Jennifer Shaw

A writer's musings in the mountains

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Category: homesteading special needs parenting writing

  • My December Wish for Us All: Let’s remember our strength

    by

    On the first Wednesday of December, I cut down my own Christmas tree.

    Bluebird morning on our property

    We live on a Christmas tree farm in northeastern Vermont, so choosing and hauling our own trees back to the house is a wonderful and relatively easy privilege. In the last couple of years, I’ve put up my own little Yuletide arbor in our farmhouse dining room, where I trim it with Nutcracker-themed ornaments and all kinds of sparkly feminine baubles. It’s become my own little tradition, one that’s separate from decorating our larger family tree in the living room with my husband and daughter.  

    This year, we’d done all our holiday decorating before we left for Thanksgiving in Newport, except for getting my mini tree. No biggie, I thought. We’ll just get that little guy and put him up the weekend we’re back. Unfortunately, along with some new clothes and other fun stuff, we carried home our first seasonal illness, and my husband hadn’t felt well for days. No fever, just a nasty cough, low energy, and a lack of appetite, but he certainly didn’t feel up to cutting down and carrying in another fir tree.

    I was feeling the pressure—less than a month until Christmas, and I wanted to enjoy all my decorations for as long as possible, including my little tree. Impatience and frustration were squeezing out any sympathy for my poor husband. (Yes, I realize how spoiled I sound.)

    It occurred to me, though, while driving home from school drop-off, marveling at the crystalline majesty of a sunny, post-snowstorm morning, that I should just cut down my tree myself.

    It couldn’t be that difficult, right?

    Even if I didn’t have the strength to saw all the way through the trunk, trying was better than sitting inside irritable and helpless about it. I’d done enough of that lately about other things, and I was sick of feeling that way.

    So, I resolved to have one more cup of coffee, then don my snow pants, sturdiest gloves, and Bean boots, and venture out with the handsaw.  

    I’ve always been petite, and I’ve tended to think of myself as rather delicate and helpless. I’m not sure where that attitude came from, but I suspect it’s something I absorbed growing up as an early Millennial at the very edge of the Deep South, where I danced on the drill team and joined a sorority. In these more socially conservative groups, there lingered the idea that ladies ought never to do the manual labor a male will happily do for them. It’s the classic princess attitude, or the idea that you ought to be a “show pony” as opposed to a “work horse,” as my stylist once said. So, I usually defaulted to letting my boyfriends and, later, even my husband do most of the literal heavy lifting.  

    But I wasn’t going to act helpless that morning, dammit. I wanted my Christmas tree, and I would make that happen.

    I found the saw in the garage and trudged into the lines of Fraser firs, already invigorated by the sunlight on my face and the endorphins activated by the outdoor exertion, and I was toasty despite the 19 degrees F. I picked a younger tree not far from the house, brushing off most of the snow first to ensure it had a nice shape. Then I kneeled, grasped the trunk in my left hand, and began sawing with my right.

    Chosen tree

    It felt like the saw’s teeth hardly made a slice, and my shoulder ached right away. I’m almost forty-four and I’ve been sedentary this year, so I’m not in the best shape. I stopped for a minute, leaned my palms into my thighs, and watched my own apparent weakness materialize in the steam from my breath.

    Crap, I thought. I probably couldn’t do this. I’d have to wait. Or, I’d have to march back in, announce to my husband I failed, and see how gallant he was feeling. It was likely he’d drag on his own coat and snowpants between virtual meetings and come finish the job for me. He’s a sweet, solicitous soul like that.

    I hated the idea.

    Try again, I thought. A little higher up. Don’t give up so easily.

    I started sawing once more, not quite so close to the ground. I realized I needed two hands, and I let go of the trunk and used both—my entire body, really—to saw away, allowing my gaze to wander, just concentrating on the rhythm of the movement and keeping my core muscles strong. Doing my best not to strain my middle-aged back.

    I just kept sawing and breathing. Panting, more like it, but I kept going. It wasn’t pretty or dainty.   

    It took a while but suddenly, that little tree tumbled over. It startled me because, not feeling much through my gloves, I didn’t think I was making any progress.

    But wouldn’t you know it, down it went.  

    Success

    I hadn’t felt like such a badass since giving birth to my child ten years ago. Well, maybe not quite that fierce, but close.  

    I lifted my handsome little tree, now entirely mine, onto my daughter’s snow tube and pulled him back toward the house.

    Bringing it on home

    “See what I did?” I asked Susie, Jeanie, Mimi, and Doris, my hens. The tree and tube just scared them, and they ran under their coop to hide.

    But I was still proud of myself. I propped the little Fraser up against our ancient front door, where the sun could melt the remaining snow before I brought it inside to decorate. Prior to that morning, I would have said the tree-trimming was the best part, but now I wasn’t so sure.

    Drying out

    Years ago, when I had a side-gig as a Pure Barre instructor, we had a saying: “You are stronger than you think.”

    I used to consider that phrase little more than branding. A trite, obligatory statement we instructors were trained to weave into our cues in every class, especially when we could see our clients’ trembles and sweat, that point when many of them came out of their positions to rest because they just couldn’t take the shake and burn. The phrase was meant to keep them going a little longer.

    Those painful segments were, after all, when their bodies were actually changing. When their strength was truly developing, though in the moment it felt like weakness and failure. That burn was the breakdown of their muscles, what made our clients ultimately leaner and stronger, and the next class a little easier, once they were rested and their muscles repaired.

    As the years go on, in many episodes both major and minor, like my little tree-cutting adventure, I’ve recognized the truth of those words. We are all, in fact, stronger than we believe, physically, mentally, and emotionally, and when we persevere through our doubts and discomforts, we often achieve the most growth.

    “Of course you cut down your own tree,” my husband said when, puffy with pride, I reported what I’d done. He sounded almost blasé about it, and for a minute I was miffed, but then I realized I should be flattered.

    “You’re a tough, capable person, Jen,” he added. “I wouldn’t have married you otherwise.”

    My tree finally all decorated

    As this year draws to a close and we face yet another one—probably just as chaotic and uncertain as this one, if not more so—that is my December wish for us all. I hope we all remember our own strength. I hope we all persevere through those difficult moments, big and small, with greater confidence.

    I want all of us to take more chances, even little ones. I want us all to make even the little things happen for ourselves because there is growth in those moments too. They are, in truth, rehearsals in grit and determination, and we need them to fortify ourselves for when those bigger, more daunting trials come along, as they inevitably will.

    I write this as a metaphor of course, but I hope we can all go out and cut down our own Christmas trees.

    Sugar Plum wishes

    Happy holidays! I wish you the best, and I’ll see you in the new year.   

    XOXO,

    Jenn

  • Our Haunted Farmhouse?

    by

    Three weeks ago, I wrote about how we keep witches out of our house.

    The ghosts, I’m not so sure about. And honestly, I don’t really want them gone.

    In 2021, right after we moved into our little 1800 Vermont farmhouse, we began experiencing things that were difficult to explain.

    Our farmhouse

    In those earliest weeks, Jer and I woke up multiple times to the smell of scrambling eggs and frying bacon. Seriously, it was like someone silently making a full-on breakfast downstairs.

    “What the hell?” We’d look at each other, and after staggering down to start the coffee–can’t deal with spirits until you’ve had some caffeine–we’d see nothing beyond the dim kitchen and cold stove. The aroma, too, had subsided, or we’d quickly gone nose-blind.

    Could that smell have been steam inside the floorboard radiators?

    Except it was June. The heaters weren’t on, and, generally, steam doesn’t smell like bacon.

    We let it go. There was a lot to do to settle in, and as long as this little old house was functioning in one piece, we weren’t too concerned.

    These aromatic encounters didn’t last through our first year. Maybe the ghosts accepted the reality of new inhabitants. Who knows?

    More recently, though, we’ve experienced other things, like being touched.

    It happened to Jer first. He’d gone into the basement one day to get the dehumidifier to empty outside. When he came back up with it, he said something like, “That was weird.”

    “What?”

    “Something touched my head on the way down. I felt it very clearly.”

    Then, earlier this year, I was washing dishes at the sink when I felt a cupped hand caress the side of my skull. It happened just once, but it was distinct.

    I shrieked and nearly left my skin. Swiping frantically at my head, my first thought was a spider had somehow landed there. We have wolf spiders in our basement, and they occasionally make surprise appearances on the first floor. In my initial panic, I thought one had somehow landed on me Arachnophobia-style.

    Image from bloodydisgusting.com

    Hell to the NO.

    I made my husband run both his hands all through my hair and down the back of my shirt. I even lifted up my shirt and bra for him.

    “Nothing’s there, I promise.” Then he grinned. “But that’s nice.”

    Only when calm could I acknowledge what I’d felt was more like an intentional, tender hand than the legs of an errant arachnid. I’d say a human hand except no one was in the kitchen with me.

    The second time it happened, a few months later, I was much calmer. In fact, it was kind of nice.

    “Hi, Lucille,” I replied, naming the odd, deceased aunt of the man from whom we bought this long-standing family property. She lived here alone in the 1990s and apparently still plowed the fields using a horse, according to Shane, the seller.

