence. Who would ever want to live way back there back then? It’s near the quarry, and that may have had something to do with it. Or not. My neighbor Helen used to tell me about people who lived in the woods and made herbal salves to peddle. Not for the first time and not for the last, how I wish she was still here so I could ask for more detail. But the land does offer clues. And so does local history research. The trees back there are far smaller than the ones near my house, and many are multi-trunked, quite possibly meaning re-sprouts from felled giants. This land was cut and likely cut again for timber, fuel, and to keep it open for grazing. Incredibly, the oldest maps show far more property lines here than exist today – all long, skinny and land-locked. They were wood lot “allotments,” designated for landowners in the town of Stone Ridge far
below. The early Dutch and English settlers farmed the fertile flats there “in common,” and used the woods up here the same way, as a place to turn their livestock loose to graze winter mast from a then-abundant oak, butternut and chestnut forest. But when New York state abolished in-common farming around the turn of the 1800s, the woods were privatized, sliced and separated. And human habitation started. Which lasted 150 strenuous years at best, and required so many trees to be cut, so much stone moved. All to eke out what must have been the slightest of livings, and abandoned in the industrial age for the greater ease and abundance offered by just about any other kind of life. Since then, the earth’s reclaimed most of their work. The tan egg cases laid by the spongy moths that invaded here last summer are all over the trees in this forest. Most are on oaks, but some were laid on pine and hemlock, or even dead trees. I scrape them off with whatever is on hand: a key, a sharp rock, my fingers. But unless a wet spring brings enough of the virus that kills these moths, they will probably ravage again come summer. The infestation may be a bad one, leaving trees stripped leafless. But as the pines, the cellar holes and the triple-trunked trees show, it’s just another cycle. The moths will come and they will go, and they will come and go again. Like the pines, like the quarries, like the homesteads, and those pesky, invasive humans, who probably thought the things they built in these woodlands would last forever.
February funk I’m really glad February is the shortest month of the year because it always seems to throw me into some weird funk. The February funk. This funk is all encompassing. I mean, I view everything as crazy. Not just the lovers overload but everything. For example, have you heard every woman on the planet singing “I can buy myself flowers” by Miley Cyrus? This new breakup song has been in my head for weeks. So much so that I even ran down to Green Cottage just to buy myself flowers. Ugh. I hope these women didn’t get mad on Valentine’s Day when their significant others were like, “Welp. You sang it. Go buy your own flowers.” Proof that some men do listen … Around town I’ll have to take their side on this argument. Now that you lost, go smell your flowers and be happy. I wonder how many people broke up over Valentine’s Day. Valentine’s Day is one of those days that add to the funk. Women are either truly madly, deeply in love and life is great. Or mad because their SO didn’t get what they told them they wanted. Or they’re sad because they had to buy their own damn flowers. Which, by the way, is not a bad thing. I’ve been single for a couple of years and here are some things you must know. First and foremost, just because I’m single doesn’t mean I’m trying to steal your man. Seriously. If this is how the crazy is going in your life, maybe take a good, long look at your relationship instead. Figure out those insecurities, try therapy, break up, I don’t know, but stop. Secondly, but just as important, I am not sad. I get to do whatever I want, whenever I want, and with whomever I want. That’s an amazing source of power. I’m not gonna lie. Now, don’t get me wrong, if Mr. Wright came knocking on my door, I would let him in. Wait … no, I wouldn’t. I already let him in, married, him, had a child
Kelly Wright
Even the cow was curious about the galoshes.
with him, and divorced him. I’m good. So, if Mr. Whatever His Name Might Be came knocking on my door, I’d open it. I’m not against relationships, I’m just OK not being in one. Now that I’m talking about exes, shout-out to one of mine who told me he reads my articles. First, I was like, “Wow! You read?” but then I was extremely flattered. So, thanks, Cakes, that means a lot. So, I went to visit one of my best friends from high school. She and her husband have a local farm in Accord. That’s another thing us single girls like to do. Play
with animals. Personally, I don’t care what kind – dogs, cats, goats, horses, cows, 6-foot-tall brunette men who resemble Jeffrey Dean Morgan … it really doesn’t matter. Lucky for me, she had all of these except the cats and men. There were also birds. Which, typically, I’m not a fan of because they peck your eyes out. But, these were peacocks and guinea hens, so I was OK. The funny thing about me is I am weather challenged. I wore pink Timberlands, thinking, “Oh, yeah, this is farm wear! I totally look like a farmer!” The outcome reminded me of when I had just returned to New York and went to a snowmobile party wearing pink Chucks. Honestly, what is wrong with me? I had to borrow that friend’s snowmobiling gear. Luckily, I was saved, but I obviously didn’t learn my lesson. My bestie let me borrow some, I don’t know, galoshes, and off I went on my farm field trip. Needless to say, I was butted by a goat, licked by a cow, and humped by a dog. Please don’t ever think my life is lacking. I had the best day and was filthy. My point of this story is that farm funk is a good thing. It made me realize how difficult having a farm with animals is. It is hard work with many struggles but it’s a life of love. Love for the land, the animals, the tradition. We are lucky enough to have many farms around town, so please support your local farmers. The last funk I’m going to mention is also about an animal. Specifically, Groundhog Day. Really? Just like the time change, why is this still happening? We all know seasons have a start date. We all know spring is approximately six weeks from Groundhog’s Day. Leave poor Phil alone. Jeesh. The guy is just trying to live his best single life and ends up getting manhandled by strangers in weird hats. Rude. Did you know about other notable groundhogs, like Staten Island Chuck, Milltown Mel in Jersey and Gus in Pennsylvania? Along with a bunch more in the U.S. and Canada, but I don’t want to name them all. So, yeah, the first day of spring is March 20. Anyway, for me, February is like a mullet. It looks short, at first. But it turns out to be really long. The funk is almost over though.
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