A small tool to view real-world ActivityPub objects as JSON! Enter a URL
or username from Mastodon or a similar service below, and we'll send a
request with
the right
Accept
header
to the server to view the underlying object.
{
"@context": "https://www.w3.org/ns/activitystreams",
"type": "OrderedCollectionPage",
"orderedItems": [
{
"type": "Create",
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"object": {
"type": "Note",
"id": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/983209639267016717/entities/urn:activity:1747796398859882496",
"attributedTo": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/983209639267016717",
"content": "I woke at dawn, and stepping out onto my back porch, took in the quiet. Nothing sleeps anymore, I thought to myself, including the moon. Ushering my cat from his frozen posture on the threshold, he soon joined me, though coerced. I watched him, wondering what he knew about the world, or didn't. A stray brought home from the shelter at age two, he seemed perplexed by the wildness of his new home, 1800 feet up the mountain, surrounded by the sounds of rushing water. I could understand his nervous caution. I also seem to live somewhat on the cusp of impending disaster or at best, confusion. \"Nothing to see here\", I said aloud, half to him in an effort to reassure, half to myself. But in reality, there was more than plenty. A blood moon, hanging timeless above the leafless hill. Somewhat beautiful, somewhat disconcerting. A nip in the air, and surely, filled with the essence of spring. A new beginning, a divide from what was once called winter, now hardly credible, in the freakish, slow building light. \"Nothing to write home about\", I continued, hardly knowing what I meant. Could this physical environment be considered home anymore? I didn't know. I stepped up to the edge of the porch's floorboards, looking down at what had recently been of a mountain of snow. Peppered with sunflower seeds from the bird feeder, it looked unimpressive, and half of its former self. The cat pulled back in alarm. \"What?\" I said, again, half to myself. I wondered if I could face another day of this. The not-knowing. The endless morass of misunderstanding. The chasms of awe inspiring grief. The digital realm. All I really wanted, was love, and someone who understood me, and who I'd become, and why I'd landed here, so alone and disregulated. But compartmentalizing anguish having become the norm, I'd grown habitually prepared to soldier on. I could still fight, and I could still be kind. Who knows what else, but certainly being an artist would never fail. The cat slipped between my legs. \"Okay, I know, its time for breakfast\". He, at least, lived life on the regular. I would follow his lead, build my fire, clean up last night's messes. It was actually, going to be a beautiful day. After spooning food into his bowl, I settled into finishing my taxes, simultaneously checking my messages for the latest from people attached to me, who needed me to do something, while popping on a video blog created by a hapless teenager climbing Mount Everest. I put the kettle on, for my cup of coffee. The fire was now heating the room, and I could relax a little, and sit back, to sip and ponder. I'd heard a strange story, last night. About a street dance, and a chance meeting between strangers, and a late night visit to a local basement, where \"our whole family's consciousness is being uploaded\", was declared. Nothing to see here, I thought, repeating myself, while I stared at a column of figures declaring my business expenses, seeing double. How could this possibly be relevant, to any natural human with half a brain, and hardly a fraction of AI capacity? In short, we are all suffering an extreme case of cognitive dissonance, and it's a fact. Humanity was never intended to thrive within such parameters of outright insanity. And yet, here we are. Welcome to the New World Order, to coin a phrase that almost seems hackneyed at this point, and old fashioned. On the flip side, my friend texted \"I have to be at work at 1 pm. But ... want to take a walk? \" This is still a real thing, walking around. She drove over, with her dog. We chose a trail, and left our phones in the vehicle, after parking the SUV on an ice shelf. I shared my ski poles, so we each had one. I vaguely remembered having been in the same location, in 1990. With a husband who did not want our 2nd pregnancy, and let me know it. Some things, are better left unsaid. And so we proceeded up the steep incline, grateful for our ice cleats. The path opened out into an incredible field, only just emerging from many feet of snow. Brown, lifeless, inert below gnarled apple trees, the land swept up towards an abandoned gravel pit. Elliot appeared out of nowhere, and we stopped to chat. \"Are you sugaring?\" I asked. He paused, and I filled in the rest. \"It's looking like a bad year\", I said. \"To hot and too cold\". He immediately agreed. \"I'm going to sell off most of my land\", he admitted, somewhat chagrined. \"What with property taxes going up ... \" he continued. And we knew. It was a beautiful day, and there was no denying it. But it was an all too familiar story. <a href=\"https://www.minds.com/search?f=top&t=all&q=vermont\" title=\"#vermont\" class=\"u-url hashtag\" target=\"_blank\">#vermont</a> ",
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],
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"published": "2025-03-15T23:58:53+00:00",
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"source": {
"content": "I woke at dawn, and stepping out onto my back porch, took in the quiet. Nothing sleeps anymore, I thought to myself, including the moon. Ushering my cat from his frozen posture on the threshold, he soon joined me, though coerced. I watched him, wondering what he knew about the world, or didn't. A stray brought home from the shelter at age two, he seemed perplexed by the wildness of his new home, 1800 feet up the mountain, surrounded by the sounds of rushing water. I could understand his nervous caution. I also seem to live somewhat on the cusp of impending disaster or at best, confusion. \"Nothing to see here\", I said aloud, half to him in an effort to reassure, half to myself. But in reality, there was more than plenty. A blood moon, hanging timeless above the leafless hill. Somewhat beautiful, somewhat disconcerting. A nip in the air, and surely, filled with the essence of spring. A new beginning, a divide from what was once called winter, now hardly credible, in the freakish, slow building light. \"Nothing to write home about\", I continued, hardly knowing what I meant. Could this physical environment be considered home anymore? I didn't know. I stepped up to the edge of the porch's floorboards, looking down at what had recently been of a mountain of snow. Peppered with sunflower seeds from the bird feeder, it looked unimpressive, and half of its former self. The cat pulled back in alarm. \"What?\" I said, again, half to myself. I wondered if I could face another day of this. The not-knowing. The endless morass of misunderstanding. The chasms of awe inspiring grief. The digital realm. All I really wanted, was love, and someone who understood me, and who I'd become, and why I'd landed here, so alone and disregulated. But compartmentalizing anguish having become the norm, I'd grown habitually prepared to soldier on. I could still fight, and I could still be kind. Who knows what else, but certainly being an artist would never fail. The cat slipped between my legs. \"Okay, I know, its time for breakfast\". He, at least, lived life on the regular. I would follow his lead, build my fire, clean up last night's messes. It was actually, going to be a beautiful day. After spooning food into his bowl, I settled into finishing my taxes, simultaneously checking my messages for the latest from people attached to me, who needed me to do something, while popping on a video blog created by a hapless teenager climbing Mount Everest. I put the kettle on, for my cup of coffee. The fire was now heating the room, and I could relax a little, and sit back, to sip and ponder. I'd heard a strange story, last night. About a street dance, and a chance meeting between strangers, and a late night visit to a local basement, where \"our whole family's consciousness is being uploaded\", was declared. Nothing to see here, I thought, repeating myself, while I stared at a column of figures declaring my business expenses, seeing double. How could this possibly be relevant, to any natural human with half a brain, and hardly a fraction of AI capacity? In short, we are all suffering an extreme case of cognitive dissonance, and it's a fact. Humanity was never intended to thrive within such parameters of outright insanity. And yet, here we are. Welcome to the New World Order, to coin a phrase that almost seems hackneyed at this point, and old fashioned. On the flip side, my friend texted \"I have to be at work at 1 pm. But ... want to take a walk? \" This is still a real thing, walking around. She drove over, with her dog. We chose a trail, and left our phones in the vehicle, after parking the SUV on an ice shelf. I shared my ski poles, so we each had one. I vaguely remembered having been in the same location, in 1990. With a husband who did not want our 2nd pregnancy, and let me know it. Some things, are better left unsaid. And so we proceeded up the steep incline, grateful for our ice cleats. The path opened out into an incredible field, only just emerging from many feet of snow. Brown, lifeless, inert below gnarled apple trees, the land swept up towards an abandoned gravel pit. Elliot appeared out of nowhere, and we stopped to chat. \"Are you sugaring?\" I asked. He paused, and I filled in the rest. \"It's looking like a bad year\", I said. \"To hot and too cold\". He immediately agreed. \"I'm going to sell off most of my land\", he admitted, somewhat chagrined. \"What with property taxes going up ... \" he continued. And we knew. It was a beautiful day, and there was no denying it. But it was an all too familiar story. #vermont ",
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}
},
"id": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/983209639267016717/entities/urn:activity:1747796398859882496/activity"
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"actor": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/983209639267016717",
"object": {
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"attributedTo": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/983209639267016717",
"content": "The sign said \"Wilderness Area\" as we knew it would, and yet, we continued to gaze down at the impassable stream, hidden by snow, each of us wanting to cross over. These markers, put in place by the forest service, clearly laid claim to their assumption, that such a place had been delineated by experts, and/or bureaucrats. Yet, our claim, being there in the middle of winter, was of a more intimate nature. We lived here. This was our backyard. The hike up on spikes, with poles, followed a ski trail, an abandoned road, now a trail owned by federal designation. But only a handful, by observation, still used the way. The borderland where ordinary use, meets protected forest, remains fraught with contradictions. Our desire to visit trees always includes a wanting for more, for deeper penetration, and for the chance to meet native, sequestered beings at ground level, without interruption, or scientific commentary. Jennifer looked up. \"Look at this\", she said, pointing to a group of yellow & white birch, mixed other hardwoods. I stared into the comely stand, bursting with tones of vitality and virtue. The outdoor room was silent, but for an icy snow, starting to fall, with a determination both rain-like, and musical. After our long climb, she delicately slumped to a kneeling position, into packed powder, ready to listen. This sense of waiting for something in the forest, could be called a conversation of sorts. I leaned on my poles, and took the moment, to catch my breath. Across the rugged valley, a precipice of spruce, perched below the high peaks. \"I want to go there\", I said, repeating myself for the umpteenth time. \"But not today... we couldn't do it, today\", I added, stating the obvious. The dark clouds of imminent sleet, hung heavy on my words, as did the depth of a winter's worth of unencumbered snow. The feel of all that snow, can be daunting, in the wilderness. One step further towards the hidden waterways ahead, could trap us, or our dog, in a hopeless morass of immobility. \"Soule\", I said, vehemently, as she seemed poised to plunge down the hapless slope. What better companion, than a dog, named Soule. In these times between frenetic tasks, and endless conflict, who could guide us, if not Soule. But dangers lurk on all sides, for even the most innocent, and wisest, among us. Those who seem most sure of their position, and navigational prowess, can, in these times, none-the-less, be fooled. It is perhaps in the difficult conditions of literal survival, that our purest glimpses of reality, occur. And it's come to that, have no doubt. No reliable power grid, or superior internet connection will safeguard our future, as earth dwellers of the highest caliber, which is what we are. Amongst ourselves, in small, unheralded ways, our humanity is to be tried. That old trope \"unplug\" is not a platitude anymore, it's a directive. They've been playing us for a long time. Both Jennifer and I knew, when we'd had enough. \"Shall we go back now?\" she said. Or maybe I did, but we were of one mind. There was no point in proceeding into the \"designated wilderness\" for today. We weren't equipped, but we would be, come spring. Soule didn't really care which way we went, which cheered us. It was all about the adventure. \"We'll come back here, after things have melted, and make it up there,\" I said. Jennifer smiled, and probably Soule did too, because she always smiles. Our beaten trail led back to a warm fire, and ample time to lay our plans for the future. In small steps, we retreated from an inhospitable place, no one knew we'd visited. Which is how it is, when you're able to keep to your own counsel, and reject what makes no sense. The new snow covered all our tracks. <a href=\"https://www.minds.com/search?f=top&t=all&q=vermont\" title=\"#vermont\" class=\"u-url hashtag\" target=\"_blank\">#vermont</a> ",