    Another time, Jer was at the toaster and I was snacking at our breakfast bar, and he turned to me.

    “Was that you?”

    “What?”

    “Something just touched my shoulder.”

    “Oh… not me. Must have been the ghost.”

    That’s become a not-infrequent saying around here.

    We’ve never seen anything strange, but when my mother stayed with us a couple years ago, she was sleeping in Daphne’s twin bed, where she could see straight into our master bedroom. Daph was between me and Jer in our room and slept soundly through that night.

    In the morning, Mom asked how long Daphne was awake.

    “She wasn’t. Did you see something?”

    “I thought I saw her up and walking around the foot of your bed.”

    “She was between us the entire night, as far as I remember.”

    “Oh.” Mom looked rather disturbed. “I thought I saw someone walking around.”

    Image from Microsoft Design

    Hmm.

    What’s been most frequent–and sometimes unnerving, I’ll admit–are the sounds.

    A voice, once. Jer came out one morning after I’d dropped Daph at school, casually sipping his coffee. I’d just finished the chicken chores.

    “How long have you been out here?”

    “About fifteen minutes. Why? What happened?”

    “Oh,” he shrugged. “Someone was just humming and singing upstairs.”

    We hear bangs sometimes, too. Random whacks that might be the boiler or something related to it but don’t come from the basement. They sound much closer.

    Uncle JT, who’s only four years older than my husband and visits us often, has said to Jer, “Your house is haunted as hell.”

    He hears nocturnal thumping right outside his little guest room door, the door of our utility room where we’ve managed to fit a twin bed. The sound comes from the dining room, he says.

    It freaks him out, he admits, but “I just keep the door shut and try not to think about it.”

    For us, the sounds are usually footsteps. The sound of the old wooden floor creaking under shifting weight.

    We hear these footsteps everywhere, including Daph’s room and our bedroom, and especially at night, when we’re already in bed.

    At this point, we’re used to them. Often, when I’m just under the surface of sleep, I’ll register them, give myself a moment to decide if they’re actually outside myself or inside my head, and then I’ll turn over, letting them go, and the night is peaceful.

    The energy in this old house isn’t malevolent. It’s only ever felt warm and benevolent. Super cozy.

    Mostly.

    So, if there are spirits here, I believe they approve of us. We’ve tried hard, after all, to be loving and respectful caretakers of this wonderful old property.

    Maybe the ghosts even care about us. One time Daphne was on the edge of a meltdown, and she was cuddled up with my husband on the couch. Jer felt something like a warmth and phantom weight suddenly beside them, enveloping them. It was comforting, he said, like a phantom hug.

    Isn’t that nice?

    Only once have strange sounds truly frightened me. This was also my most vivid encounter with this weird energy to date.

    It was late, around 3 am one Sunday morning last September, when we were still brooding a batch of baby chicks indoors.

    I was wide awake, my rational brain hard at work. I was writing on my laptop downstairs in the well-lit living room, laboring to get a short story edited for a looming deadline. I was totally immersed in the piece, but then I heard that familiar sound. The footsteps.

    I paused, wondering if either Jer or Daphne was awake, maybe using the upstairs bathroom or up playing. If Daph gets up in the middle of the night–rare, thank goodness–she requires supervision.

    I listened, hearing the steps again. They were erratic, pausing and starting, wandering it seemed, like someone was shuffling around in the same general place. But the sounds were softer than my daughter’s steps; she drives all her weight into her feet, as sensory input I think, and she likes to stomp.

    I realized–the noise was coming from the black dining room.

    The outdoor floodlights weren’t on. I had not heard either bell hung on either outer door chime. I had not heard glass shattering.

    Not an intruder. (That would be an entirely different scary story.)

    I waited, fingers hovering over the laptop keys. Wondering how long these phantom sounds would last… what might happen next…

    I was wide awake for it.

    Then…

    I heard our four chicks go nuts inside their plastic bin in the utility room, just off the dining room. All the sudden, they were squawking and flapping like little crazed banshees.

    Mom, you would not believe what happened last night!

    It was exactly the sound they made each time one of us lifted the screen off their brooder to change their water or shavings.

    Dear. God. In. Heaven.

    The blood drained from my body. My underarms were soaked, despite my goosebumps.

    My lungs became lead, and I truly struggled for a minute to breathe.

    All those classic symptoms, and I absolutely felt them.

    It’s rare for me to remember specific past thoughts, but I remember these:

    It’s probably nothing. Or it’s something you can explain.

    If it isn’t, then it’s just energy. IT CAN’T HURT YOU…

    Image from Microsoft Design

    My prefrontal cortex literally had to fight my lizard amygdala in order to calm myself.

    After that, everything went silent. Susie, Jeanie, Mimi, and Daisy all settled.

    Once I could breathe, and move, I saved my document one more time, closed my laptop, left it perched on the broad arm of the couch, and slipped upstairs, leaving the lights on, electric bill be damned. I slid by that two-hundred-year-old dining room as fast as I could, eyes averted. I made it upstairs untouched, thank you great, good Lord above, and slid into bed against my husband.

    In retrospect, I was terrified not so much because I felt physically threatened, but because I was suddenly, and so acutely, experiencing something I simply could not explain. And it had gone on and on, it seemed, for several minutes.

    That’s it, isn’t it, really?

    That fear of the unknown. What we can’t rationalize, what we cannot in the moment understand.

    That’s at the heart of it all, I think.

    All the terror.

    But, that was one moment, and it was mostly me, I believe. Caught off guard.

    “Maybe Lucille just wanted to see the chicks for herself,” Jer said later. “To make sure we’re taking good care of them.”

    Maybe?

    I am a rational person. I believe in physics, science, and empiricism. I believe that the simplest, most logical explanation is often the right one.

    But I also know there is so, so much none of us can understand about the universe.

    Sometimes, Jer and I talk about how time, a human construct anyway, isn’t as simple and linear perhaps as we Westerners believe. Maybe it’s much more complicated and cyclical, like a chain, and these ghostly encounters are really just the past and present brushing up against each other, or momentarily overlapping, The Others-style. I like that thought (and the idea that I’m Nicole Kidman).

    Photo from flickfilosopher

    I don’t mind sharing space with benign spiritual energy, the warm-hearted residents of the past. They were here first, after all, and maybe they’re still here living their own lives, and I respect that.

    “Can you imagine them hearing Daphne scream and stomp in their time, in 19- or 1825?” Jer has said. “How terrifying would that be?”

    “‘That’s one pissed off ghost,’” I said.

    We laughed.

    But, I’ll be honest. I will never bring a Ouija board into this house. And I don’t go downstairs after midnight unless I have to.

    Image from Britannica

    Thanks for reading! If you feel inclined to share any strange or supernatural experiences of your own, please drop them in the comments! I eat this stuff up.

    Happy Halloween, everyone! I hope it’s spooky and fun.

    Image from Microsoft Design

    We all need some fun after everything that’s gone on this year (that’s the real horror, but I’m not getting into it here.)

    See you next week!

    XOXO,

    Jenn

  • The Witch Window: A Bit of Vermont Folklore

    by

    How do you keep a witch out of your house?

    I’ll let you ponder that while I provide a little backstory.

    When my family moved from Houston to northern Vermont in 2021, we didn’t just relocate. My husband and I dug our hands deep into the soil of our lives and ripped up everything we could.

    And while it was painful to leave our parents and siblings behind, it was also the most cathartic experience of my life.

    Among the many things we re-envisioned was the type of house we wanted to live in. In suburban Houston, we’d had one of those master-planned community tract homes. Ours was an Ashton Woods, and that didn’t mean anything special. All the houses in our neighborhood–the David Weeklies, Newmarks, Pultes, etc.–looked basically the same. The bricks and rooflines were nearly identical, the floor plans all open-concept. Windows varied only in size. Uniqueness meant that perhaps a particular floorplan included a skylight, or the buyer could select something “different” from a pre-set list of minor structural upgrades. Interior detailing was minimal and based on no clear tradition or design concept except, perhaps, utilitarianism. Fixtures, countertops, backsplashes, etc. were chosen from catalogs, so they also conveyed the same generic aesthetic.

    When we brought our relatives to see our lot during construction, my sister-in-law looked around and remarked, “It’s kind of Stepford-y, isn’t it?”

    She wasn’t wrong.

    So, when we made the radical decision to start over in New England, we resolved to find a more special home with a character truer to our tastes, even if it meant we chose something old, impractical,… and perhaps a little witchy.

    That is exactly what we got. We purchased a small 200-year-old Cape Cod style farmhouse in the Northeast Kingdom, and, a vast majority of the time, I love it.

    Our farmhouse photographed this morning, Oct 10th

    One of the features I adore most is our witch window.

    Closer view of our witch window

    This is a second story window common in many old farmhouses of the region. The window sits at a 45 degree angle under a gable, usually just above a newer section of the house. It will strike you as odd, even quirky, but when you look at the available wall space, especially from the outside, it makes sense–the angle allows for a window where there would be no room for one otherwise, thanks to the added wing taking up a majority of space (Keri Murray Architecture).

