FORT KENT, Maine — I almost made it this year. Almost.
All summer long I promised myself and my friend there would be no pre-winter panic or frenzy of chaotic running around here at Rusty Metal Farm.
And as summer slowly blended into one of the nicest autumns we have seen around here in years, it seemed that maybe, just maybe, I’d be able to keep my cool during the annual change of seasons.
Sure, there were some momentary lapses over the summer as I began to fret about how to move the tree-length firewood from one end of the farm into my wood room and somehow, along they way, cut and split the logs into stove-sized pieces.
Once again, it took a village to get that firewood processed, brought inside and stacked.
For the better part of the summer, my friend Bob would come over several days a week to spend a few hours in the woodlot, reducing that pile of downed trees into two-foot chunks.
Over the course of several weekends, other friends came by. Together we hauled the firewood back to the house and tossed it into the cellar, where it is now piled in neat stacks to the ceiling.
And, yes, every so often I find myself wandering down to the wood room to admire that stack and its promise of winter warmth.
By mid-October, the wood was safely tucked in and I was actually feeling pretty good about the upcoming winter.
Right up until the first forecasts of snow a couple of weeks ago.
Suddenly, everywhere I looked, all I saw were projects in need of completion before the first snowflakes touched the ground: vehicles without snow tires, the tractor without the snow blower on it, a big empty space where the winter’s supply of sled dog food should be, chickens still living in their summer home.
Let the panic commence.
As it turned out, there was a bit of a stay of winter execution up north when the season’s first storm stopped short of the St. John Valley and instead gave one heck of a wallop to central and Down East Maine.
However, that reprieve was short-lived when a new forecast called for snow totals of more than a foot to hit the Valley last weekend.
First order of business was getting that blower on the tractor. Thanks to my friend and go-to tractor guy, Kris, that project actually was accomplished with relative ease and a minimum of cussing.
Kris even pulled a two-fer by finding me the one garage that was able to take my truck at a moment’s notice to get the snow tires put on.
Things were definitely looking up and my blood pressure was coming down.
But then there were those chickens.
Last spring, I got a new batch of chicks that were living happily in the insulated coop attached to the tractor shed.
My older gals, meanwhile, settled in the separate summer coop, and the two little flocks had very little to do with each other.
Oh, there were some minor scuffles when they had all been out free-ranging and one near-serious rumble, leaving me to wonder what was going to happen when they were forced to flock together in the winter housing.
Would I have trouble here on Rusty Metal Farm? Trouble, which starts with T that rhymes with C and that means chicken.
Would they stay in separate gangs, leaving me to face a poultry version of “West Side Chicken”?
There was only one way to find out.
Last week, I let everyone out to range, shut the gate to the summer house and crossed my fingers.
Luckily, at some point before nightfall, detente was reached. They all trooped into the winter coop, and peace has reigned ever since.
But this was no time to relax. That snow was still coming, and for whatever reason I find it impossible to remain calm in the face of a storm until every vehicle I own is under cover in the garage.
As the snow began, there I was, engaged in what can best be described as a game of “garage tetris” arranging the car, snowblower, ATV, snowmobile and a myriad of other items into the one combination in which they all fit under cover.
We never did get that foot of snow— more like 5 inches — but it certainly was the kick in the pants I needed to get winter ready.
Well, almost winter ready. At some point, 70 bags of sled dog food are due to arrive, which means only one thing.
Deep, deep calming breaths and another round of garage tetris: level advanced.
Julia Bayly of Fort Kent is an award winning writer and photographer, who writes part time for Bangor Daily News. Her column appears here every other Friday. She can be reached by email at jbayly@bangordailynews.com.