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],
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"url": "https://www.minds.com/newsfeed/1743817409511055360",
"published": "2025-03-05T00:27:48+00:00",
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"source": {
"content": "The sign said \"Wilderness Area\" as we knew it would, and yet, we continued to gaze down at the impassable stream, hidden by snow, each of us wanting to cross over. These markers, put in place by the forest service, clearly laid claim to their assumption, that such a place had been delineated by experts, and/or bureaucrats. Yet, our claim, being there in the middle of winter, was of a more intimate nature. We lived here. This was our backyard. The hike up on spikes, with poles, followed a ski trail, an abandoned road, now a trail owned by federal designation. But only a handful, by observation, still used the way. The borderland where ordinary use, meets protected forest, remains fraught with contradictions. Our desire to visit trees always includes a wanting for more, for deeper penetration, and for the chance to meet native, sequestered beings at ground level, without interruption, or scientific commentary. Jennifer looked up. \"Look at this\", she said, pointing to a group of yellow & white birch, mixed other hardwoods. I stared into the comely stand, bursting with tones of vitality and virtue. The outdoor room was silent, but for an icy snow, starting to fall, with a determination both rain-like, and musical. After our long climb, she delicately slumped to a kneeling position, into packed powder, ready to listen. This sense of waiting for something in the forest, could be called a conversation of sorts. I leaned on my poles, and took the moment, to catch my breath. Across the rugged valley, a precipice of spruce, perched below the high peaks. \"I want to go there\", I said, repeating myself for the umpteenth time. \"But not today... we couldn't do it, today\", I added, stating the obvious. The dark clouds of imminent sleet, hung heavy on my words, as did the depth of a winter's worth of unencumbered snow. The feel of all that snow, can be daunting, in the wilderness. One step further towards the hidden waterways ahead, could trap us, or our dog, in a hopeless morass of immobility. \"Soule\", I said, vehemently, as she seemed poised to plunge down the hapless slope. What better companion, than a dog, named Soule. In these times between frenetic tasks, and endless conflict, who could guide us, if not Soule. But dangers lurk on all sides, for even the most innocent, and wisest, among us. Those who seem most sure of their position, and navigational prowess, can, in these times, none-the-less, be fooled. It is perhaps in the difficult conditions of literal survival, that our purest glimpses of reality, occur. And it's come to that, have no doubt. No reliable power grid, or superior internet connection will safeguard our future, as earth dwellers of the highest caliber, which is what we are. Amongst ourselves, in small, unheralded ways, our humanity is to be tried. That old trope \"unplug\" is not a platitude anymore, it's a directive. They've been playing us for a long time. Both Jennifer and I knew, when we'd had enough. \"Shall we go back now?\" she said. Or maybe I did, but we were of one mind. There was no point in proceeding into the \"designated wilderness\" for today. We weren't equipped, but we would be, come spring. Soule didn't really care which way we went, which cheered us. It was all about the adventure. \"We'll come back here, after things have melted, and make it up there,\" I said. Jennifer smiled, and probably Soule did too, because she always smiles. Our beaten trail led back to a warm fire, and ample time to lay our plans for the future. In small steps, we retreated from an inhospitable place, no one knew we'd visited. Which is how it is, when you're able to keep to your own counsel, and reject what makes no sense. The new snow covered all our tracks. #vermont ",
"mediaType": "text/plain"
}
},
"id": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/983209639267016717/entities/urn:activity:1743817409511055360/activity"
},
{
"type": "Create",
"actor": "https://www.minds.com/api/activitypub/users/983209639267016717",
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"content": "I'm a little unsure as to why the quote \"Life is what happens when you're making other plans\" has been attributed to John Lennon, but it's true, none-the-less. This day has been completely eclectic, and electric, with a nod towards the unexpected. I slept in a little, which for me, means 7 am, and walked out onto my formerly cleared studio deck to find ice chunks large enough to kill, littering the walkway. What slides off the roof during a melt, chills the soul while encouraging a hint, that spring is surely just around the corner. I've become enured to the inherent dangers of mountain life, in some ways. Try not to be loitering, under overhangs. Let nature take its course, given the fact that you're somewhat in conflict with conditions, as you insist, in your arrogance, to reside here. Don't take anything, for granted, not even your safety. Adopt a low profile. Keep your cats indoors during the unstable periods, assuming you love them as you love yourself. Or watch them, like a hawk would. Do your shoveling, with an eye for falling objects. Or don't. It's okay to stay inside with your cats, until you can't stand the feeling of being a trapped beast, and must emerge. Do your taxes, as bad as that is. Ah, late winter, early spring. It's a discipline, a precursor to mud season, and the inevitable struggle with vehicular mobility. We'd planned to do our taxes together, my friend and I. Pots of tea, catching up on local news, printer at-the-ready, friendly kvetching. Outright complaint. The day began, simply enough. Then the first text flew in. \"Don't expect me for coffee; we have to take the truck in to the shop. I'll be there at 10 am\". Okay, I thought. No problem. I can use the extra time to organize the electrician, and the carpenter, before settling into taxes. Of course, this was not to be. They all came at once. And I will never turn away, from an opportunity to be social, if the opportunity arises. Being a recluse is hard work, not easily jostled, unless people just show up. Thank goodness for that. So it was two hours of sitting around the wood stove, talking skiing, skiing accidents, bad skiing, good skiing, and the gold standard. Also, snow shoes and used gear exchanges, which for some of us, are stressful encounters with obnoxious, aggressive shoppers. And we talked about taxation, and how unfair it all is, and about the horrible state of rural housing. Then there was the Trump cuts of Medicare. And, oh my god, you can't do all that for long, without needing coffee, or tea. I put the kettle on, and fed the cat, again. Another text came in: \"Are you around?\". It was my studio assistant, recently back from touring for six weeks. \"Of course!\" I replied. I hadn't seen him yet. \"What's a W-9?\" my friend asked. She was still trying to do some invoicing, despite the infectious conviviality all around. \"Google it\", I said, deferring the question. My studio assistant arrived, toting my Fender Strat that he'd borrowed for gigs. He gently propped it against the wall. \"I'm in about the best, most advantageous position with my agency that I could imagine,\" he said, \"but something's not right\". My friend and I put down our pens, and phones, and sat back, for a good listen. I shut my laptop. The carpenter left, the electrician went back to work. The cat affected a pose of indifference on the couch, but I could tell, he was listening. He loved this fellow creature, a warm lap, so familiar. Before we knew it, we were deep into a discussion of his bass player's Celiac hardships, conniving promoters, and contract law. Holy \"F\", I thought to myself. We are so distractible. But towards an end, and the end is community. I would never trade away the beautiful, imperfections that make us what we are. Eventually, and by this time it was close to 5 pm, one washed dishes, while two migrated to the studio. The evening sun seemed to be pressing through clouds, streaming across vast snow fields, just to reach us. I was happy to see him. \"We've missed you\", I said. He sat down at his drum kit, and picked up a stick. taking a few random strikes at the snare. The day was decidedly grey, and not inspiring. His life, not easy. Nor mine. And yet within the organic system we've created, everything glows. It's not easy for any of us. Everything can shine, I'm convinced, even taxes, and injustice. If we do our bit, to live in support of each incredible being within our personal sphere. We all count, and do make a difference. <a href=\"https://www.minds.com/search?f=top&t=all&q=vermont\" title=\"#vermont\" class=\"u-url hashtag\" target=\"_blank\">#vermont</a>",
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"published": "2025-02-27T01:10:34+00:00",