    In fact, the purpose of these windows, found commonly in central and northern Vermont, is entirely practical. They provide fresh air and daylight to an upstairs room, sometimes where an original window had to be taken out when a new wing was later added to the home. Often, the old window got reused, angled to fit under the roofline, saving money. It was a frugal maneuver, and 18th-19th century Vermont farmers had to be thrifty. I would argue that many Vermonters still are. It seems to be part of the NEK character.

    But why that name?

    Here’s the fun part. The legend goes, witches cannot fly their broomsticks through a crooked window, as state historian Devin Colman explains. Thus, the tilt of these window keeps these malevolent hags out, protecting inhabitants from ill fortune and harassment.

    Particularly in their beds. At night, while they’re asleep.

    When you think about the Freudian implications, especially in the context of a New England Puritan legacy, there’s a lot to consider unpacking.

    Now, the first Vermonters were not Puritans, but many came from Massachusetts and New Hampshire, so many hailed from areas with Puritan roots. That probably carried with it superstitions and old beliefs in the Devil stalking the wilderness, ready to corrupt the noble efforts of good people, descendants of a culture centered originally on its belief in being God’s chosen, those who had forged the “City on a Hill.”

    I can’t help but think about a possible connection to spectral harassment, too. During the Salem Witch Trials, many of the accused were convicted with the help of spectral evidence, which simply meant an “afflicted” accuser claimed this woman or that man had sent their spirit out to harm them, choking, biting, or pinching them in visions and dreams. Such an accusation came down, simply, to one person’s word against another’s.

    “Saturday, she come into my bed in the middle of the night and bite at my breast!” cries Abigail Williams against Elizabeth Procter in Arthur Miller’s The Crucible.

    Photograph of an 1855 painting, Trial of George Jacobs of Salem, by Matteson, Tompkins Harrison, 1813-1884 [Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division]

    Did such ideas, including this possibility of spectral bewitchment, consciously or unconsciously play a role in this peculiar window’s nomenclature? These windows have also been called lazy windows, Vermont windows, and coffin windows (since it would be easier to move a coffined body out the crooked window than down the narrow staircase, though I’m dubious). But “witch window” is what has stuck.

    Playfulness aside, how much does this name speak to deep-rooted fears of spiritual and sexual corruption? Did any men or women lying in their beds, gazing out their angled windows at a harvest moon, feel better believing that Betty So-and-So from the next farm over couldn’t send her spirit in to harm them or sicken their children, no matter how odd, brazen, or independent she might be, or how much they might secretly desire her, even as they lay next to their spouses?

    How much did 18th and even 19th century Vermonters believe in witchcraft? How superstitious were these people?

    Apparently, they were paranoid enough to have a conducted a witch trial of their own as late as 1785, taking to account wealthy widowed businesswoman and former Loyalist Margaret Krieger in North Pownal. She was accused of being “an extraordinary woman” and, as a test of her connection to Satan, dropped through a hole cut in the ice of the freezing Hoosic River. She sank and so, having been “proven” innocent (only true witches floated), some good soul dove in to rescue her, and she was exonerated. Not surprisingly, she left that village, having survived her ordeal.

    Hers was also New England’s last recorded witch trial.

    Historian and genealogist Joyce Held, who uncovered the Pownal witch’s identity, at Krieger’s grave . Photo from Seven Days

    In a fearful reaction to tuberculosis, Vermont also grappled with the Manchester Vampire around the same time. Captain Isaac Burton lost two wives to what was then called consumption. Believing his first wife, Rachel, had become a vampiric creature returning from the dead to harm his second wife, he had Rachel’s body exhumed and burned in public in 1793 (Picard).

    Vermont was also not immune to the New England vampire panic of the 1830s, another period in which communities reacted irrationally to surges in tuberculosis.

    Clearly, there was enough lingering superstition to prompt these extreme responses, though they really came down to nothing more than tragic manifestations of sublimated emotions: jealousy, desire, anxiety, terror–all that awful helplessness we feel in the face of things we do not understand and cannot control.

    Those things that keep us up at night.

    I think about them sometimes when I’m awake early in the morning, watching out our witch window as the gray moon hovers in its various shapes over our western hill.

    View of this morning’s moon from my witch window

    What I feel more than anything, however, is gratitude. That I get to speculate and daydream in this cozy old home that feels so much more like me. A home rich in little details and history. How I now get to enjoy my ordinary life among a bit of extraordinary local folklore.

    It’s also good to know nothing wicked or uncanny can enter my abode, *wink, wink*.

    Now, as for what might already haunt the insides–well, we’ll save that for another post.

    Happy spooky season! Thanks for reading!

    XOXO,

    Jenn

  • Summer’s End

    by

    ,

    Though the autumnal equinox isn’t until September 22nd, today, August 31st, feels like the last day of summer (I’m posting this a couple days after drafting, obviously).

    It’s been a good one.

    I wish I had half as much attitude as my daughter

    All season, Daphne’s enjoyed going through her old books and picking favorites to read. Jenny’s Pennies by Peter Saverine has been a particularly beloved one this week, and it’s a perfect selection for closing out the warm months.

    Here’s my attempt at visual artistry
    A well-loved book mentioning that shift from summer to school

    We’ve also practiced with all of her I Can Read! books, and she’s gotten attached to Pete the Cat: Pete at the Beach by James Dean.

    Are you seeing a theme?

    She’s done more painting, too. We gave a new one to her Grammy and Munka for hosting Jer’s 50th birthday celebration. The most recent one, done on the first of her larger canvases, we’re mailing to her Grandma and Grandad.

    This painting of Daph’s I like to call Fairy Fire

    Daph also enjoyed her half-days of July summer school, and we’ve savored lots of fun time with loved ones, including two sets of her grandparents, three of her uncles, and several friends, both old and new. It’s always good to socialize as much as possible in these easy months because we’re basically on our own in the dead of winter. It’s too hard for people to come visit us with all the snow and ice.

    Beaching like a mermaid at Island Pond

    Of course, we’ve done a ton of swimming–in the saltwater pool at Wildflower Inn, in Crystal, Willoughby, Island Pond, and Maidstone Lakes, and at the beach in York, Maine. At York, the waves were high and the water choppy thanks to the hurricane just off the coast. The red flags were flying, signaling that undertows were likely and swimming was forbidden.

    That wasn’t going to stop Daph, though. We stayed right by her, allowing her in only waist-deep, and let her play in the waves. She loved waiting for a big one, then sitting down just as it crashed over her, sweeping her back toward the shore. Back home, she had dozens of clumps of seaweed caught in her hair, and she smelled like a fish market. I had to scrub and scrub with two applications of shampoo, and even combing out her wet hair, I was still catching pieces of ocean flora. It was everywhere–on the comb, the bathmat, the tile floor, and of course all over the shower. Quite nasty, actually.

    “Now you really are a mermaid,” I told her.

    She started fourth grade on Wednesday, August 28th, and had a fantastic first two days of school and a pretty good Friday. Her homeroom and special education teachers are the same from last year, and she’s with a lot of her former classmates, so that’s always beneficial. It helped to ease into a new year with a short week and a long weekend, too.

    Having so much time back to myself blew me away last week. It felt like another adjustment, though a good one. I read and wrote a bit, mostly on this blog. I’m easing back into fiction because it always feels daunting after a long break, and I’m considering trying Amy McNee’s Two Week Reset Plan as described in her book We Need Your Art.

    A writer friend highly recommended this, and it’s soothed my creative anxieties

    I have plenty of projects in mind, but it all feels a little overwhelming right now, and the gentle and forgiving fourteen day schedule McNee recommends sounds like a good way to assuage those weird nerves that come along with creative reentry.

    Speaking of books, I thoroughly enjoyed my own grownup summer reading. Alas, I only read five titles–Daph got up too early every day for me to make full use of early morning reading–but that’s ok. Three of those titles were novels published this year, and two of those were debuts–yay! I enjoy supporting new authors. The others were a bestseller from 2020 and a classic, so a good mix.

    The classic, which I’m still on now, is Thomas Hardy’s Far from the Madding Crowd.

    I love Hardy, and I haven’t read any of his work in several years, not since my twenties. It took me a few chapters to get back into the rhythm of that more complex 19th century syntax, but now I’m trucking along nicely, enjoying the characters and appreciating the pastoral details much more now that I live in the countryside myself. It’s an interesting little introduction to sheep farming, which I appreciate since much of Vermont’s history involved this particular livestock, and I’ve considered making one character in a potential historical novel set here in VT a sheep farmer.

    I’m also amused by Hardy’s humor. I don’t remember his other novels having comical moments, but I’m sure they do and I just didn’t pick up on them, or they didn’t stick in my memory. In this novel, his depiction of the rural folk–the farm hands, carters, waggoners, malters, and their wives–is great, right down to their names and dialogue. One little boy is christened Cainy Ball because his mother, ignorant in her Scripture, mixed up who was who between the Biblical brothers, believing she was naming her son after the one murdered and not the murderer. Another farmhand, a hen-pecked man, is referred to mostly as “Susan Tall’s husband.” You can imagine what Susan Tall is like.

