Four Days With No Masks

It was not a spontaneous escape. There were weeks of preparation and planning and discussion -- right up to the end we were wondering if we should pull the plug and give up.  But Anna patiently shepherded the whole process, starting with choosing an Airbnb by sending a bunch of photos around in the early fall, trying to get other people to pay attention and think about what they wanted.

There were plenty of reasons to fret about the practicalities. That is, the real challenge of making sure we weren't going to bring covid with us and infect the whole group.  Covid tests were scheduled, and people who seemed particularly exposed were put into quarantine for relevant amounts of time. Still we fretted because our family has people who work in hospitals, others who are over 80, one who has cancer, one who had cancer and who has underlying vulnerabilities (too much fat) in addition to a healthy group of young folks.

But the day came and we were ready. Negative covid tests all around. The usual mobilization had started a few days earlier, with menu plans and shopping.  It snowed enough that we had to change our vehicle assortment so we had enough 4WD capabilities, just in case.  We piled into a Subaru Forester, a Honda Fit, and a gigantic 4x4 pickup truck with a crew cab that seats six. The back of the pickup was filled with coolers and suitcases and things wrapped in plastic bags. We left Alissa and Julia to come later with a fully loaded car, after they had finished their telemeetings.

We were headed for a hilltop in Pennsylvania. I hadn't even looked at a map, but I knew we were going toward Hancock, MD, a well-known destination on the way to Oberlin (where there was an A&P that has so many family stories attached to it, it could be its own blog post. Most famously, a horse disembarked out of the back of the pickup truck once when we had stopped to shop -- or at least that's my memory.).  Anyway, the route didn't require much attention because most of us have been out that way more times than we can count.  In our truck there were two Oberlin grads, an Oberlin parent, a cousin/sibling who has been to Oberlin for many graduations and reunions plus Shaia.  We had plenty to talk about and we barely noticed the scenery.

When we got to the smaller roads with snow and mud and ruts, we glanced up the ridge and Shaia said, "that's the house that Granna showed me in the picture!"  It turns out she was right. She was the only one who knew what we were looking for.  Jon got out and turned the dials on the front wheels and we chewed our way up the hill.  A few minutes later, Mom and ML arrived at the top.  And then a little while later we got a call saying the Fit was not going to make it up, and Jon went down to unload the car into the truck and bring everyone to the cabin.

It was a spiffy log cabin, built about 5 years ago by a family named Zook. Ten bedrooms on three different floors, three bathrooms, a spacious central area with enough couch space for 12, a nice nook for games and breakfast, and a very well stocked kitchen. The view was mesmerizing -- we could see a valley full of farms, various ridges to the east and south, and apparently we could see four different states. Indoors, the one thing that took a lot of attention was the array of animal heads mounted all around the room.  Marble eyes that followed us for four days.  A weird stuffed turkey with kind of neon skin on its neck. Each animal had a plaque with the name of the hunter and the date of death. There was even a black bear. We didn't love any of that.

In the late afternoon, we got a call from Alissa and Julia with a very flat tire. Luckily they were still very close to home and could be helped by Carrie, the only responsible adult left in the region.  After they unloaded everything from their car for a second time (first time to get to the spare tire, second time upon learning they also had a dead battery) into our empty VW, they were back on the road. They had most of the food in their car, so we had to improvise a bit when it was time to start dinner, but there were no more mishaps after that rocky start.

I took off my boots when we went in the house on Thursday and I didn't put them back on until we left on Monday.  Other people went on long daily walks in the snow, discovering trails and abandoned farm buildings and stomping through streams. They also found a cornfield that had hunting stands all around the perimeter. 

We cooked, we played cards, we washed dishes, we read books, we watched movies in the evenings. Shaia had her pick of adult playmates, and Rebecca became the fort builder. We did not see another soul the whole time we were there. We forgot all about masks. We lounged on the couches in many different configurations. Alissa made some real delicacies -- most notable was the lemon curd from a Meyer lemon that Mom grew... and then she made meringue and created a deconstructed lemon meringue pie that was good enough for a wedding. My knitting stuff stayed in a pile on the floor, ready to be picked up many times a day.  By the end of the last night, I had finished a rainbow scarf made of all the leftover bits of yarn from recent projects.  By the last evening, we had all run out of words, it seemed.  There was a solid half hour of silence with ten people reading and knitting and playing on their phones, after Michael had finished singing some of his newest songs, mixed in with some crowd pleasers from past years.  Julia came upstairs from putting Shaia to bed and she stood in the doorway, wondering whether she was allowed to come in to this silent space.

Until this trip, we had not eaten indoors together in nine months. We had not shared a couch or watched a movie together. We have always had masks around our necks, ready to pull over our noses. It was luxurious to live as if there is no pandemic. We know we are incredibly privileged to have created an opportunity like this for ourselves. We are aware that we do not want to model behavior that could encourage other people to gather in groups -- unless they do all the work to make sure there is no covid in their midst. We just got home yesterday, so I guess we don't quite know whether we managed it, but knowing that covid tests are so unreliable, we have been living like masked monks forever. And the ones who work in hospitals are super careful -- their hospitals have successfully kept their workers healthy from the very beginning. I am not worried that this was a superspreader event. None of our out of state family joined us this time, even though that is our normal tradition. 