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"content": "I'm a little unsure as to why the quote \"Life is what happens when you're making other plans\" has been attributed to John Lennon, but it's true, none-the-less. This day has been completely eclectic, and electric, with a nod towards the unexpected. I slept in a little, which for me, means 7 am, and walked out onto my formerly cleared studio deck to find ice chunks large enough to kill, littering the walkway. What slides off the roof during a melt, chills the soul while encouraging a hint, that spring is surely just around the corner. I've become enured to the inherent dangers of mountain life, in some ways. Try not to be loitering, under overhangs. Let nature take its course, given the fact that you're somewhat in conflict with conditions, as you insist, in your arrogance, to reside here. Don't take anything, for granted, not even your safety. Adopt a low profile. Keep your cats indoors during the unstable periods, assuming you love them as you love yourself. Or watch them, like a hawk would. Do your shoveling, with an eye for falling objects. Or don't. It's okay to stay inside with your cats, until you can't stand the feeling of being a trapped beast, and must emerge. Do your taxes, as bad as that is. Ah, late winter, early spring. It's a discipline, a precursor to mud season, and the inevitable struggle with vehicular mobility. We'd planned to do our taxes together, my friend and I. Pots of tea, catching up on local news, printer at-the-ready, friendly kvetching. Outright complaint. The day began, simply enough. Then the first text flew in. \"Don't expect me for coffee; we have to take the truck in to the shop. I'll be there at 10 am\". Okay, I thought. No problem. I can use the extra time to organize the electrician, and the carpenter, before settling into taxes. Of course, this was not to be. They all came at once. And I will never turn away, from an opportunity to be social, if the opportunity arises. Being a recluse is hard work, not easily jostled, unless people just show up. Thank goodness for that. So it was two hours of sitting around the wood stove, talking skiing, skiing accidents, bad skiing, good skiing, and the gold standard. Also, snow shoes and used gear exchanges, which for some of us, are stressful encounters with obnoxious, aggressive shoppers. And we talked about taxation, and how unfair it all is, and about the horrible state of rural housing. Then there was the Trump cuts of Medicare. And, oh my god, you can't do all that for long, without needing coffee, or tea. I put the kettle on, and fed the cat, again. Another text came in: \"Are you around?\". It was my studio assistant, recently back from touring for six weeks. \"Of course!\" I replied. I hadn't seen him yet. \"What's a W-9?\" my friend asked. She was still trying to do some invoicing, despite the infectious conviviality all around. \"Google it\", I said, deferring the question. My studio assistant arrived, toting my Fender Strat that he'd borrowed for gigs. He gently propped it against the wall. \"I'm in about the best, most advantageous position with my agency that I could imagine,\" he said, \"but something's not right\". My friend and I put down our pens, and phones, and sat back, for a good listen. I shut my laptop. The carpenter left, the electrician went back to work. The cat affected a pose of indifference on the couch, but I could tell, he was listening. He loved this fellow creature, a warm lap, so familiar. Before we knew it, we were deep into a discussion of his bass player's Celiac hardships, conniving promoters, and contract law. Holy \"F\", I thought to myself. We are so distractible. But towards an end, and the end is community. I would never trade away the beautiful, imperfections that make us what we are. Eventually, and by this time it was close to 5 pm, one washed dishes, while two migrated to the studio. The evening sun seemed to be pressing through clouds, streaming across vast snow fields, just to reach us. I was happy to see him. \"We've missed you\", I said. He sat down at his drum kit, and picked up a stick. taking a few random strikes at the snare. The day was decidedly grey, and not inspiring. His life, not easy. Nor mine. And yet within the organic system we've created, everything glows. It's not easy for any of us. Everything can shine, I'm convinced, even taxes, and injustice. If we do our bit, to live in support of each incredible being within our personal sphere. We all count, and do make a difference. #vermont",
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}
},
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"content": "I have a long history with generators, not all of it great but certainly remarkable. When I built my first home, it was on a piece of land sold to me by friends who wanted me on the hill, with a joint vision of raising our kids together. Which we did successfully, until things fell apart. There was no power line in the area, and we weren't about to try to bring one up. I was coached by my builder, who ran his own off-grid home using an Onan generator, and we built a little shed for it, back in the days when generators were not enclosed units. Finding experienced technicians willing to work with customers using generators alone to run a house, plus rudimentary solar, was challenging. The bigger companies who mostly served industrial clients had close to no patience for the little guy. It was still mostly a sport for homesteaders who were able to field some of their own problems, and that usually meant a couple with a handyman husband. However I was a single mom with three kids under the age of six, and no husband. This was not a super ideal situation, from anyone's point of view. A few of my cohorts, had empathy, or on a bad day, sympathy, or they tolerated my independent ways on principle. In reality, I had to lean hard on the people closest to my predicament, who cared about the welfare of children, & who lived by the maxim \"it takes a village\". As much as I struggled, they struggled too, on my behalf. I was uncomfortable having to ask for help, but it was never impossible to find kind souls within reach, as long as I didn't fall apart. I was too busy to spend my time mulling over the philosophical underpinnings of what I was doing. I had to wake up each day, and be the rock. Nothing noble here, just plain and simple I was forced to develop a pragmatic approach, that I live by to this day. The next house had an old Kohler generator. It sat in the corner of the woodshed. This property was also a mile or so from the nearest power line. Again, there was little incentive or financial ability, to bring the grid into our haven of quiet. At 1800 feet elevation, the special quality of being divided from easy electricity, still held some appeal. But, as with the first house, it was hard to find technicians willing to travel to deal with ailing equipment that was being pushed to the max. If I was lucky, the mechanics of my generator problems would only require basic support due to freezing fuel lines, something the local car repair expert could handle. But this piecemeal aid continued to tax the heroic efforts of a handful of men. One electrician rode his Ducati motorcycle from an hour away, to help us, on Christmas day. Eventually, with the addition of another adult the household, it became slightly easier to cultivate better relationships, often with young entrepreneurs moonlighting their fledgling generator repair businesses. Our best tech would come in after working on the Kohler, and spend an hour or often more, chatting with us in the kitchen, unthawing his hands. I made it a habit to be ready with home baked chocolate cookies, when he came down from the northeast kingdom. I think there was one more generator, after that, when I became single again. This one had a new location, away from the house, but lost its remote switch almost immediately, which required me to wade thru waist deep snow late at night, to hit the run switch, and even then, it was never a sure thing that it would fire. We could not have survived this new period, without Bill. Somehow from this point on, it was Bill, my neighbor, who knew what to do, and he did it without payment, and without complaint, for as long as it took me to finally sell the house. The generator was clearly being pushed beyond its reasonable life expectancy, but somehow Bill kept it running. Everything about my life at this point was unsustainable, but I was stuck in place, and unable to get out from under my situation, until the real estate market moved in my favor, a seeming fluke or unexpected boon, in 2020. I'm only telling this story, because of how the tables have turned. Today, prepping for what looks to be a nasty ice storm coming, I met my newest tech, who arrived to service my newest machine. This is my third Kohler, if memory serves me, but it is a miracle of modern circuitry and invention. Granted, I was only able to get this able workman on site today, due to pressure asserted by my son, who works in the construction industry. Things are easier, but also harder in some ways. That's a longer story, but for the moment, if the grid goes down this weekend, my sorry ass will be covered. <a href=\"https://www.minds.com/search?f=top&t=all&q=genx\" title=\"#genx\" class=\"u-url hashtag\" target=\"_blank\">#genx</a> <a href=\"https://www.minds.com/search?f=top&t=all&q=vermont\" title=\"#vermont\" class=\"u-url hashtag\" target=\"_blank\">#vermont</a> ",
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"content": "I have a long history with generators, not all of it great but certainly remarkable. When I built my first home, it was on a piece of land sold to me by friends who wanted me on the hill, with a joint vision of raising our kids together. Which we did successfully, until things fell apart. There was no power line in the area, and we weren't about to try to bring one up. I was coached by my builder, who ran his own off-grid home using an Onan generator, and we built a little shed for it, back in the days when generators were not enclosed units. Finding experienced technicians willing to work with customers using generators alone to run a house, plus rudimentary solar, was challenging. The bigger companies who mostly served industrial clients had close to no patience for the little guy. It was still mostly a sport for homesteaders who were able to field some of their own problems, and that usually meant a couple with a handyman husband. However I was a single mom with three kids under the age of six, and no husband. This was not a super ideal situation, from anyone's point of view. A few of my cohorts, had empathy, or on a bad day, sympathy, or they tolerated my independent ways on principle. In reality, I had to lean hard on the people closest to my predicament, who cared about the welfare of children, & who lived by the maxim \"it takes a village\". As much as I struggled, they struggled too, on my behalf. I was uncomfortable having to ask for help, but it was never impossible to find kind souls within reach, as long as I didn't fall apart. I was too busy to spend my time mulling over the philosophical underpinnings of what I was doing. I had to wake up each day, and be the rock. Nothing noble here, just plain and simple I was forced to develop a pragmatic approach, that I live by to this day. The next house had an old Kohler generator. It sat in the corner of the woodshed. This property was also a mile or so from the nearest power line. Again, there was little incentive or financial ability, to bring the grid into our haven of quiet. At 1800 feet elevation, the special quality of being divided from easy electricity, still held some appeal. But, as with the first house, it was hard to find technicians willing to travel to deal with ailing equipment that was being pushed to the max. If I was lucky, the mechanics of my generator problems would only require basic support due to freezing fuel lines, something the local car repair expert could handle. But this piecemeal aid continued to tax the heroic efforts of a handful of men. One electrician rode his Ducati motorcycle from an hour away, to help us, on Christmas day. Eventually, with the addition of another adult the household, it became slightly easier to cultivate better relationships, often with young entrepreneurs moonlighting their fledgling generator repair businesses. Our best tech would come in after working on the Kohler, and spend an hour or often more, chatting with us in the kitchen, unthawing his hands. I made it a habit to be ready with home baked chocolate cookies, when he came down from the northeast kingdom. I think there was one more generator, after that, when I became single again. This one had a new location, away from the house, but lost its remote switch almost immediately, which required me to wade thru waist deep snow late at night, to hit the run switch, and even then, it was never a sure thing that it would fire. We could not have survived this new period, without Bill. Somehow from this point on, it was Bill, my neighbor, who knew what to do, and he did it without payment, and without complaint, for as long as it took me to finally sell the house. The generator was clearly being pushed beyond its reasonable life expectancy, but somehow Bill kept it running. Everything about my life at this point was unsustainable, but I was stuck in place, and unable to get out from under my situation, until the real estate market moved in my favor, a seeming fluke or unexpected boon, in 2020. I'm only telling this story, because of how the tables have turned. Today, prepping for what looks to be a nasty ice storm coming, I met my newest tech, who arrived to service my newest machine. This is my third Kohler, if memory serves me, but it is a miracle of modern circuitry and invention. Granted, I was only able to get this able workman on site today, due to pressure asserted by my son, who works in the construction industry. Things are easier, but also harder in some ways. That's a longer story, but for the moment, if the grid goes down this weekend, my sorry ass will be covered. #genx #vermont ",