    Here’s my favorite funny line thus far. It occurs when the heroine, Bathsheba Everdene, who has just inherited a large farm she’s determined to run herself, is handing out wages for the first time. She asks a seasoned employee about two female farmhands, meaning are they good, productive workers? He interprets her question as a moral one and answers, “Oh mem–don’t ask me! Yielding women–as scarlet a pair as ever was!”

    My summer reading efforts were rewarded when I won a prize in the St. Johnsbury Atheneum’s drawing!

    Sweet reward for pleasant efforts

    I rarely win anything, so this was fun. I haven’t spent the gift card yet but will soon, preferably while Daph’s at school so I can enjoy my treat in perfect peace and quiet.

    Finally, I received my contributor’s copy of Ditch Life Magazine, a debut literary publication beautifully summer-themed, in the mail a week ago.

    I have a piece of contemporary flash fiction in it which was accepted back in April 2024, so it was amazing to finally have the publication in my hands. It arrived accompanied by a lovely thank you note and sticker, and all of it was a nice pick-me-up after that recent rejection.

    Beautiful sticker now gracing my laptop

    I was worried that rereading my piece after so long would make me cringe, but it didn’t. Sure, there are a few lines I’d like to go back and edit, but overall, I’m proud to have it among some gorgeous and moving work. The other contributors have impressive bios, so I’m in good company.

    All in all, we’ve had a wonderful end to the summer.

    One of eight pumpkins growing in my garden

    The season is definitely turning. Morning temperatures are in the mid-forties and afternoons in the high sixties. My pumpkins and sunflowers are growing well, and there are even a few red and orange leaves scattered here and there in the trees. It looks like we might have an earlier foliage season, given how dry the weather has been. Today, we spent some time at a local corn maze, and it was a nice way to invite the new season in.

    Farmer Daph
    With Dad in the corn maze

    I’m looking forward to sharing more about my fall and winter writing plans, which include a zero draft of a novel-length WIP, a gothic romance. Plus, I have an original fairy tale coming out in a few weeks in the Red Herrings Society’s magic and fantasy anthology, Spellbound.

    I’m looking forward to teasing more about that, including some of the stories by my fellow contributors, so stay tuned!

    I’m no Canva pro, LOL. Daffodil photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

    I truly did try my best to squeeze this post in as my fourth and final one for August, but circumstances kept working against me, so I just had to give it up and post today. The world will not end because I didn’t upload four times in August.

    I did write two more August posts last week, but I didn’t send out email notifications because I didn’t want to flood inboxes. My own is overwhelming me, so I know how irksome that can feel.

    If you’re interested, you can catch up on those previous August posts here:

    The Books that Made Me: Final Installment

    and

    Two Haikus, Plus Some Thoughts on Versatility

    Thanks for reading, and please feel free to share anything you’d like about your own summer or even your fall plans. I hope you’re enjoying these liminal days.

    Sunflower at the Kingdom Corn Maze in Sutton, VT

    See you next week, when I’ll get back to a more regular posting schedule. I’m hoping to post on Thursday or Friday of each week.

    XOXO,

    Jenn

  • A Tribute to My Husband

    by

    Yep, that’s him

    On August 11, 2008, one of the last precious nights before the start of another contract year teaching, I went with my colleague, Kathy, and her boyfriend, Rezki, to the house party of a friend of Rez’s from high school.

    “Come with us,” Kat said. “It’s Jeremiah’s birthday. I think you’ll like each other.”

    I was skeptical and emotionally worn out. By then, I’d spent three years on the Houston dating scene, which meant long Friday night Happy Hours that sometimes ended in terrible decisions with co-workers, followed by primping through hangovers for Saturday nights at Red Door or Belvedere inside the loop. There, the yuppy oil/gas execs and Med Center MDs could be found trawling. These weekends usually concluded with Sunday Fundays at La Strada for boozy recuperative brunches–sometimes with a guy, and sometimes with Kat and Courtney, another young, single teacher I was close to. Lots of drinking, lots of socializing, and inevitably, lots of drama.

    Photo from 365thingsinhouston.com

    I rarely spent an entire weekend at home sober, though I still somehow managed to squeeze in planning and grading for two different courses. My energy levels were different then.

    By that point, I’d met a lot of men. They were all either machismo-arrogant, commitment-shy, weird, besotted with ex-girlfriends, too old, or just plain sleazy… nothing had worked out. A few short-lived relationships had ended in fiery wreckage, and these guys still thought they could text me wasted at 2 am to say things like, Thought you were an 8 but you’re really only a 7…

    This, from the same guy who opined that all women could be rated 1-10, though 10s didn’t exist and 9s were rare, so I should be flattered to be judged an 8…

    I was sick of it all. Sick of being objectified, ghosted, you name it. This disillusion was powerful enough to finally trump the creeping anxiety I felt at the prospect of ending up alone. That was silly given I was only twenty-six, but you know how short sighted youth can be.

    So, I decided I was done. No more going out, at least for a while. No more looking to meet anyone. I’d take it easy, allow myself to rest over the weekends, and focus on being the most conscientious and professional educator I could be. Only good things could come from that, I figured. I needed to get my crap together.

    Then, Kat came along with that invitation, disrupting my plans.

    I could have said no. But, the reality of another long, difficult school year loomed ahead, and the thought of some final summer fun was too attractive. So, I agreed to go with Kat and Rez to this guy Jeremiah’s 33rd birthday party at his garage apartment in The Heights.

    I didn’t hold out much hope for him. I’d been disappointed too many times. He’d probably wear thick-framed glasses and be short, squat, and obnoxious in some way. All I remember Kat saying about him was how smart he was. For some reason, in my mind that precluded him from being nice or good-looking.

    I figured, I could at least hang out with my best friend, drink someone else’s beer, people watch, and maybe let this birthday boy amuse me. It sounded better than staying home alone.

    I should have trusted my friend. Kat knew me better than almost anyone else.

    When we arrived at the party in that trendy bo-ho neighborhood inside the city’s loop, I was shocked at the number of people already there. Thirty at least, exuberantly packed into the small, neat yard between an old 1930s bungalow and a large garage apartment with steep wooden stairs. There was at least one keg of beer well on its way to floating and a large inflated ball pit, the kind you see at kids’ play places. Inside the pit were multiple grown-ass adults lounging and crawling over each other in drunken laughter, holding up their Solo cups in futile attempts to keep from spilling their Lonestar.

    I remember grinning. This was a surprise. Definitely different, and it did look like a lot of casual fun, exactly what I needed. No need to impress anyone.

    Then, Kat introduced me to Jer.

    He was tall, six feet at least. Broad shoulders and a nice, slender build. Large, bright, nearly almond-shaped brown eyes that swept over everything and everyone in a way that was both friendly and pleasantly proprietary. Immediately, he smiled at me. Our friends had told him they were bringing me, and he also knew we were being ever-so-gently set up.

    Oh, that smile. In that moment, it was his best feature. Large, natural, and dazzlingly sweet. Straight, white teeth, too. I wouldn’t say I was swept off my feet, exactly, but I snapped to attention.

    He was also kind to me. Right away. There was never any aloofness, never any head game, not even that night when he was the star of his party. That might not sound terribly interesting, but this wasn’t the hook in some formulaic rom-com. It was real life, and I needed someone like him. A man who was sweet, transparent, ready to have a good time, and happy to avoid unnecessary conflict.

    Typical. In our first house together, a rental in The Heights

    Jer alternated gracefully between sitting with me and making his rounds among all his friends, who kept pouring in, more and more of them. I think in total nearly fifty guests stopped by that night. He knew so many people, and everyone adored him. There were plenty of back slaps, hugs, guffaws, and allusive friend-speak, those ridiculous, coded exchanges that meant nothing to us who lacked context. He was ultimately inclusive, though. He let no one feel overlooked.

    He made me a definite priority. We talked about all kinds of things, none of which I remember exactly. But I do recall how he made me feel–welcome, comfortable, appreciated, and, by the end of the night, special, and he did it in a totally respectful, natural way that never felt weird, over-eager, or icky. He had the most wonderfully natural self-confidence I’d ever seen in anyone, and a wonderous sense of playfulness and whimsy–hence, the ball pit. He was also hilarious; his humor was quick, witty, and sometimes absurd but never biting or bitter.

    He had a dog, a black labrador-greyhound named Jib, who looked even happier than Jer at all the petting and attention he received. It was clear Jer adored his pup, and that was the final bright green flag.

    The ball pit, taken the afternoon of party day

    Jer seemed so effortlessly happy that night, and for me, that was a powerful appeal. Neurotic and insecure as I could be, I was drawn to his kind, charismatic energy.

    I gave him my number, and that was basically it. From there, we started dating. We discovered how compatible we were in interests and tastes and fell into exclusion pretty much right away. I also had a chance to witness, early on, what a noble and gracious soul he truly was, and that was the tipping point for me. It proved I had indeed met a man who was authentically good, a rare someone who was absolutely worth keeping and striving to be the best partner for (though I’ve always fallen short). We became good friends as we fell in love, and in so many ways I felt centered, maybe for the first time in my adult life.

    Early pic. Who are those babies?

