Deciding on a place to settle was a struggle. It still is if I am being entirely honest. I question myself on dark cold days, “Did we make the right decision?”. When my husbands car doesnt make it up our snowy/muddy hill yet again I wonder if this was all together the right spot. When we see only horses and sap buckets in a whole day I try not to let my mind go to regret.
The other day the UPS guy came barreling down our trench filled muddy lane to deliver a few packages. When he was blocked by my neighbor Carl, who was using one of his monstrous tractors with a claw on the front to literally lift a massive fallen maple to his house for firewood, me and the man in brown chatted for a moment. He was in rare form he said. Cranky. Sour. Sick of the weather. And, “Why on earth did I move here anyways????”, he wanted to know.
I had to smile. I gave him a vague response, we laughed, we knew his mood would turn before the next time I saw him, and then he surprised me when he backed up all the way down our half mile long winding muddy road at 30 mph, peeled out mud splattering the yellow letters to make a uniform shade across his whole truck, and he was off.
The boys continued playing on the jungle gym, so the pile of downed tree’s half way up our road has been deemed, while I contemplated his question. Shortly after we began making the trek to the mailbox. Upon arrival the box had tipped yet again, I cursed the still frozen earth and I piled large stones around its base hoping to get a few days out of my jimmy rig. We peeked into the neighbors tap buckets sampled a bit of the sweet stuff, and followed the tracks of a small animal down to the newly running creek. We discovered a few scurrying spiders there, the first insects we have spotted in some time and gathered some fallen artist conk mushrooms to doodle on later. There was splashing, bike riding, a run on with our teenage neighbor and her horse where there were lots of pats and ear scratches, an introduction to another neighbor on his way to help empty some sap buckets, and finally a ride home when the going got tough for the littles of our pack, by our new friend Gary, the dairy farmer, on the back of his flat bed truck. (Turns out later the promise of, “I’ll go slow” was spoken by a man who occasionally drives race cars… that explains a lot.) We arrived home, just in time to start supper, pink cheeked with lungs full of fresh crispy air, and I with a knowing smile on my face.
I know precisely why we moved here.