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"content": "\"He'll be in a box truck\", the dispatcher said. There was a pregnant pause, mostly due to my skepticism. \"Well\", I said slowly,\" he'll probably make it\". She'd assured me, vigorously, it would not be a tractor trailer. \"I'd just really feel bad if he got stuck up here\" I said, in most sympathetic voice. Her voice was more confident. \"I'll have him give you a call when he's on his way\", she said. \"He'll be there Friday\". On Friday, I made sure to plow, and clean out the driveway, to the best of my ability, using a small plow on a Gator. I shoveled fastidiously, trying to imagine the route this delivery might take, to make it as far as my deck. There would be a few obstacles to overcome, granted. Like the six foot pile in front of the deck, with only a small goat path for the last 20 feet. But, assuming the driver got up the town road, even dumping my cargo at the end of the driveway would not be so much of a crisis, I told myself. Making sure I had done all regarding snow removal, I zipped off to the post office, then hurried home, and began to wait. Friday came and went. Saturday night, a big snow moved in. It soon became apparent I would have to rinse, and repeat this operation on Monday. Another foot of white stuff fell, covering all my efforts. Being an optimistic, I told myself I'd be doing basically the same thing, with or without a delivery. Keeping access open on a mountain pass (dead end) is about what it sounds like. No one expects too much, and knows how to play it by ear, but it's serious business, none-the-less. The delivery being returned to the manufacturer was not an option. I would ace this test, come hell or high water. I'd waited long enough for the f-ing thing. Monday morning, a text pinged that the driver was on route. Next, the voice mail. \"Hi, my name is Verne, I drive for BSP transport, I got a delivery for ya, but I'm in a full size tractor trailer... (pause) ... and ah ... (pause) dispatch told me you'd be willing to meet me. You can call me back at ... \" etc. He sounded like a nice guy. I left him a message, praying he'd have cell coverage. Probably he would if he was local, but if he was out of state, chances diminished. However somehow we made contact, and I met him at the high school, in the valley town of Bristol. It was easy to pick him out of the non-existent crowd. He was idling by the playing fields next to the VFW, in the longest tractor trailer truck I think I ever saw, except for maybe on the Indiana turnpike. I pulled my pickup behind his rear doors and saw success, finally within reach. We both jumped out of our cabs at the same time, and although it seemed he had to walk a mile to get to me, when our eyes met, he smiled, and I smiled. He had an amazing couple of earrings in his left ear, and I immediately liked him. \"It's been snowing since I left Essex, and it was supposed to be sunny!\" he said. \"Yeah, no kidding\" I said. \"Want me to back around, so you can slide it in?\" He nodded, and I pulled forward into the VFW parking lot, then backed myself into position, according to his hand signals. \"I got another guy in Lincoln who won't return my calls for a week\", he said, as he maneuvered his fork lift around the cavernous truck belly, looking for my item. It was strapped onto an enormous pallet. \"Can you take it off the pallet?\" I queried. \"No, I'd have to charge you extra for that\". He seemed genuinely sorry. I was only thinking about how heavy it was, and how far I was going to have to drag it across the yard. \"If there's anything I can do to help, let me know\" I offered. Sometimes guys don't want help, so I didn't insist. He nimbly jumped into my truck bed, and pulled on the strapping. It was a beast of packaging. With some effort, he shimmied it over the tailgate. Then we both watched as it gently slid down and settled.\"I don't think it'll fall out ... right?\" I always say that. He thought about it. \"I once put a load into an Amish guy's truck and it broke right thru, to the frame\". I could see it in my mind. \"Dang it\", I said. We pondered for a moment. \"Some of them can use cars and some can't\" he added. I agreed that it was different rules, between different sects of Amish. I was now fully loaded with my new door, and would have to go. As we parted, he said, \"It's been really nice to meet you\". \"Nice to meet you too\" I replied. As I drove back up the mountain, I wondered what more he might have told me over a beer, in some dive bar, about all the things he'd seen as a trucker. But, that must be another story, I guess, for another time, or another life. <a href=\"https://www.minds.com/search?f=top&t=all&q=vermont\" title=\"#vermont\" class=\"u-url hashtag\" target=\"_blank\">#vermont</a>",
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"content": "\"He'll be in a box truck\", the dispatcher said. There was a pregnant pause, mostly due to my skepticism. \"Well\", I said slowly,\" he'll probably make it\". She'd assured me, vigorously, it would not be a tractor trailer. \"I'd just really feel bad if he got stuck up here\" I said, in most sympathetic voice. Her voice was more confident. \"I'll have him give you a call when he's on his way\", she said. \"He'll be there Friday\". On Friday, I made sure to plow, and clean out the driveway, to the best of my ability, using a small plow on a Gator. I shoveled fastidiously, trying to imagine the route this delivery might take, to make it as far as my deck. There would be a few obstacles to overcome, granted. Like the six foot pile in front of the deck, with only a small goat path for the last 20 feet. But, assuming the driver got up the town road, even dumping my cargo at the end of the driveway would not be so much of a crisis, I told myself. Making sure I had done all regarding snow removal, I zipped off to the post office, then hurried home, and began to wait. Friday came and went. Saturday night, a big snow moved in. It soon became apparent I would have to rinse, and repeat this operation on Monday. Another foot of white stuff fell, covering all my efforts. Being an optimistic, I told myself I'd be doing basically the same thing, with or without a delivery. Keeping access open on a mountain pass (dead end) is about what it sounds like. No one expects too much, and knows how to play it by ear, but it's serious business, none-the-less. The delivery being returned to the manufacturer was not an option. I would ace this test, come hell or high water. I'd waited long enough for the f-ing thing. Monday morning, a text pinged that the driver was on route. Next, the voice mail. \"Hi, my name is Verne, I drive for BSP transport, I got a delivery for ya, but I'm in a full size tractor trailer... (pause) ... and ah ... (pause) dispatch told me you'd be willing to meet me. You can call me back at ... \" etc. He sounded like a nice guy. I left him a message, praying he'd have cell coverage. Probably he would if he was local, but if he was out of state, chances diminished. However somehow we made contact, and I met him at the high school, in the valley town of Bristol. It was easy to pick him out of the non-existent crowd. He was idling by the playing fields next to the VFW, in the longest tractor trailer truck I think I ever saw, except for maybe on the Indiana turnpike. I pulled my pickup behind his rear doors and saw success, finally within reach. We both jumped out of our cabs at the same time, and although it seemed he had to walk a mile to get to me, when our eyes met, he smiled, and I smiled. He had an amazing couple of earrings in his left ear, and I immediately liked him. \"It's been snowing since I left Essex, and it was supposed to be sunny!\" he said. \"Yeah, no kidding\" I said. \"Want me to back around, so you can slide it in?\" He nodded, and I pulled forward into the VFW parking lot, then backed myself into position, according to his hand signals. \"I got another guy in Lincoln who won't return my calls for a week\", he said, as he maneuvered his fork lift around the cavernous truck belly, looking for my item. It was strapped onto an enormous pallet. \"Can you take it off the pallet?\" I queried. \"No, I'd have to charge you extra for that\". He seemed genuinely sorry. I was only thinking about how heavy it was, and how far I was going to have to drag it across the yard. \"If there's anything I can do to help, let me know\" I offered. Sometimes guys don't want help, so I didn't insist. He nimbly jumped into my truck bed, and pulled on the strapping. It was a beast of packaging. With some effort, he shimmied it over the tailgate. Then we both watched as it gently slid down and settled.\"I don't think it'll fall out ... right?\" I always say that. He thought about it. \"I once put a load into an Amish guy's truck and it broke right thru, to the frame\". I could see it in my mind. \"Dang it\", I said. We pondered for a moment. \"Some of them can use cars and some can't\" he added. I agreed that it was different rules, between different sects of Amish. I was now fully loaded with my new door, and would have to go. As we parted, he said, \"It's been really nice to meet you\". \"Nice to meet you too\" I replied. As I drove back up the mountain, I wondered what more he might have told me over a beer, in some dive bar, about all the things he'd seen as a trucker. But, that must be another story, I guess, for another time, or another life. #vermont",
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"content": "It may be that the best way to get out of the house in the winter, when you feel totally trapped inside, is to pick out a calendar listing from the local newspaper, and just do something new and/or random. No guarantees, but what's to lose? I arrived at the parking area, pretty much spot on time. Everyone else was already geared up and ready to go. I slid into a ditch with the truck, trying to stay out of the way. Whether or not I was stuck, I'd find out later. Getting my snow shoes on, and making sure I had the right clothing, was a more pressing hurdle, and I quickly got seriously concerned with freezing to death, or not. Extra socks? Certainly my peanut butter sandwich would fortify my loins, along with a thermos of black tea, honey and milk. I'm not sure if I have loins, but mostly, I think we all do, or near to it. I admit I was nervous. This was a first for me, a group hike, into a wilderness with no trails, for four hours. Usually I pace myself, and chicken out when I want to. Now, my actions would be public. My mental image of where we were going, based on map study, seemed serviceable. A bit northwest of where I'd been last week, on logging roads. I'd imagined it flat, with a few undulations, nothing too rigorous. I didn't have anything to prove. I'm not built for speed, but for endurance. With temperature hovering around zero, it was all about layers, not bravado. I shuffled over to the gathering.