    My professional goals went to crap that year, though. My students’ state assessments scores weren’t great; I’d been too distracted by my wonderful new boyfriend to do a great job preparing them. Oh, well.

    A few dating highlights:

    We spent an entire week together at his place right after Hurricane Ike, when half the city didn’t have power and school was cancelled for ten weekdays. A delicious cool front swept through, and the air was crisp and alive. We stayed up late every night talking and drinking bottles of expensive chianti on his porch, Jib falling asleep at Jer’s feet.

    Later in our relationship, we spent most Saturday mornings getting coffee at Onion Creek–where Jer was an unofficial VIP who could cut the line because he was a favorite with the baristas–then bumping around The Heights in his topless Jeep (when it wasn’t too hot) looking at houses we might eventually rent together, discussing and daydreaming about all kinds of odd things.

    The house we eventually rented

    Finally, one September evening a year in, we were the last couple to venture toward the exit in the lobby of Jones Hall, after the Houston Symphony’s performance of Tchaikovsky’s Fifth, my favorite symphony, one I’d said was on my bucket list to experience in concert.

    “Let me offer you something else from that list,” he said as he got on one knee. To the collective gasp of lingering patrons, he proposed, much sooner than I anticipated.

    Lobby of Jones Hall in Houston. Photo from houstonsymphony.org

    We spent that night in the penthouse suite of Hotel Icon downtown, sipping Dom Perignon. I still have that bottle. It was a truly perfect marriage proposal.

    Picture taken looking out from our penthouse at Hotel Icon, the night we got engaged

    Now, we’ve been together for seventeen years, married for fifteen–we celebrated our anniversary just a few weeks ago, on July 31st.

    Closing day, new homeowners, pre-Vermont
    Fifteenth anniversary flowers. The color for year fifteen is crimson, apparently.
    Us now, photo taken in May at the Inn at Burklynn in East Burke, VT

    Had you told me right before I met Jer that this would be my future, I would have given you owl eyes. Up to then, my two serious relationships, with my high school and then my college boyfriend, had only lasted eighteen months each. Though I wanted it, a lifetime of monogamy seemed like a feat that maybe I couldn’t pull off, restless as I always became and as objectionable as the men always were.

    Wedding day, July 31st, 2010; photo by Bryan Anderson

    But I’ve never considered leaving Jer. There’s never been even a hint of a reason. I trust him completely, and I’m so grateful that I can.

    Honeymoon, this portion on Nantucket Island, MA, standing in front of Brant Point Light

    We discuss all the important things together; there are no secrets. He still adores me and spoils me responsibly, which I respect.

    Always spoiled. A birthday gift, I think, in our suburban Houston house

    He won’t, however, take my crap when I’m crabby and knows how to point out when I’m being ugly, usually by gently suggesting I take a walk or a nap. It usually works. We’ve gotten good at communicating through our irritation.

    Peeved about something

    When our nonspeaking daughter was diagnosed with Level II Autism Spectrum Disorder in 2018, we were able to absorb the emotional impact together. We’re still very much problem-solving partners when it comes to raising our special kiddo.

    As couples do, we’ve grown and changed, and thankfully that’s happened together. His most powerful appeal to me now is his enduring humor. Literally every day, he makes me laugh. Even on the days we get peeved with each other, or our patience is frayed, he’ll say something hilarious (often without realizing it), and if I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of laughing (though that’s rare), I have to grit my teeth. That humor has been our saving grace. It brings such an important levity to our lives, a much needed one given our sometimes difficult and frustrating circumstances.

    On that note, Jer’s an amazing father.

    Daphne print

    Not perfect (neither am I), but no one is. He’s unconditionally loving, however, and as nurturing as I am, if not more so, and always open to learning and growing into the best kind of daddy for our little girl.

    Daddy and daughter being goofy
    Still being goofy

    He also just celebrated his 50th birthday.

    Birthday dinner #1
    Birthday cocktail

    It was particularly special because we had family travel all the way up here to celebrate with us, including his uncle and younger brother, who he hadn’t seen in over four years.

    Jer with his brother and uncle–clearly all Shaws

    He and Derek had a fantastic time running around the NEK together–no wives, no kids to drag along–utterly free for a while to be, simply, two brothers reunited. I think that was the best gift anyone could have given him.

    Brothers

    I will concede, though, that the lightness, the easiness Jer possessed when we first met is nearly gone. That smile of his isn’t quite the same, despite the appearances in these newer photos.

    I don’t think that denotes anything awful or tragic; it’s probably natural. Of course, the responsibilities he carries now, as a husband, father, and bread-winner in this chaotic world, are far heavier than they were then, and everyone’s back bends a little under such weight.

    I worry, though, that caring for us has robbed him of certain vital things. He can’t rush off on an impulse to sail a boat. He can’t go hike the Appalachian Trail. He can’t take a lower-paying part-time job in order to write a book that I know would be fantastic.

    He barely has time to write now, even on his blog. I do my best to encourage him–I suggest we sprint together, or that he start a Substack for his Schooner Bum’s Guide to Project Management idea, which I think would kill it on that medium. I send him notice of publication opportunities that I think would suit the pieces he’s already done. He’s a talented writer, far better than I am. He placed second overall years ago in the Children/YA fiction category of the Writer’s Digest Annual Writing Competition with his children’s verse A Dragon Tea Party, which he dedicated to Daphne and briefly queried. Too briefly, in my opinion.

    He works long hours, in a challenging job, bumping up against a salary ceiling that remains stubbornly lower than he’d like, despite all his professional accomplishments and years of promises from supervisors about wage increases and promotions. AI is already whittling down his department. But he goes on for us.

    Hiking last year; a fantastic day in an otherwise difficult summer

    I try to encourage him to make time for his creativity, but I also don’t want to pressure him too much. Hopefully, our work together on Mythic Moose, our online trading card game shop, is giving him some kind of creative outlet. He’s done an awesome job with the branding.

    I hope Daphne and I haven’t robbed him of an amazing thing he might otherwise have done if we hadn’t come along. We love him so much and want all the best things for him.

    Jer and I had lovely anniversary coffee here the morning after staying overnight at the Inn at Mountain View Farm. So peaceful

    Okay, this is heading into bleaker territory, so I’m going to stop now. Suffice it to say, we cherish him, and these celebrations have been the perfect opportunity to remind him of how wonderful he is, and how lucky we are to have him.

    See you in a few days! I’m making up for lost time. It’s been a busy August.

    I hope your summer’s ending well.

    Happy summer from northern VT

    XOXO,

    Jenn

  • Summer So Far

    by

    Last week I alluded to some craziness in our June, but let me preface this post by saying, it hasn’t been awful.

    *Cue the Halleluja chorus*

    On the contrary, Daphne is doing quite well, especially compared to this time last year, when she had continence issues and regular meltdowns that often involved smashing her iPad.

    This summer, she’s been generally happy… I need to find some wood right now.

    *Knock, knock*

    Anyway, things have been smooth for her. When that’s the case, everything else is easier, and I’m definitely more chipper.

    Pleasant summer day

    She’s been off for three weeks. The first two she spent at home, and I decided I wouldn’t push a strict visual schedule like I did last summer (about which I labored, continuously on this blog, to convince myself was actually helping her; it was not).

    Instead, I simply aimed for general consistency: breakfast, outside time, 2-3 indoor activities, errands, then dinner and bedtime. It’s been working. She’s been compliant, cheerful, and occupied enough with sensory input and some academic and OT-style skill-building for me to feel ok with the time she does spend on YouTube Kids, while I fill Mythic Moose orders or simply catch my breath.

    Daph’s been painting, and I love her work. The one on the left makes me think of undersea flora; the one on the right looks like a waterfall at sunset.

    We’ve also made some treks out: to Get Air, the big trampoline park just outside Burlington, Bragg Farm to look at the animals and share a Maple Creemee (a Vermont soft serve specialty), and of course to the lakes, Willoughby and Crystal.

    Bragg Farm
    So cute, so Vermont

    Those special days are fabulous for filling the downtime even more pleasantly.

    North Beach on Lake Willoughby

    Last week, she started her extended school year (ESY) services in the context of the district’s summer camp program. Now, for the month of July, she goes to half-day summer school four days a week, and Paula, the fabulous paraprofessional who worked with her in Kinder and First Grade, is her summer 1:1 aid.

    *Cue the Halleluja chorus again*

    I now have three and a half hours to myself every Monday through Thursday in July, and it’s perfect. I can weed the garden, do some light cleaning, write a bit, and relish my summer reading.

    Baby bell pepper in our garden
    Baby Roma tomatoes

    When I pick her up, she’s content and regulated from the change of scenery, and I’m more refreshed. It’s even easier to have a good afternoon playing and doing her activities as usual.

    Novel I just finished; now I’m starting MEXICAN GOTHIC by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

    So all of that’s been positive.

    My poor husband, though, has had a rough time. His upper abdominal pain flared up again in the middle of the night, despite us doing our best to follow a low-fat diet. He drove himself to the ER, where he was admitted and X-rayed. The pictures revealed a stone lodged in the opening of his gallbladder, so the attending doctor admitted him and booked surgery to remove the troublesome organ. Since it wasn’t technically an emergency, the doc didn’t wake the night surgeon, but they took his gallbladder out the next day.

