Our new wood stove arrives today, not a minute too soon. We no longer open our windows at night; instead, we’re sleeping in socks and pulling up the comforter. The mornings are dark and cold. The world is turning gold as every day more leaves decide to shed their chlorophyll and show their true colors. ”I think you girls are keeping us in business!” Mary at Happy Valley Orchard exclaimed when we showed up for the second day in a row, after two of my daughters put away seven apples between snack and lunch. This weekend there was a Canada Geese superhighway crisscrossing the airspace over our house.
Fall is well and truly here in Vermont.
Our family is outside more than ever, clinging to these beautiful days before freezing temperatures drive us inside. I’m putting old garden beds to sleep, and preparing new garden beds for spring. My husband is playing with his new weed whacker and brush-cutting attachment. And my daughters are just playing.
Last week, somebody asked me if we’d put up a playground in the yard of the house we’ve occupied for two months. I’m afraid I stared at him more incredulously than his question warranted before answering, “No, that’s not in the plans.” We have no need for a playground. Our daughters are in talks with their grandfather about building a tree house together, which would be great, but for the time being they have 12 acres to call their own. They dig holes and make mud bricks. They climb trees. They swing in the hammock. They roast marshmallows in the fire pit. They ride their dirt bikes up and down the back hay field, the topographic features of which they’ve named in honor of various Star Wars characters. And they catch critters.
Click here to continue reading about why my daughters have terrible taste in bugs, in this week’s “Faith in Vermont” column in The Addison Independent.