\"Hi\", I said. People were still fumbling with straps and packs, and mittens. \"Let's do our names again,\" my friend Nikki, who I'd roped into this, said, cheerfully. There was a Tom, and a Barry, and a Wyatt, and a Mike ... a Beth ... names, all of which, I immediately forgot. But they all looked nice. Enough gray hair in the group, I thought, that I could not possibly be the slowest. There was a meager path to the National Forest announcement board. Beth signed us in. We had nothing to do now, but head in. And, as it turned out, go up. I'm the first one to admit, amongst friends, that I hate hiking. I mean, I really do. I need to have more freedom than that. I like to wander around. However, a little bird fluttered in my ear as the group departed, saying: \"You'd better fall in line\". So i did. The leader took us across a frozen stream bed, and for a while, we followed the stream. Eventually, there were some words, about heading more north. So we did, according to those who knew where north was. I, myself, could only think about how inaccurate or, to be generous, \"incomplete\", my map study had been. Somehow the elevation factor, had completely eluded me. We went up, and up, and up. \"I guess we're going to top of the ridge,\" I commented, intelligently. \"I thought the pond was on this side\". Well, that's the way it goes, in the woods. No one else seemed to care when the verticality became onerous. I think it was just a group of people who turned out not to be complainers. Bravo! At least, no grumbling. Sliding back five steps after taking one, well, not as bad as it could be if it was worse. One gal had serious crampons. She was a genius. My loyal friend of course, had slippery boots, since I had described the trip to her as fairly innocuous. \"Oh, pretty much where we went the other day, \" is likely what I signaled to her, using no words at all. This reminds me of how our government is run, with no concept of reality, or a clue about clear, and honest communication. No matter. If nothing, hikes are a metaphor for something. We finally dragged our bodies into an area I would call \"the top\", across dips and crannies and boulders, and fallen trees. It was time to unpack the thermos, and have a frank discussion about who was going to continue to the pond, which involved following a drainage. That didn't really ring right with me, a drainage. The sweat on my back was freezing through my two shirts and into my down jacket. As I say, I had nothing to prove. The air had certainly not warmed up any, as we'd ascended. Still, it was hard to split up. Hard to be realistic about limits, and yet, I didn't have any qualms about saying that was it for me. After all, I'd have to slide on my butt, most of the way down. It would be fun enough but time consuming, and probably not an altogether smooth ride. We said our goodbyes, leaving four heading to the pond, while the two of us began our plod in reverse, back along the trodden path. Nikki went first, in her slippery boots; I, in my yard sale snow shoes following. I let her have a head start, and plenty of room, just in case. I felt better already, like a horse to the barn. \"Who needs to see a frozen pond, anyway? It's just all white. I've seen many before,\" I insisted, grabbing a sapling, executing a half way twirl & release, then a slide & landing 20 feet below where I'd started We took turns watching each other's techniques and giving ratings. I discovered, I think, a kind of stationary telemark, which my snow shoes allowed me to perfect. Following gravity, as all good mountaineers must do, assuming, they want to get home. <a href=\"https://www.minds.com/search?f=top&t=all&q=vermont\" title=\"#vermont\" class=\"u-url hashtag\" target=\"_blank\">#vermont</a>",
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"content": "It may be that the best way to get out of the house in the winter, when you feel totally trapped inside, is to pick out a calendar listing from the local newspaper, and just do something new and/or random. No guarantees, but what's to lose? I arrived at the parking area, pretty much spot on time. Everyone else was already geared up and ready to go. I slid into a ditch with the truck, trying to stay out of the way. Whether or not I was stuck, I'd find out later. Getting my snow shoes on, and making sure I had the right clothing, was a more pressing hurdle, and I quickly got seriously concerned with freezing to death, or not. Extra socks? Certainly my peanut butter sandwich would fortify my loins, along with a thermos of black tea, honey and milk. I'm not sure if I have loins, but mostly, I think we all do, or near to it. I admit I was nervous. This was a first for me, a group hike, into a wilderness with no trails, for four hours. Usually I pace myself, and chicken out when I want to. Now, my actions would be public. My mental image of where we were going, based on map study, seemed serviceable. A bit northwest of where I'd been last week, on logging roads. I'd imagined it flat, with a few undulations, nothing too rigorous. I didn't have anything to prove. I'm not built for speed, but for endurance. With temperature hovering around zero, it was all about layers, not bravado. I shuffled over to the gathering.\"Hi\", I said. People were still fumbling with straps and packs, and mittens. \"Let's do our names again,\" my friend Nikki, who I'd roped into this, said, cheerfully. There was a Tom, and a Barry, and a Wyatt, and a Mike ... a Beth ... names, all of which, I immediately forgot. But they all looked nice. Enough gray hair in the group, I thought, that I could not possibly be the slowest. There was a meager path to the National Forest announcement board. Beth signed us in. We had nothing to do now, but head in. And, as it turned out, go up. I'm the first one to admit, amongst friends, that I hate hiking. I mean, I really do. I need to have more freedom than that. I like to wander around. However, a little bird fluttered in my ear as the group departed, saying: \"You'd better fall in line\". So i did. The leader took us across a frozen stream bed, and for a while, we followed the stream. Eventually, there were some words, about heading more north. So we did, according to those who knew where north was. I, myself, could only think about how inaccurate or, to be generous, \"incomplete\", my map study had been. Somehow the elevation factor, had completely eluded me. We went up, and up, and up. \"I guess we're going to top of the ridge,\" I commented, intelligently. \"I thought the pond was on this side\". Well, that's the way it goes, in the woods. No one else seemed to care when the verticality became onerous. I think it was just a group of people who turned out not to be complainers. Bravo! At least, no grumbling. Sliding back five steps after taking one, well, not as bad as it could be if it was worse. One gal had serious crampons. She was a genius. My loyal friend of course, had slippery boots, since I had described the trip to her as fairly innocuous. \"Oh, pretty much where we went the other day, \" is likely what I signaled to her, using no words at all. This reminds me of how our government is run, with no concept of reality, or a clue about clear, and honest communication. No matter. If nothing, hikes are a metaphor for something. We finally dragged our bodies into an area I would call \"the top\", across dips and crannies and boulders, and fallen trees. It was time to unpack the thermos, and have a frank discussion about who was going to continue to the pond, which involved following a drainage. That didn't really ring right with me, a drainage. The sweat on my back was freezing through my two shirts and into my down jacket. As I say, I had nothing to prove. The air had certainly not warmed up any, as we'd ascended. Still, it was hard to split up. Hard to be realistic about limits, and yet, I didn't have any qualms about saying that was it for me. After all, I'd have to slide on my butt, most of the way down. It would be fun enough but time consuming, and probably not an altogether smooth ride. We said our goodbyes, leaving four heading to the pond, while the two of us began our plod in reverse, back along the trodden path. Nikki went first, in her slippery boots; I, in my yard sale snow shoes following. I let her have a head start, and plenty of room, just in case. I felt better already, like a horse to the barn. \"Who needs to see a frozen pond, anyway? It's just all white. I've seen many before,\" I insisted, grabbing a sapling, executing a half way twirl & release, then a slide & landing 20 feet below where I'd started We took turns watching each other's techniques and giving ratings. I discovered, I think, a kind of stationary telemark, which my snow shoes allowed me to perfect. Following gravity, as all good mountaineers must do, assuming, they want to get home. #vermont",
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"content": "Leaning on my snow shovel in the late afternoon, I look out from the yurt's platform. Living tucked away in one of the mountains many folds, this high elevation spot is my crow's nest, and the only place on the property, for grandiose views. It's enough, I think, One can become blind to enormous scenery, if its too readily available. Today, the peaks of Mt. Abe, and Lincoln Mountain, are dusted with the shimmer of coming nightfall. Another small storm is predicted, and before the snow comes, there's always a special feeling. Down below, the skiers are just arriving, little specks of color, as their jackets move slowly up the hill. I'm almost done prepping things for them: the fresh flannel sheets, de-iced kindling boxes, dry peat moss for the outhouse, and plenty of firewood inside, ready to go. They'll be wet, cold and hungry. I'm a little behind schedule. Normally, this would all be done by noon, or a little after. But mid-winter, my inn keeping is more of a dance of temperature, and conditions. They'll know me by how well I've provided them comfort. It's a raw month out here, reducing some, enlivening others. Yesterday, I was doing what my guests did, today. Out of restless agitation, and frustration, or just wanting to see something startlingly fresh. Penetrating wild regions is less of a sport for me, and more like a return to sanity, done incrementally, as needed. There are no notches on my belt to show for it, just a fuller understanding of where I belong. As the truck warmed, I grabbed my snow shoes, thrown in for free at a yard sale, after I'd bought curtains, antiquated light bulbs, and barn door hardware. Not truly broken, just one piece of plastic snapped, nothing important. A pair of bamboo poles, left in the basement of my old house. One glove, because in my go-bag, there were three right handed and no left. I knew where the plow left a parking spot, at the end of the trail, still a town road, 4th class; a Google maps version of the terrain, pretty securely fastened, in mind. But I hadn't grasped the 3-D reality, no, not at all. I went sideways round an unoccupied camp, to avoid a hard uphill, and got my first glimpse of a vast depression to the west, where I'd imagined cliffs. This is often more exciting than getting what you thought you'd find. Getting it all wrong. But still having the basic guidance, of an old abandoned road. The surprises kept coming: a full spine of vertebrae in the crotch of a tree, a long since decommissioned forest road gate, an ancient foundation and tree stand, with metal steps grown into the tree. Having forgotten that I had a phone, I reached for it, in case my friend had texted. She had, and I told her to meet me half a mile in. We eventually found each other, as the light was dimming. Her dog found a ball and carried the ball deep into the woods, until we paused to contemplate turning around. We had to call it quits, to be smart. \"This kind of wind makes me worried about being crushed by a falling tree,\" she said. I loved her honesty. It was an asset in the woods. \"Do you think we should turn around?\" I said. \"Yes\" she replied. We're no different than the cows, coming home. Retracing our footprints, thinking about dinner. She offered me tea, but I declined. I had a meeting to prep for, and guests coming in the morning, and a cat at home, who was wondering where I'd gone. <a href=\"https://www.minds.com/search?f=top&t=all&q=vermont\" title=\"#vermont\" class=\"u-url hashtag\" target=\"_blank\">#vermont</a>",
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"content": "Leaning on my snow shovel in the late afternoon, I look out from the yurt's platform. Living tucked away in one of the mountains many folds, this high elevation spot is my crow's nest, and the only place on the property, for grandiose views. It's enough, I think, One can become blind to enormous scenery, if its too readily available. Today, the peaks of Mt. Abe, and Lincoln Mountain, are dusted with the shimmer of coming nightfall. Another small storm is predicted, and before the snow comes, there's always a special feeling. Down below, the skiers are just arriving, little specks of color, as their jackets move slowly up the hill. I'm almost done prepping things for them: the fresh flannel sheets, de-iced kindling boxes, dry peat moss for the outhouse, and plenty of firewood inside, ready to go. They'll be wet, cold and hungry. I'm a little behind schedule. Normally, this would all be done by noon, or a little after. But mid-winter, my inn keeping is more of a dance of temperature, and conditions. They'll know me by how well I've provided them comfort. It's a raw month out here, reducing some, enlivening others. Yesterday, I was doing what my guests did, today. Out of restless agitation, and frustration, or just wanting to see something startlingly fresh. Penetrating wild regions is less of a sport for me, and more like a return to sanity, done incrementally, as needed. There are no notches on my belt to show for it, just a fuller understanding of where I belong. As the truck warmed, I grabbed my snow shoes, thrown in for free at a yard sale, after I'd bought curtains, antiquated light bulbs, and barn door hardware. Not truly broken, just one piece of plastic snapped, nothing important. A pair of bamboo poles, left in the basement of my old house. One glove, because in my go-bag, there were three right handed and no left. I knew where the plow left a parking spot, at the end of the trail, still a town road, 4th class; a Google maps version of the terrain, pretty securely fastened, in mind. But I hadn't grasped the 3-D reality, no, not at all. I went sideways round an unoccupied camp, to avoid a hard uphill, and got my first glimpse of a vast depression to the west, where I'd imagined cliffs. This is often more exciting than getting what you thought you'd find. Getting it all wrong. But still having the basic guidance, of an old abandoned road. The surprises kept coming: a full spine of vertebrae in the crotch of a tree, a long since decommissioned forest road gate, an ancient foundation and tree stand, with metal steps grown into the tree. Having forgotten that I had a phone, I reached for it, in case my friend had texted. She had, and I told her to meet me half a mile in. We eventually found each other, as the light was dimming. Her dog found a ball and carried the ball deep into the woods, until we paused to contemplate turning around. We had to call it quits, to be smart. \"This kind of wind makes me worried about being crushed by a falling tree,\" she said. I loved her honesty. It was an asset in the woods. \"Do you think we should turn around?\" I said. \"Yes\" she replied. We're no different than the cows, coming home. Retracing our footprints, thinking about dinner. She offered me tea, but I declined. I had a meeting to prep for, and guests coming in the morning, and a cat at home, who was wondering where I'd gone. #vermont",