    It was minor surgery, done arthroscopically, and he’s healing well, but he’s been sore and unable to do as much. Then, just as he was feeling more normal, a sebaceous cyst on his back became infected, causing fresh, awful pain and a fever. Thankfully, that happened just as he was due for his surgical follow-up, so the nurse who saw him went ahead and drained the cyst. It was more brutal than I thought–she cut pretty deeply. We’ve been changing his seeping bandages regularly, and he’s on a round of antibiotics, which never make him feel great.

    “I’m a walking calamity,” he said. “And I’m tired of being cut on.”

    When it came time to take out the gauze the nurse had inserted after the procedure, he asked me to help.

    I was expecting a half-inch wedged into the incision.

    Oh, no.

    It was, like, six inches packed into his flesh. I kept pulling and pulling, too slowly while he hollered. The blood and pus welled out, and I about lost my lunch.

    Adding to that fun, while he was still in the hospital, a brutal heat wave descended, and Daph and I had to sleep downstairs where we have two AC window units. The upstairs becomes an oven on these rare days. We have a metal roof that’s meant to trap heat for the depths of winter, which it does beautifully, but it roasts us when temps climb into the 90s, even at night.

    So, we were sleeping downstairs when early one morning, I heard what I thought was a vigorous egg song coming from inside the chicken coop. I didn’t get up, I admit, but when I did finally pad into the kitchen for coffee around seven, I glanced out and noticed the raised lid on the coop’s nest boxes.

    What the hell?!

    Panicked, I scanned the yard, looking for strewn feathers. Instead, I saw all four hens standing on the rocking chair up by our porch, looking spooked but fine.

    Later, Jer checked the footage from the Google Nest cam over our garage. This is what he saw:

    Holy crap

    Thankfully, that big guy didn’t get any chickens, eggs, or trash (it was the day after garbage pick-up, and the can was empty), so he hasn’t been back.

    It’s definitely predator season, though. At our barbecue on July 4th, all our neighbors and friends swapped stories of recent chicken attacks. Bears, foxes, raccoons… one friend’s poultry are so terrified, they’ve stopped going into their coop at night and are roosting instead in the trees, higher up. Another friend’s hen lost an eye, and she’s been trying to find a local veterinarian who will treat backyard chickens.

    Hence, the chaos I mentioned. But, things seem to be calming down.

    I also received my developmental edits for my story “Elspeth and the Fairy.”

    A mock book cover for my story using Microsoft Design

    I had a sick stomach opening the editorial letter, but to my relief, even delight, I read almost nothing but enthusiastic feedback, with only a few suggestions, all centered around deepening the impact of the protagonist’s emotional struggle.

    “There’s very little to do developmentally,” my editor wrote.

    *Cue the Halleluja chorus for a third time*

    So, I’ve been working contentedly on those, and they’re just about done. When considering her suggestions, I actually divided my story into scenes and analyzed each for the requisite components: clear protagonist & antagonist, inciting incident, progressive complications, crisis, climax, resolution, and a character (protag or antag) who clearly “wins” that scene.

    I’ve thought about doing this before, but I’ve never actually made myself go through with it. It took a little longer than I thought, but it revealed how I could develop more tension in my first two scenes. Not surprisingly, the weaknesses this analysis revealed aligned nicely with my editor’s notes.

    That’s it; just a quick little catch-up. I hope you’re well and your summer’s going smoothly. If you’ve had any interesting adventures, I’d love to hear about them. Hopefully, they’re nothing too dire.

    Baby sunflowers

    See you next week!

    XOXO,

    Jenn

    • Postscript: I was finalizing this post just before I read about the horrific flooding in Texas. I don’t personally know anyone affected, but my father does. All the nightmares coming out about it have stopped me cold, and I’m not ready to fully acknowledge it. I might write about it next week, but for now, please know I find it devastating, and my prayers are with the families.

  • Hateful Hen

    by

    This is Susie. Susie is mean.

    Susie

    Whenever we’re doing the chicken chores, or when I take Daphne outside to swing, Susie runs up behind us and pecks our Achilles tendons. She’ll even come straight at us sometimes to peck the top of our feet, a real problem in the warm months when we’ve donned sandals or flip-flops, exposing plenty of skin.

    You can see the tiny scabs healing on my feet. The freshest one is low on my right foot.

    “Are you choosing violence today, Susie?” My husband likes to ask. “Are you choosing hate?”

    Her attacks can actually hurt–she’ll get a pinch of flesh in her beak and pull, sometimes breaking the skin and causing us to bleed. Jer kicks her away. More often than not, I just pick her up. Sometimes I’ll put her on my lap and swing with her, which she loves. She gets drowsy and almost cuddly, a sweet response that keeps me from totally despising her.

    This is all quite odd, not only because she’s a hen but because she’s a Rhode Island Red, which is supposed to be an especially docile, affectionate breed. Not Susie.

    She acts, in truth, more like a Rhode Island Red rooster, which has a reputation for being quite the bastard–the truth to which I can attest because Marty, our late chanticleer from our original flock, was a prime example of a real asshole.

    Marty in March 2022

    Which got me thinking.

    Hens sometimes get aggressive toward one another, pecking, biting, and chasing other girls away during feeding or laying in the nest boxes. But Susie doesn’t do that to her sisters. I’ve never seen her go after another hen, not even little Daisy who was clearly ill and a detriment to the flock (and who we recently lost to a predator).

    In fact, Susie’s sometimes the victim of chicken-on-chicken violence. She suffers the occasional peck from Doris, our older hen and the current flock’s alpha. Susie’s only rough with humans, so I don’t think this behavior is just about trying to move up in the flock’s social hierarchy. She’s not trying to challenge Doris. Her actions seem more defensive, like she’s protecting her sisters from us and possibly other potential predators.

    Susie and Doris, who doesn’t take any of Susie’s crap

    I’ve also seen Susie tidbit. This is another rooster behavior in which the male scratches around in the dirt. When he unearths a tasty worm or other bit of live protein, he crows, calling his girls over to enjoy it while abstaining himself. Susie’s done this; she’s scratched and made a terrible screeching cluck, and then her sisters have charged over in that amusing waddle-run to peck frantically on the ground around her while she watches. Even when we scatter mealworms as treats, she often holds off, letting her sisters partake first.

    Finally, if she’s in a particularly foul mood, she’ll puff up and do a strange side stalk as she comes toward me, about to bite. That was something I saw Marty do. Susie will even extend and then arch her neck in a way the other girls don’t, posturing like a rooster about to crow.

    I started some casual research. Yes, some hens can become roosters, figuratively or literally, due to certain environmental or hormonal factors.

    Apparently, a hen might take on the behaviors of a rooster when there’s no cock in the flock (lol). The absence of a rooster qualifies as an environmental stressor, since there’s no natural protector for the group. Other sources of stress include losing flock mates, which poor Susie experienced when we lost Mildred and Beverly back in December. So maybe, life on our little farm just hasn’t been that easy, and this is Susie’s reaction. From that perspective, it’s really rather noble.

    This masculine behavior can also have a hormonal cause. According to Talkinghens.com, “when a hen’s left ovary becomes damaged or diseased, the right gonad can develop into an ovotestis, producing male hormones like testosterone.” This development can go so far as to create even physical changes in which the hen grows features like spurs and a larger comb. I don’t think Susie’s features are any sharper or bigger, and she hasn’t stopped laying eggs, thank goodness, but it’s possible disease has caused a hormonal change in her body and thus in her personality. We’re pretty sure her flock–probably from little Daisy–was infected with Marek’s Disease despite being supposedly vaccinated. While Susie isn’t sick, carrying the virus might have caused or contributed to a shift in her hormones.

    Whatever the reason, if this behavior continues, we might have to start using a spray bottle to squirt her in the eyes.

    Say what?!

    It’s one humane recommendation for dealing with aggressive roosters, so it ought to work with Susie. I don’t want to kill or rehome her; she’s not inherently evil, and we need all the eggs we can get.

    And look, she can identify however she wants, as Jer says. It’s 2025, after all.

    She just can’t attack us.

    I’ll keep you posted on her behavior management.

    I never thought I’d contemplate how to handle a difficult hen. What’s the oddest pet problem you’ve had to deal with?

    See you next week!

    XOXO,

    Jenn

  • One Year on WordPress

    by

    ,

    When I was still teaching, I was one of several district instructors trained in the AVID strategies.

    AVID stands for Advancement Via Individual Determination, and it is a national organization that designs in-school support curriculum and strategies aiming to prepare all interested students in becoming “college and career” ready. (Though, what that means now in a rapidly changing world with AI, who knows?)

    AVID offers electives for high schoolers, for example, that teach study methods like Cornell Note-taking, which students then apply in all their core classes. AVID also provides extensive professional development for educators in all content areas, where it stresses the importance of writing, inquiry, collaboration, organization, and reading (known as WICOR, in AVID-speak). We teachers were trained to include these WICOR elements in all our units or lessons. That was a no-brainer for me, an English teacher, but it was often a revelation for the math, science, and elective instructors.

