Catching Up

Writing a series of quickish posts right now, so that my topics don't all run together, but I can still get a sense that I'm laying out a bit of a foundation to start my storytelling on from now and going forward, since it's been more than two years since I posted much. My liver condition and the potential remedies deserved its very own post--my panicked reaction to the diagnosis and the several months it took me to recover a sense of normalcy were the reason I stopped posting--but now life is going on. No episodes of itching, no crippling pain, no loss of work. Every now and then I feel a twinge along my ribs which makes me wonder, but so far so good. And we'll be trying that homespun remedy before the year's out.

Since then Eliot and Eva have of course continued growing up. There are lots of times when I miss my parents, but some of the most obvious come when I'm looking at my own kids wondering, "Was I that way? Or were either of my sisters that way?" Because Kate and I have a 5-year-old daughter with a loud mouth and a powerful will who loves drawing and animals of all sorts, but especially dogs and horses. I look at her and think, "In a lot of ways she's like the stories I've heard about my own mother as a girl. But she's also a lot like my own memories of my older sister Lisa." And that's one reason why I want not to curb Eva's assertiveness as a negative "she's just a bossy older sister", but cultivate it as leadership. Because my sister Lisa is a real leader even though she rarely seems to recognize it in herself. Though there are those times too, when Eva is screaming about needing to draw one more picture of a dog in sunshine, at 10:30 at night, when I'm thinking, "Shut UP and go upstairs!"

Eliot is a confounding kid sometimes--well, all kids are sometimes confounding--but this little guy, especially so. And more intensely even than Eva, he makes me want to query my parents about just how difficult, or not, I was. Was I really as moronic a mama's boy as this little guy is? Like, if he knows Mom is in the house, he won't let me do a damn thing for him. Not one--well, except maybe for bringing him some lemonade or crackers with peanut butter, or putting on a Thomas video. But sometimes, not even that much. And then when Kate leaves, and he knows she's gone? Damn kid will let me spoon lunch into his mouth (since he doesn't really love eating, either).

He's a manipulative little goofball with something like comedic genius. Watching him, and knowing what I do about myself and other friends who like (or are professionals in) the performing arts, I've come to the conclusion that most actors and singers are intense introverts. We have to be, to create the feelings and ideas which we communicate. And Eliot is absolutely such a quiet, shy, unrevealing person who will suddenly come out with something heartwarming, or hilarious, or both. Like last night:

Eliot: Mommy, where's Daddy?
Kate: He's working, honey.
Eliot: Is he in Trinidad?
Kate: Yes, he's in Trinidad.
Eliot: But we're not in Trinikid!

Or, several months ago (it was summer), walking up in a hat to Kate and her friend Jenn, who were sitting on the porch, and saying,

"I'm Santa Claus. I come in peace."

He's three. He's been joking and messing with the whole family since before he was one. Kate's friend Carla, herself (along with her husband) a longtime theater performer, was playing with an infant Eliot a few years ago, and noticed his reactions, at four months. "He's got a good sense of humor," she noted, before the little guy was half a year old. And so he's proven Carla's observation thoroughly right. I look at that sensitive little doofus and wonder, "Was my dad like this as a tyke?"

Kate's carrying #3. We don't have a name for it, like Starbuck for #1, and....I actually forget if we had a name for #2, or not. With my PSC, and with Kate having had a few complications carrying Eva and Eliot, we've been a little edgy about her progress this time around, but after two days' nausea forced her to the ER to get an IV drip to rehydrate, Kate's largely been managing. I'm in the field again--well, sort of, being in Trinidad but not on a boat--so I'm only getting phone and e-mail reports about her mild nausea while still eating decently.

We bought a new house. Not quite new--it was built in 2007--but it's been barely lived in since then and compared to the 170-year-old farmhouse we spent the previous year in, this house is brand spanking new. New windows which don't leak, new roof which doesn't sport a moss garden, new foundation not made of dry-laid rocks (though with a corresponding radon problem the old houses don't have), new insulation which means one woodstove keeps the entire house cozy, with no drafts. Oh, and the gigantic wraparound porch which I've always wanted.

We've done plenty of work on it so far this year (might be another post by itself, if I can make it funny enough), and of course there's lots more we want to do in the future. Laugh if you will, but I'm convinced that peak oil (we're at it now, or maybe even a bit past) and global warming will combine to make the economy chronically sick, and our lives increasingly difficult as the years go on. So I want a house that's robust, where we can grow enough food and fuel to, if not entirely maintain ourselves, certainly contribute susbtantially to our own maintenance.

Now Fryeburg, like most of New England, was once all farmland. Most of the forest in New England is second growth, being no more than 100-150 years old (and sometimes much younger than that). A quick walk through the woods looking at the old stone walls will convince you quickly if you don't believe it. So I hope to clear most of our trees out (Kate and I have a few minor disagreements on just how complete the clearing will be), to expose some garden area, and also to make room for other trees, fruit and nut-bearers. Apples, pears, plums, cherries, walnuts, and hazelnuts. Not only are they beautiful. but they've got crops. I'd love a front yard full of those things! It'd make sitting on the porch with an early morning (or, more in line with the Sutherland family schedule, mid- to late-morning) cup of coffee, staring at the eastern light over the mountans and through the trees.

The lawn you see in that picture is pretty much brown by September--it parches badly. The garden plot in the middle of the yard is so dry that only a few tough vegetables, like carrots and tomatoes, will grow there.  So I want to put a bunch of trees there, whose taproots will penetrate the gravel fill without a problem, and also so their shade might actually help the garden plot produce more. But the main garden will be out back, where there's no gravel fill and the too-swift drainage won't dehydrate the plants.

So that's my master plan for the sort-of homestead, as well as replacing those wretched clapboards with some vinyl, much more durable and in a color not quite so bland. (I think the name of that tone is actually Bland. Or maybe Bland/Blah.) I'm going for colonial red with white trim. Red, baby!

Now I've got plans beyond the homestead, of course. I'm not turning my back on the world at large, building a nest and hoping everything else ignores us. Every once in a while, yes. Like when I'm building the woodshed or fixing eight years' neglect of the exposed wood around the house, but not all the time. Kate and I managed to accomplish all, or nearly all, of our top-priority projects this year, so we have a warm, dry, not-getting-quickly-moldier-and-more-ant-ridden house to live in through the cold months. Next spring, with restored warmth and a (hopefully) restored bank account balance, we'll tackle the next set of challenges. Or, rather, I will, while Kate lugs #3 around while taking care of  #1 and #2.