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"content": "The photo came up in my newsfeed, a snow-covered track, with trees on either side, and fields beyond. \"I've been walking this road for 61 years\", it said. I felt both excited, and sad. Being reminded of how a road can grow close to a human, and provide stability, and longevity, on the one side... and on the other, a sinking sensation of loss. Knowing how a road can be a friend, but one we must leave behind. I was missing my old roads, today. Often called gived-up, or thrown up roads - every town has them, hidden past the dead end or no outlet signs. The ones I've known, have yet to be discovered by back-country skiers, despite the fact, they've long since been shut down, to ATVs, and machines. Of course, locals may still use them. I did. A kind of alternative Disney theme park, costing nothing but requiring complicit anonymity, as long as they remain off notice, or designated, on satellite maps. The patchwork that is our state, of private lands, state and federal lands, and in between lands, can't be known without a little effort, and better yet, living in proximity to them. The longer the better. In our prime, my dogs and I followed our noses, and a few tattered pieces of pink surveyors tape, seeking to connect the dots. My family never saw me go, nor followed my photo log. But for me, it marks the huge period of my middle years, and how my time was spent, when I wasn't working, or trying to be a good wife, and mother. It felt inside, like an obligation, to know the land. To understand how it had been carved out for human purposes, or left alone. This is still an enormous weight on my mind, and in my musculature, as I gauge what's waiting for me, yet within my capacity, to explore. Perhaps, I feel tasked with what's left over, and not done by others. Surely with modern tools of mapping, anyone, can go anywhere, with enough money and desire. But my places, have been unremarkable, and in that one way, they have met my wildest expectations, and come close to the extraordinary. What's there can't be separated from the experience of actually being there, dodging rocky outcroppings that were never able to be mowed, or managed, on skis that don't do well in such terrain. Of gnarled apple trees, once a vital orchard for a family, & glimpses of distant peaks, preceding my plummeting descent into miles more, of dark woods. The not knowing exactly where I'd come out of it. I miss those discoveries, that became my daily mantra of sweat, and sometimes, fear. There are places, I've left behind. Now, reimagined as I am in a new decade of change, in an unfamiliar junket of fence lines, no trespassing postings and strict wilderness boundaries, I am looking for my doors. There are things to know here, and things to witness. There are gatekeepers, and people who think they own vast tracts of bear habitat, and clear, mountain water. But I will find my way in, to see the things I must see. If only to tell you, and myself, that our collective soul still resonates, beyond the markers. <a href=\"https://www.minds.com/search?f=top&t=all&q=vermont\" title=\"#vermont\" class=\"u-url hashtag\" target=\"_blank\">#vermont</a> ",
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"content": "The photo came up in my newsfeed, a snow-covered track, with trees on either side, and fields beyond. \"I've been walking this road for 61 years\", it said. I felt both excited, and sad. Being reminded of how a road can grow close to a human, and provide stability, and longevity, on the one side... and on the other, a sinking sensation of loss. Knowing how a road can be a friend, but one we must leave behind. I was missing my old roads, today. Often called gived-up, or thrown up roads - every town has them, hidden past the dead end or no outlet signs. The ones I've known, have yet to be discovered by back-country skiers, despite the fact, they've long since been shut down, to ATVs, and machines. Of course, locals may still use them. I did. A kind of alternative Disney theme park, costing nothing but requiring complicit anonymity, as long as they remain off notice, or designated, on satellite maps. The patchwork that is our state, of private lands, state and federal lands, and in between lands, can't be known without a little effort, and better yet, living in proximity to them. The longer the better. In our prime, my dogs and I followed our noses, and a few tattered pieces of pink surveyors tape, seeking to connect the dots. My family never saw me go, nor followed my photo log. But for me, it marks the huge period of my middle years, and how my time was spent, when I wasn't working, or trying to be a good wife, and mother. It felt inside, like an obligation, to know the land. To understand how it had been carved out for human purposes, or left alone. This is still an enormous weight on my mind, and in my musculature, as I gauge what's waiting for me, yet within my capacity, to explore. Perhaps, I feel tasked with what's left over, and not done by others. Surely with modern tools of mapping, anyone, can go anywhere, with enough money and desire. But my places, have been unremarkable, and in that one way, they have met my wildest expectations, and come close to the extraordinary. What's there can't be separated from the experience of actually being there, dodging rocky outcroppings that were never able to be mowed, or managed, on skis that don't do well in such terrain. Of gnarled apple trees, once a vital orchard for a family, & glimpses of distant peaks, preceding my plummeting descent into miles more, of dark woods. The not knowing exactly where I'd come out of it. I miss those discoveries, that became my daily mantra of sweat, and sometimes, fear. There are places, I've left behind. Now, reimagined as I am in a new decade of change, in an unfamiliar junket of fence lines, no trespassing postings and strict wilderness boundaries, I am looking for my doors. There are things to know here, and things to witness. There are gatekeepers, and people who think they own vast tracts of bear habitat, and clear, mountain water. But I will find my way in, to see the things I must see. If only to tell you, and myself, that our collective soul still resonates, beyond the markers. #vermont ",
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"content": "Rural living. Mechanics are everything, out here. And as vehicles get smarter, we get dumber, & even more prone to helplessness. But that relationship between the local garage and my life, has never and will never change. It's the difference between getting to work, and to groceries, or being stuck at home. I've had to finagle wildly, to stay mobile. Further afield, I've been confronted by and forced into sketchy transactions, related to my vehicle. Once, driving thru Ottawa, my truck overheated, and I was pretty much at the mercy of anyone who pulled over. The guy fixed my problem, all right, but wanted a payment that involved my body. I had kids in the car, which made it all the more absurd. But the fear of being stranded, and taken advantage of, is real. Another time, I was out west, on reservation land. It was cold, and the automatic windows, wouldn't shut. I spent hours, wondering what the outcome would be, as I loitered, beside the tiny outpost service station, where no one was friendly. I felt very white, very young, and very vulnerable. That was a case, of dodging a bullet. No one did anything to hurt me, in the end. I still couldn't tell you, how much of it I merely imagined. Yet another time, I slid into a ditch, in the middle of winter, on a dead end road, at night. I was in the wrong place, having got my directions wrong, and the doors I could actually knock on, were limited. I think I've blocked the outcome of that, and put it behind me. Which brings me back to the ones who took my business, in my own home towns. One in particular, seemed really personable, and would always chat me up for as long as possible. He did other things for me, because I didn't know who else to ask. I liked him, sort of. He was willing to bring an excavator by, to dig out a row of Russian Olive trees. that I couldn't dig out by hand. He also showed me how to move a wood stove, alone, using leverage. Not that I ever went on to do that, but he did it, and for me, it meant the difference between being warm, or more struggle caring for my kids. He didn't ask for payment. Just tried to kiss me once, and I later I heard he did that with other single moms, including a friend of mine named Janet. After he retired, he acted like he didn't know me. I got the message. It's a transactional universe. I moved, and moved on to new mechanics, a bit farther afield. If a place has a waiting room, and a wifi connection, I'm good for hours. I'll sit and wait, if its warm, and I can work online. But going back a bit, I'd like to remember some special treatment I got, at yet another body shop. I'd been dating a guy, an ex-boxer, who had a friendship with another guy, who was a master craftsman, in all things automotive. His shop had been known for decades, as \"Just Escorts\". This had a few layers of meaning, to those who knew him. He was kind of a rogue and pretty obviously tough, as they come. It made the hair bristle on the back of my neck, when I had dealings with him. But I liked him, and my friend was the best sort of person you'd want to meet in a back alley. Both of them I would have trusted, in a flood, or an invasion. I don't know how I've been so lucky, if you look at it from this angle. The Chevy truck this man sold me has been a godsend. I didn't really know how to thank him. He drove it up from a dealership in New Hampshire in an ice storm, and I went to pick it up in a blizzard. When I got there, the truck was sitting in the empty lot, running, lights blazing, in the absolute dark of pre-solstice early winter. I sat in the driver's seat, while he took me through that basics. I paid him in cash. I don't know what it is about this type of old school mechanic, but it humbled me. They've been in the thick of a lot of mess. And still, they want to help, as if wired up to heaven, with a chassis forged from gold. <a href=\"https://www.minds.com/search?f=top&t=all&q=vermont\" title=\"#vermont\" class=\"u-url hashtag\" target=\"_blank\">#vermont</a> ",