    Image from explore.avid.org

    In fact, those WICOR elements are the five key skills AVID emphasizes. They are the core of their mission, so to speak. It is AVID’s belief that these skills are what truly develop learning and success, no matter the subject area or challenge.

    It’s odd, but I’ve been thinking a lot about AVID strategies lately, and even teaching and learning in general.

    My curiosities and concerns about AI have provided a lot of that context.

    My daughter’s own educational experience has also prompted much of that musing. Being nonspeaking, she cannot write, ask questions, discuss, or even read about things the way her peers can, at least not yet.

    Daph labeling on her AAC device. It’s a start.

    So much of how we learn derives from these activities. They are how we think, how we actively process the world. It worries me that she cannot yet engage this way. I often wonder how we, her family, teachers, and friends, can better help her develop an inquiring literacy. That’s her right as a person, and I’m not sure how best to achieve it, but that’s a topic for another post.

    I’ve also been thinking, more specifically, about AVID’s emphasis on writing to learn, because last week was a personal milestone for me.

    I hit my one-year anniversary writing this blog.

    It’s not a huge deal, but I published my first post on June 4th, 2024 (rereading it now makes me cringe a little). Since then, my casual, once-a-week blogging has proven so beneficial.

    It’s kept me in a solid writing routine, requiring me to compose at least a thousand coherent (hopefully!) words a week. That’s not nothing for someone who wouldn’t have to write much beyond a grocery list or a business message for Mythic Moose, if I didn’t have this WordPress.

    iStock image from Unsplash

    More importantly, this blog has clarified my experiences and goals for my fiction-writing life.

    It’s also allowed me to reflect on both the wonderful and difficult aspects of my daughter’s journey.

    It’s helped me see how much I’ve learned and changed as a person, as someone who chose to uproot her suburban professional existence and start over, as a forty-something homesteader, stay-at-home parent, and newbie creative.

    By maintaining this blog, I have, indeed, written to learn.

    I wasn’t sure I wanted to do this. I wasn’t sure I’d feel any benefit. I wasn’t sure I’d even have enough to say to post once a week.

    It was my longtime-blogger husband’s gentle encouragement, however, plus the advice I kept seeing about the importance of starting an author platform (even before you’re really an author), that convinced me to give it a try.

    I’m so glad I did.

    I don’t have many subscribers. I don’t get many views. I hear mostly crickets, but it has still been a lovely, valuable endeavor. Maybe even more so because of the silence.

    I didn’t intend to set the internet on fire. Rather, by sharing the things that are important to me, I’d hoped to gain clarity from these posts and perhaps make some human connections, and that’s exactly what’s happened.

    While this WordPress is technically my baby author platform, it’s really more like my diary, albeit a public one, and I love that aspect of it. It’s my little cozy corner of the internet, and I would keep writing here even if I lost all my readers tomorrow.

    But I do have readers, and I appreciate all of you.

    Thank you for making your way here, even if it’s only occasionally. Your time means so much, and I hope you find these posts interesting, amusing, sympathetic, clarifying, or even hopeful, depending on who you are. I do my best to be honest about where my family and I are in our various journeys, and if it helps you connect, or makes you feel a little less alone, then I’m thrilled.

    It’s been fun updating this site. I’m going to start a Favorites page, where I will list the authors, bloggers (including my husband’s hilarious Vermontism blog), podcasters, and artists I currently love. Some are well established; others are newer and deserve as much attention as possible.

    I hope you’ll check out that new page. A link for it will appear on my home page, and I’ll get it under construction as soon as possible. Daphne’s on summer break, so now my time is more limited, but hopefully I’ll get it up over the course of this week.

    On a quick, final note, I’m off to a great start increasing my seasonal reading. I dove into the Adult Summer Reading Program at our local library, the St. Johnsbury Atheneum, where I collected my bingo card and chose my free book from the second-hand bookshop affiliated with the Atheneum (a donation-to-purchase program staffed by volunteers, with all proceeds funding the library’s children’s programming).

    My free book! I haven’t read any Isabel Allende since Daughter of Fortune years ago
    Signed! Mind blown! She did, after all, receive the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 2014.

    I also finished my first novel this week, Complications in Paris by Melinda Copp, which I adored.

    Image from Amazon

    My plan is to read a book a week all summer, and I should be able to do that if I can get up early enough each day to read my pages.

    That’s it for now. I hope your summer is going well and you’re already enjoying your own reading and special plans.

    And, happy Father’s Day to all the wonderful, various dads out there! You are so important, and so loved!

    My daughter has a nearly-perfect father
    Daph and her Grandad, my amazing father. Love you, Daddy!

    Always feel free to let me know what you’re up to! I love updates.

    XOXO,

    Jenn

  • Summer’s In The Pipeline

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    I’m drafting this on Thursday, June 5th, and the high today in our little Northeast Kingdom village is 86 F. Yesterday, it was 88.

    That might not sound terrible, but for us, it’s pretty hot. Especially because few places here have centralized AC, and all the recent rain has made the air humid. The windows in our farmhouse are open and the fans are going. That helps, but it’s clear summer’s arriving.

    The apple blossoms are already wilting.

    That’s another tough thing about our northern Vermont weather. All the way through April, we have the possibility of snow, plus temps that still dip below freezing. True spring, with its ideal days in the 60-70s, doesn’t arrive until mid-May, and by early June, we’re into our summer temperatures.

    Like foliage season, true spring is gorgeous but fleeting.

    There’s no use lamenting the inevitable, though, so I’ll just keep appreciating the verdant hues outside my window.

    This week, hubby Jer and I got outside for some seasonal prep. On Tuesday, we took a deep breath and then proceeded to pull up all the weeds choking the garden beds.

    Weeding the beds

    That always sounds like an awful chore, but once we’re in the flow, it’s always faster and more pleasant than we thought. It was cooler that day, too, and I was struck again by the beauty of our property. The work also cleared my head and gave me that satisfaction of time well-spent out of doors, laboring at something vital, under the sun.

    I should wear gardening gloves.

    There’s nothing more basic, in the best sense of that word, than the labor that goes into cultivating your own food. It’s what humans initially evolved to do, and it speaks to something deep inside us that’s often forgotten or neglected.

    Ready for fresh soil, seeds, and sprouts

    Soon, we will plant our fruit and veggie sprouts: strawberries, Roma tomatoes, lettuce, celery, peppers, squash, and more herbs (the thyme and oregano survived the winter and look good), plus the carrot and corn seeds. We’re going to make sure we till the ground around the raised beds, too, so we get pumpkins this year. I’d also like to start a little tea garden, growing chamomile, mint, and lemon balm.

    Despite being a little sore from the gardening, on Wednesday I put my Carhart overalls back on and deep cleaned our chicken coop.

    Sparkling coop

    Since we use the deep litter method, I only do it twice a year, once in late fall and once in late spring, and that too has gotten faster and easier. I swept out all the old shavings, dumped them in our compost bed, shop-vacuumed out any remaining bits, sanded the roost bar to remove any droppings, then gave the floor a light wash with water and a few drops of Dawn before letting it air dry. Lastly, I put a ton of fresh shavings down, and the coop was, once again, “so fresh and so clean, clean.” This ensures a happy, healthy home for our feathered girls–and, eventually, a lot of nice compost for our garden.

    I’m glad we finished these big chores while Daphne’s still in school. Her summer vacation starts next week, on Friday the 13th (I will not think about how inauspicious that sounds). It can be hard to accomplish a major household task when she’s home because she still requires a lot of supervision for her safety (she sometimes tries to eat and drink things she shouldn’t), and she gets moody when she goes too long without undivided attention.

    Once she’s off–very soon, eek!–it will take a couple of weeks to adjust to a summer routine that’s good for her and bearable for us, her parents. It’s hard on Jer because she can be noisy. He works remotely, and her squeals and cries can make facilitating meetings tricky, adding yet another stressor to his daily grind.

    I struggle a bit because I lose all my reading and writing time during the day. Initially, I go through a kind of withdrawal. Caring for her can be tedious on the best days and frustrating or exhausting on the hardest, and I crave the stimulation and escape my work gives me. The solution for that, however, is to get my butt up earlier than usual. If I can wake up first and enjoy my coffee with a book or article while the house is quiet, I’m centered and more energized for the day. I’m already a morning person, and if I’ve had a dose of reading and reflection, then I’m usually ready to enjoy my kiddo (at least while she’s in a good mood).

    Jer is great about helping me entertain Daph. He plays with her when he can on the weekdays, and he’s already made this year’s summer adventures checklist, coming up with enough special activities so there’s about one a week.

    Summer activity checklist

    Now that I’ve been writing seriously for a couple years, I have a better idea how to space out my projects to account for Daph’s summer time at home. That’s actually a good segue way for sharing my 2025 writing goals.

    In January, I wrote them down: Finish the zero draft of my first novel, submit three short pieces for publication, then write another zero draft of another novel. That first zero draft is done, and I have two pieces submitted plus edits basically done on the third, so all I’ll need to do for that one is start submitting it places.