On the last morning, the winter solstice, the sun came over the mountains at 7:35, exploding into view after a long rosy preamble. Every sunrise was glorious, even when it was foggy. The cabin was designed for sunrises.

When we stopped on the way home to get some fuel, we had to find our masks again. Our cocoon days were over. We were returning to the world where everyone is a hazard. Especially the Loser in the White House.  It sure was nice to escape for a bit and recharge our souls. 

 

Hunkering Down for Winter

With all the  conveniences of this era, lots of us don't need to think about getting ready for winter -- except maybe checking the antifreeze levels in the car and putting away the lawn furniture and making sure the outdoor spigots are turned off.  We farmers are not like homesteaders of old but we do start getting ready for winter on about September 15. It's a three month process, mixed in with the regular joys of autumn.

For a couple of months, we took out the summer crops and planted the winter cover crop in their place.  The fields are all protected by a nice blanket of rye and radishes and crimson clover and winter peas.  While we stay warm by the fire, those plants will keep our soil in good shape.  Both farms were planted on time and are covered in green. That was our first priority in getting ready for winter.

Today feels like the first day of winter. It is actually snowing.  Jon is out there in the snow, trying to finish up just a couple things, seeing if he can get some more tractors under cover. Some of them have been sitting outside for months and will not start up when he pushes the ignition switch. He comes from up North and he likes winter and snow. I would have given up on that tractor storage project by now. 

Three months ago we started digging the sweet potatoes and we were careful to make sure they never got below about 50 degrees so they would last all winter.  We have a small stash in the secret room, an insulated closet with a space heater. Those sweet potatoes should stay cozy until we finish selling them in late March.  In the walk-in cooler we have bags of carrots and radishes, all washed and snug.  There are onions and potatoes and rutabagas. It's like being Laura Ingalls Wilder, but with electricity.

All of the high tunnels are filled with plants. Just yesterday Olivia put in the last lettuce and chard babies, and a few days ago Carrie planted the last spinach.  There are six tunnels in Loudoun and three here, settling in for a few months of quiet.  In the last few days, Jon put the ends and doors back on the tunnels and put the supports in the middle, so we won't need to worry about them collapsing under too much snow. Over the years we have learned what makes the tunnels the most attractive to all the mice and chipmunks and voles and now we try to make the conditions just a little bit harsher in there.  In our earliest efforts, we thought we should cover the ground with plastic for weed control and cover the plants with row cover, but that just ended up creating this irresistible sleeping bag and the animals moved in and ate everything. Now we let it be much colder and bleaker, with no cozy hiding places. The plants are hardy.  Every day Carrie and Ciara, on their respective farms, open the doors in the morning and close them in the evenings so there will be fresh oxygen and not too much dampness inside.

There are still five Christmas trees out there in the lot, and we switched to self-service after last weekend. In a few days, they will all be gone. 

The chicken houses are empty, the pigs have gone back home, and there are no outdoor creatures in need of attention. Way back in the old days, we had so many animals to feed and clean up after. Lani still does. I do not miss hacking chunks of frozen silage out of the silage pit and hauling the bushels of steamy pickled corn leaves to the steer. I do not miss carrying buckets of hot water from the house to the chicken house, to thaw the chunk of ice in their water bucket. And I really don't miss milking the cow on a slushy, freezing morning with her disgusting manure-slimed tail swinging all around, trying to smack our faces while we hunkered down to milk.  Having a farm with no animals in the winter is just perfect. 

Oh yes, we have started the season of filling the freezer with venison. There are deer hunters on the farms who provide us with enough meat for the year -- but they bring it in large, peeled quarter-deer pieces. They do the hard part, dressing the deer in the field, and we do the kitchen part, taking it all apart and grinding the meat.  Our kids have never wanted to participate, generally making themselves scarce when they see a counter full of red meat and blood and sharp knives. It is a laborious process, taking the animal apart and removing all the in between bits that are not tasty.  We were taught by Roger that we absolutely cannot grind up any of the white parts that are between the muscles. Those have to be carefully excised. Jon fills tidy vacuum packed packages and we stack them amongst the packages of frozen corn and spinach and chicken soup.

What has not happened, as we get ready for winter, is a plan for getting away from home for a bit. This will be the first winter in a long time when we didn't get to see something very different.  Even ten years ago, when Jon had his bone marrow transplant, we hit the road and drove to California on the way to Hawaii. This winter we will be like everyone else, hunkered down, waiting for spring. It feels good to be all tucked in for the next few months, but it would feel excellent to see a new horizon.  Next year in Jerusalem.  That's the dream.