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"content": "Rural living. Mechanics are everything, out here. And as vehicles get smarter, we get dumber, & even more prone to helplessness. But that relationship between the local garage and my life, has never and will never change. It's the difference between getting to work, and to groceries, or being stuck at home. I've had to finagle wildly, to stay mobile. Further afield, I've been confronted by and forced into sketchy transactions, related to my vehicle. Once, driving thru Ottawa, my truck overheated, and I was pretty much at the mercy of anyone who pulled over. The guy fixed my problem, all right, but wanted a payment that involved my body. I had kids in the car, which made it all the more absurd. But the fear of being stranded, and taken advantage of, is real. Another time, I was out west, on reservation land. It was cold, and the automatic windows, wouldn't shut. I spent hours, wondering what the outcome would be, as I loitered, beside the tiny outpost service station, where no one was friendly. I felt very white, very young, and very vulnerable. That was a case, of dodging a bullet. No one did anything to hurt me, in the end. I still couldn't tell you, how much of it I merely imagined. Yet another time, I slid into a ditch, in the middle of winter, on a dead end road, at night. I was in the wrong place, having got my directions wrong, and the doors I could actually knock on, were limited. I think I've blocked the outcome of that, and put it behind me. Which brings me back to the ones who took my business, in my own home towns. One in particular, seemed really personable, and would always chat me up for as long as possible. He did other things for me, because I didn't know who else to ask. I liked him, sort of. He was willing to bring an excavator by, to dig out a row of Russian Olive trees. that I couldn't dig out by hand. He also showed me how to move a wood stove, alone, using leverage. Not that I ever went on to do that, but he did it, and for me, it meant the difference between being warm, or more struggle caring for my kids. He didn't ask for payment. Just tried to kiss me once, and I later I heard he did that with other single moms, including a friend of mine named Janet. After he retired, he acted like he didn't know me. I got the message. It's a transactional universe. I moved, and moved on to new mechanics, a bit farther afield. If a place has a waiting room, and a wifi connection, I'm good for hours. I'll sit and wait, if its warm, and I can work online. But going back a bit, I'd like to remember some special treatment I got, at yet another body shop. I'd been dating a guy, an ex-boxer, who had a friendship with another guy, who was a master craftsman, in all things automotive. His shop had been known for decades, as \"Just Escorts\". This had a few layers of meaning, to those who knew him. He was kind of a rogue and pretty obviously tough, as they come. It made the hair bristle on the back of my neck, when I had dealings with him. But I liked him, and my friend was the best sort of person you'd want to meet in a back alley. Both of them I would have trusted, in a flood, or an invasion. I don't know how I've been so lucky, if you look at it from this angle. The Chevy truck this man sold me has been a godsend. I didn't really know how to thank him. He drove it up from a dealership in New Hampshire in an ice storm, and I went to pick it up in a blizzard. When I got there, the truck was sitting in the empty lot, running, lights blazing, in the absolute dark of pre-solstice early winter. I sat in the driver's seat, while he took me through that basics. I paid him in cash. I don't know what it is about this type of old school mechanic, but it humbled me. They've been in the thick of a lot of mess. And still, they want to help, as if wired up to heaven, with a chassis forged from gold. #vermont ",
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"content": "It was a typical, mid-winter night, similar to many I'd known. And like every high elevation in Vermont, the landscape was a seascape of drifted snow, carved & frozen anew by erratic, horizontal winds. I'd forgotten something in the car, and leaving the children at their play indoors, I headed out to retrieve it. I'm sure i had no hat; just to make the relatively short journey, it seemed too much bother. At that time, there were no outdoor lights, and the hilltop view also, held no illumination. Not tonight. I felt alone. We lived close to a mile from the nearest power pole, so the fewer electrical things we ran, the better. I liked it that way, for the most part. But, on nights like this, it gave me pause. Our slim tether to modern conveniences grew more serious, as the days grew shorter.And as a single mom, none of this was lost on me. I was foolish, perhaps, but no fool. Being utterly responsible, a fact of what my life was turning into by design, brought fear, along with freedom. Stepping out into the darkness and into blizzard conditions, I steeled myself, bracing each molecule of my warm body against the odds. There was no room for error: I had to return to the house, without expiring due to some lapse in health or freak accident, for the sake of my children. I could not be lost, in the wild, for I was all they had, in this moment. It was no longer just about me. Moving across the blackened door-yard in search of my car, I glanced back at the glowing windows, of the home I had created. Ice particles were gathering around my neck, where my coat didn't quite do its job. Should I perish, it would be too far for them to walk, to the nearest house, as they were still quite small, & not reliably able to even use a phone. The inescapable truth of our fragile survival, was sending a message to me, met by immediate denial. No, no, I insisted. This is not humane, not any part of this \"what could happen\"; it can't be real! My hair blew straight upwards, I'm sure, biting cold raking my face, as I fumbled to open the car door, to retrieve the thing. Probably groceries, or a school homework assignment. I'd moved here to both be left alone, and be near another family. But the family had moved away, and I was left to face the unpredictable future. It was not really how I'd planned anything, but that's how it goes. What I remember most is my inability to integrate my understandings of how much I loved my family, and the reality of how vulnerable we were. Anyway, it all comes back to me, at times, when the temperatures or wind chills are sub-zero. I observe my grown children, who are now adults with families or solid partners of their own, and register the fact, that we all survived. It's a tenuous grace. There are no guarantees in this regard. I still need to gauge each day, by thermometer, and do so in the early, dawn hours. I have sliding barn doors now, protecting my wood shed, from undue onslaughts of blowing snow. I can close the doors at night, and feel I'm somewhat protected. From what, I couldn't tell you. <a href=\"https://www.minds.com/search?f=top&t=all&q=vermont\" title=\"#vermont\" class=\"u-url hashtag\" target=\"_blank\">#vermont</a>",
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"content": "It was a typical, mid-winter night, similar to many I'd known. And like every high elevation in Vermont, the landscape was a seascape of drifted snow, carved & frozen anew by erratic, horizontal winds. I'd forgotten something in the car, and leaving the children at their play indoors, I headed out to retrieve it. I'm sure i had no hat; just to make the relatively short journey, it seemed too much bother. At that time, there were no outdoor lights, and the hilltop view also, held no illumination. Not tonight. I felt alone. We lived close to a mile from the nearest power pole, so the fewer electrical things we ran, the better. I liked it that way, for the most part. But, on nights like this, it gave me pause. Our slim tether to modern conveniences grew more serious, as the days grew shorter.And as a single mom, none of this was lost on me. I was foolish, perhaps, but no fool. Being utterly responsible, a fact of what my life was turning into by design, brought fear, along with freedom. Stepping out into the darkness and into blizzard conditions, I steeled myself, bracing each molecule of my warm body against the odds. There was no room for error: I had to return to the house, without expiring due to some lapse in health or freak accident, for the sake of my children. I could not be lost, in the wild, for I was all they had, in this moment. It was no longer just about me. Moving across the blackened door-yard in search of my car, I glanced back at the glowing windows, of the home I had created. Ice particles were gathering around my neck, where my coat didn't quite do its job. Should I perish, it would be too far for them to walk, to the nearest house, as they were still quite small, & not reliably able to even use a phone. The inescapable truth of our fragile survival, was sending a message to me, met by immediate denial. No, no, I insisted. This is not humane, not any part of this \"what could happen\"; it can't be real! My hair blew straight upwards, I'm sure, biting cold raking my face, as I fumbled to open the car door, to retrieve the thing. Probably groceries, or a school homework assignment. I'd moved here to both be left alone, and be near another family. But the family had moved away, and I was left to face the unpredictable future. It was not really how I'd planned anything, but that's how it goes. What I remember most is my inability to integrate my understandings of how much I loved my family, and the reality of how vulnerable we were. Anyway, it all comes back to me, at times, when the temperatures or wind chills are sub-zero. I observe my grown children, who are now adults with families or solid partners of their own, and register the fact, that we all survived. It's a tenuous grace. There are no guarantees in this regard. I still need to gauge each day, by thermometer, and do so in the early, dawn hours. I have sliding barn doors now, protecting my wood shed, from undue onslaughts of blowing snow. I can close the doors at night, and feel I'm somewhat protected. From what, I couldn't tell you. #vermont",
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"content": "Just when I thought I was ready for bed last night, I smelled something funny in my kitchen. Not the first time it's happened, and it's never welcome. Gas? Or the toxic aroma of what lies beneath a nearly empty tank, signaling an impending absence of fuel or possibly the need for an emergency delivery. Frankly, I'm tired of being thrown into a panic, over systems breakdown. I'm not sure it's the best use of my time to be always reacting to things coming at me from the outside, and feeling lousy about myself, and my life, as a consequence. It's the surface theater that inflames us, and draws us into a storyline that is not natural, or wanted. Even lack of fuel, which has been taken so far from our hands, despite all our efforts to cohabit with the forest, seems a manipulation coming down from above. They will have to pry my wood stove from my dead fingers, before I let go of it. Not to be dramatic or morbid, of course, for in reality, I always return to my sense of humor to get me through most insane scenarios. Regardless of how you've chosen to heat your house, I can only say that all roads must stay open, and all skill sets that relate to our local economy, must be kept fresh and viable. Live and let live. That's how its done, here in Vermont. Ideology is a modern contrivance, which is often at odds with practicality and common sense. And I'm feeling that so much, today ... today, which happens to coincide with national events that I know to be a lively soup of farce, hope, despair and carefully constructed pomp. And I choose to steer clear of any contact with it. I've heard it said, that anger enters thru the ears. I would do better to stay in my studio in headphones today, or listen to the dripping faucet. For those who might be tempted to consider this evasion, or even apathy, I beg to differ. My long years as a student of history, and alternative history, and my own personal history, have taught me to lay low, until deeper truths compel me to act. And those actions are not diminished by their being creative, unpopular, or small. Size, including grandiosity, is not important. It's how you live your life, that matters. Not what you believe, or take up as a righteous cause, based on what's been doled out to you, and sold to you, as your \"new\" reality. I've always had dreams of being surveilled, bombed and killed, by nameless power. It's naive to think this kind of genocide is not happening, somewhere, to people like us. So if we find ourselves lucky enough to be living peaceably in villages, or cities, or even able to travel as a tourist, we should consider ourselves blessed beyond measure. Be the unbiased one who can see all sides, & understand why each lonely soul holds a hope and prayer, misguided as it may be. Estrangement and confusion have infiltrated every home. But it's not about the charade of characters that parade across our screens. Our distraction with them is our worst enemy. It's about standing up, and holding a candle, without taking any side, except that of kindness, inclusion, and love. <a href=\"https://www.minds.com/search?f=top&t=all&q=vermont\" title=\"#vermont\" class=\"u-url hashtag\" target=\"_blank\">#vermont</a>",