    That just leaves the second novel, but I don’t have a lot of specific ideas for it yet. That makes this summer, however, perfect for planning. I’m going to take a break from composing to focus on prewriting for that second novel; I should be able to do that in the mornings, evenings, and in pockets of downtime on the weekends. Then, when Daph goes back to school in September, I will begin that final project, and I should be able to have a roughly 80k zero draft done by the end of December. That feels doable, given my time and writing habits.

    That draft will probably be garbage, but that’s not the point. The point is to practice longform fiction so that one day, I can write a novel that isn’t garbage. That’s my ultimate goal.

    I also want to squeeze in more reading this summer.

    A title on my summer TBR. I’ve actually been chatting with this author on Bluesky.

    Shifting the emphasis from writing to reading is an essential way to give my brain a break and let it soak up the crafts of much more experienced and better writers. That will help me continue to grow.

    My writing group’s June newsletter had a great idea for staying on track with goals during the summer, since it’s a busier season for many of us. They suggested designing your own at-home writing retreat, which I thought was fabulous. Here are their tips:

    1. Set your intention: what do you want to accomplish? Getting words on the page? Editing? Planning? A combo of everything? What do you want the energy to be? Serious or more easy-going?
    2. Design your schedule: In their words, “a one-day deep dive? A weekend retreat? One writing-focused day per week?”
    3. Create your space: Set up a “corner” (or your office) in a way that “feels intentional.” This might mean lighting a candle, setting up near a sunny window or somewhere outside, or closing a door and adding a “Do Not Disturb” sign.
    4. Plan your writing sessions: block your time with goals or an agenda, and include little inspirational breaks/activities.
    5. Add a little magic: Allow yourself “to do something you never let yourself do.” For example, a slow breakfast in bed with your journal, or a celebratory cock/mocktail to toast your day. I always have a weekend drink, but if I plan a mini-retreat during the week, I’ll definitely end it with a crisp glass of white wine or a nice, hoppy craft beer.

    Maybe, when our folks visit in August for my husband’s 50th birthday and can help with Daphne, I’ll plan my own one day deep-dive retreat, with an emphasis on novel-planning and reflections from The Story Grid: What Good Editors Know by Shawn Coyne, which I plan to read this month. I keep hearing what an amazing, obligatory craft book it is.

    That’s basically it–our summer plans, in development. Hopefully, things go as expected.

    On that note, please send good thoughts our way for Jer. He’s struggling with acute upper abdominal pain and will need an ultrasound soon. The doctors think it’s gallstones, and he’ll probably need to have his gallbladder out. Hopefully, that goes smoothly and we’ll be able to proceed with a pleasant, healthy summer.

    The big, and unexpected, home improvement project we thought would take months–getting a new leach field–is actually all done. Yay!

    New pipes! Bye bye clogged septic system

    We got a good deal from a local engineer and his retired father, who is up from Florida for the summer and was happy to construct the field for us. We shouldn’t–knock on wood–have any more plumbing issues for a while.

    Ugh. Old house problems.

    On a final, happier note: the submission gods did indeed look kindly on my latest piece, “Elspeth and the Fairy.” It was accepted for The Red Herrings Society’s fantasy-themed anthology, Spellbound, which will be published in September.

    Sweet cover

    I’m thrilled because this year, reading committees made up of authors, agents, and editors are scoring each submission for each anthology (there are three total), and the top-scoring submissions are being accepted for limited spots. I’m quite proud mine scored high enough to be included, and I’m looking forward to improving it via developmental and line edits from Mary and CJ, who are professional editors and book coaches. Edits are truly the best way to learn, and “Elspeth” was a wonderfully impromptu, inspired labor of love, so I’m delighted it will receive this treatment.

    How are things in your neck of the woods? Not too hot, I hope. I’d love to hear about your summer plans, bookish or otherwise.

    Old horseshoe the contractor dug up while building the leach field. Hopefully, it will bring us all a bit of luck.

    See you next week!

    XOXO,

    Jenn

  • True Spring

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    True spring has finally arrived in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont!

    If you’ve been here a while, you might remember I was dying for this season back in February. Thankfully, time marches on, no matter how things feel, so here it finally is.

    So much green!

    Not only is the grass verdant, but all the trees are leafing out.

    Baby leaves
    New nubbins on the Xmas trees

    The new growth is small, a tender light green, but the newborn leaves deepen the appearance of the landscape, adding depth and texture in their contrast to the darker olive and kelly hues of the evergreens.

    Various shades of green

    The effect is not quite as stunning as the fire of fall foliage, but it’s lovely nonetheless.

    A daffodil pic snapped two weeks ago at the elementary school

    The daffodils and tulips have been out for a while, and now the apple blossoms–white, pink, and even purple–are sprouting too.

    First apple blossoms on our property

    Yellow dandelions scatter across our yard, and while I know they’re just weeds, they’re also first food for the pollinators.

    Dan-dee-lions!

    We were trying to avoid mowing as long as possible, but our yard guys showed up unexpectedly yesterday, and neither Jer nor I were in a position to dash out and ask them to hold off. Luckily, there are already a ton of new dandelions out in the shorn grass this morning, so our bumble bees won’t starve.

    Fat bumble bee last autumn

    Afternoon temperatures have been in the high 70’s–woo-hoo! All of us women are donning our sundresses.

    You can imagine how happy our hens are, too.

    Susie examining a dandelion. “Hmm, is this a good snack?”

    We’ve opened the garden gate, and every evening the girls wander in there to scratch around, eat bugs, and poop, which helps perfect pre-planting conditions. After Memorial Day, we will plant our seeds and sprouts. It’s not till then we’re guaranteed no overnight frosts (we learned that lesson the hard way two years ago, when we had to yank everything shocked by the plummeting nocturnal temperature and start over, and that was a tiring and expensive recouping).

    In two weeks, our giant old lilac bush out front will bloom. You can imagine how divine that scent is, and we enjoy clipping as many sprigs as possible to place in vases all over our farmhouse.

    Our lilac bush today

    Nothing is absolutely perfect, of course, and with the advent of the warm season comes a lot more irritating and dangerous critters. The woodchucks are up; in fact, we have one trying to live under our porch.

    Chuck, from last summer. He made a burrow on the edge of the Christmas trees. He also got fat eating out of the chickens’ treadle feeder.

    The black bears are waking up too, and the foxes, hawks, and eagles are more active. We’re now on high alert for our chickens.

    Black bears are destructive. They kept wrecking the honeybee hives last year.

    The ticks are also awake and hungry. I pulled one bloodsucker off the back of my knee in the shower two weeks ago, then found one on the lip of the bathtub, presumably from a piece of clothing. Three days ago, Jer found one on his arm. Tick season means we have to strip down and check each other after every trek into the yard, and though it’s a pain, it’s better than getting Lyme Disease. I tell Daphne, “Mommy has to check you for ticks, the BAD BUGS.”

    They’re such light, flat, sneaky little arachnids. It still surprises me how they can go unnoticed, even when they’re latched onto your skin. They’re disgusting, and they featured nicely as a body horror element in the spicy monster (shifter) story I finished in April. (I’m hoping, by the way, to report that piece’s publication fate by the end of this month. It’s submitted, but I haven’t wanted to write about it too much here because I’m anxious and thus superstitious, and I don’t want to jinx it.)

    All in all, though, the energizing beauty of spring outweighs any cons.

    It makes me want to write about nature, and that’s translated into composing a sweet, original little fairy tale of my own, one inspired by the Scottish stories in the collection Celtic Fairy Tales and Legends retold by Rosalind Kerven, which I finished yesterday.

    Perfect spring book

    Though I should be editing my literary fiction piece so I can get it submitted to a few magazines, I’m more inclined to work on this story, and I’m about half way through.

    An Alamy Stock Photo in the public domain, illustrated by Maurice Lalau and included in Kerven’s book. It would also work as an illustration for my story.

    I don’t plan to do anything with it except share it on this blog, and that might happen next week! I enjoyed posting my novelette on Valentine’s Day, so I want to continue sharing the occasional creative piece here.

    On a final note, I had a delightful Mother’s Day. My husband spoiled me with a gorgeous flower arrangement and a package of Pilates classes, which I desperately need given how stiff I am.

    I love how this arrangement came in a basket. Just right for spring!

    My parents were also in town visiting–and babysitting!– so Jer and I were able to enjoy a beautiful grown-up dinner at one of our favorite places, the historical Inn at Burklyn, which sits on gorgeous Darling Hill, just ten minutes from our house.

    Outdoor view during cocktail hour. The rain didn’t dampen our mood.
    A parlor at the inn
    Wine in the parlor

    The dining experience was exceptional–we were one of only four couples there, served by a minimal staff of one bartender, one waitress, and one chef. It felt like being a guest in a wealthy person’s Gilded Age home. It was quiet, private, and luxuriously cozy–a true escape from our everyday life. So very, very refreshing!

    Having that Sunday with my own mother was also special–I spoiled her with new books. In addition to being a great alpha reader, she’s now my best book buddy.

    I hope your spring is trucking along happily. If you are a mother figure to anything, human or animal, I hope you had a lovely holiday too.

    Cheers!

    Until next week!

    XOXO,

    Jenn