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"content": "Just when I thought I was ready for bed last night, I smelled something funny in my kitchen. Not the first time it's happened, and it's never welcome. Gas? Or the toxic aroma of what lies beneath a nearly empty tank, signaling an impending absence of fuel or possibly the need for an emergency delivery. Frankly, I'm tired of being thrown into a panic, over systems breakdown. I'm not sure it's the best use of my time to be always reacting to things coming at me from the outside, and feeling lousy about myself, and my life, as a consequence. It's the surface theater that inflames us, and draws us into a storyline that is not natural, or wanted. Even lack of fuel, which has been taken so far from our hands, despite all our efforts to cohabit with the forest, seems a manipulation coming down from above. They will have to pry my wood stove from my dead fingers, before I let go of it. Not to be dramatic or morbid, of course, for in reality, I always return to my sense of humor to get me through most insane scenarios. Regardless of how you've chosen to heat your house, I can only say that all roads must stay open, and all skill sets that relate to our local economy, must be kept fresh and viable. Live and let live. That's how its done, here in Vermont. Ideology is a modern contrivance, which is often at odds with practicality and common sense. And I'm feeling that so much, today ... today, which happens to coincide with national events that I know to be a lively soup of farce, hope, despair and carefully constructed pomp. And I choose to steer clear of any contact with it. I've heard it said, that anger enters thru the ears. I would do better to stay in my studio in headphones today, or listen to the dripping faucet. For those who might be tempted to consider this evasion, or even apathy, I beg to differ. My long years as a student of history, and alternative history, and my own personal history, have taught me to lay low, until deeper truths compel me to act. And those actions are not diminished by their being creative, unpopular, or small. Size, including grandiosity, is not important. It's how you live your life, that matters. Not what you believe, or take up as a righteous cause, based on what's been doled out to you, and sold to you, as your \"new\" reality. I've always had dreams of being surveilled, bombed and killed, by nameless power. It's naive to think this kind of genocide is not happening, somewhere, to people like us. So if we find ourselves lucky enough to be living peaceably in villages, or cities, or even able to travel as a tourist, we should consider ourselves blessed beyond measure. Be the unbiased one who can see all sides, & understand why each lonely soul holds a hope and prayer, misguided as it may be. Estrangement and confusion have infiltrated every home. But it's not about the charade of characters that parade across our screens. Our distraction with them is our worst enemy. It's about standing up, and holding a candle, without taking any side, except that of kindness, inclusion, and love. #vermont",
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"content": "Strange problems seem to beset every day, no matter how organized we think we are. Many originate from the digital realm, as if that were real, rather than an adopted point of reference. A creeping sensation of being a herded animal looms large. But for me today, my neglect has wrought a dilemma far from the screen, and in a very inconvenient location. As it turns out, improperly stored outside, both peat moss and saw dust freeze into an impenetrable block. How could I have known? I'd hauled the bales up the hill under a warm summer sun, for use as fodder for the outhouse bucket, shaking the fluffy material easily out from its packaging. Now, with ski touring guests due to arrive by the weekend, my goose Is cooked. I stab at a frozen mass with my pitch fork, barely able to put a dent in the surface. I could blame it on the poor quality of trash cans, and that would be fair. Water has its ways and it's a rare container that can keep it at bay, left in the wild. But my busy schedule can't babysit everything. Gosh darn the degradation of plastic and metal consumer objects. Having to chip ice off everything doesn't help. Tripping over my snow shoes, I grab at the one of two offending pails, nearly falling into it, and into a tree, and a drift. My local nursery rep had tried to help. He'd offered to haul in and warm a few bales in their greenhouse, for me to pick up. But it won't be dry, which will do me no good. So I'm on my own. I take a moment to breathe, then drag the stubborn object to the side of my sled. I will not let this irritation build into a crisis. At least it's mostly downhill to the house. A heavy, inferior thing will not defeat me, not again. Or shame me, into feeling weak. How many lesser cohorts have tried this trick on me, projecting their own inadequacies, onto my heart? In the end, the truth of who has mettle enough, will be decided by history. I scrabble for a handhold, and finally gaining purchase against the icy plastic, heave ho. There is a dull thud, and the sled looks unsure, tipping as if to ask - why not? No, this is why, I counter, and put my shoulder into it. The whole picture is unpretty. I'm suddenly glad of my privacy, although the week had been scarce of humans. Me, at the base of an outhouse, wrestling a deformed garbage can into submission. This will never happen again, i think, not on my watch. Once the load is moderately in place, I begin to pull. Up over the yurt deck, grabbing the good shovel, the bad shovel, dirty sheets, and trash - all of which need to return to the house. Now, plunging into a couple feet of snow, I pull again, and it slides. Or something like that. A frozen bale of peat moss does not desire to be any part of such a caravan. Cooperation does not come naturally to it. At times like these, I remember to look up at the majestic mountain range, so close and yet so far. It is a beautiful distraction from many woes, if one can rally. I've learned this, yet seem to have to relearn it, almost daily. Now, from where I sit beside my crackling fire, caressed by the cosmic warmth that only a wood stove can relate, I marvel at the black utility sled in my living room, and the quiet repose of the trash can within it, but for a slight sizzle, as melted water evaporates. If all goes well, the inert material hidden in the barrel will begin to crumble. Hauling it back up to the yurt tomorrow will be a struggle, but that is a story for another day. <a href=\"https://www.minds.com/search?f=top&t=all&q=vermont\" title=\"#vermont\" class=\"u-url hashtag\" target=\"_blank\">#vermont</a> ",
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"content": "Strange problems seem to beset every day, no matter how organized we think we are. Many originate from the digital realm, as if that were real, rather than an adopted point of reference. A creeping sensation of being a herded animal looms large. But for me today, my neglect has wrought a dilemma far from the screen, and in a very inconvenient location. As it turns out, improperly stored outside, both peat moss and saw dust freeze into an impenetrable block. How could I have known? I'd hauled the bales up the hill under a warm summer sun, for use as fodder for the outhouse bucket, shaking the fluffy material easily out from its packaging. Now, with ski touring guests due to arrive by the weekend, my goose Is cooked. I stab at a frozen mass with my pitch fork, barely able to put a dent in the surface. I could blame it on the poor quality of trash cans, and that would be fair. Water has its ways and it's a rare container that can keep it at bay, left in the wild. But my busy schedule can't babysit everything. Gosh darn the degradation of plastic and metal consumer objects. Having to chip ice off everything doesn't help. Tripping over my snow shoes, I grab at the one of two offending pails, nearly falling into it, and into a tree, and a drift. My local nursery rep had tried to help. He'd offered to haul in and warm a few bales in their greenhouse, for me to pick up. But it won't be dry, which will do me no good. So I'm on my own. I take a moment to breathe, then drag the stubborn object to the side of my sled. I will not let this irritation build into a crisis. At least it's mostly downhill to the house. A heavy, inferior thing will not defeat me, not again. Or shame me, into feeling weak. How many lesser cohorts have tried this trick on me, projecting their own inadequacies, onto my heart? In the end, the truth of who has mettle enough, will be decided by history. I scrabble for a handhold, and finally gaining purchase against the icy plastic, heave ho. There is a dull thud, and the sled looks unsure, tipping as if to ask - why not? No, this is why, I counter, and put my shoulder into it. The whole picture is unpretty. I'm suddenly glad of my privacy, although the week had been scarce of humans. Me, at the base of an outhouse, wrestling a deformed garbage can into submission. This will never happen again, i think, not on my watch. Once the load is moderately in place, I begin to pull. Up over the yurt deck, grabbing the good shovel, the bad shovel, dirty sheets, and trash - all of which need to return to the house. Now, plunging into a couple feet of snow, I pull again, and it slides. Or something like that. A frozen bale of peat moss does not desire to be any part of such a caravan. Cooperation does not come naturally to it. At times like these, I remember to look up at the majestic mountain range, so close and yet so far. It is a beautiful distraction from many woes, if one can rally. I've learned this, yet seem to have to relearn it, almost daily. Now, from where I sit beside my crackling fire, caressed by the cosmic warmth that only a wood stove can relate, I marvel at the black utility sled in my living room, and the quiet repose of the trash can within it, but for a slight sizzle, as melted water evaporates. If all goes well, the inert material hidden in the barrel will begin to crumble. Hauling it back up to the yurt tomorrow will be a struggle, but that is a story for another day. #vermont ",
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"content": "My town is many things to many people. While some clink glasses over a well appointed festive dinner table, others are cold dipping in the frigid mountain waters. Some are trying to recover from illness, and battling loneliness, feeling forgotten; others float in a timeless oasis of familial love & affection. There are kitchen stove tops bubbling with calendula blossoms, for skin cream manufacture; there are yards filled with glowing, plastic Santas & reindeer. Many are glued to electronic devices, arguing politics, maybe angrily, while being cooked for and fed sumptuously from larders fit for kings. While others, across town, are opening a can of soup, and wishing the new year would get on with it, and normalcy return, whatever that is. Vacation rentals bring another layer, of eager, enthusiastic, albeit temporary residents. They are shaking the snow off their hats, as they clomp into a general store, marveling at the magic of being in real Vermont, & at finding a place to buy Sushi-to-go, in the seeming wilderness. Some have to go to work: nurses, waitresses, snow plow drivers and many others who do things we hardly notice until we need them. A lone skier crosses the parking lot of the town offices. A flock of turkeys flies up in front of my truck, slowing me to a crawl, while someone in a big hurry, passes me, unconcerned. I have to remind myself, that I have important things to do also. My pace is not about being female, or old, or a bad driver. I just really like living in a place where you can stop in the middle of the road to salt your sandwich. One person who retired here in the 1990s, had a dancing school that was bombed and destroyed in Germany, during WW2. More than a few, worked for the CIA. A few used to have successful dairies, and herds of healthy cows. One was a brilliant, closeted gay man who lived alone in a cabin with no amenities other than those he invented, until he had to move to town, when his health failed. One who in his early years skied over the mountain gap to get to work, still bartends at that same ski area. A lawyer or two married their secretaries, and moved to the Caribbean. A man who shot our dogs out of spite, then burned some buildings down, and killed someone is still in prison, all these many, many years later.This is our town. We have more than our fair share of do-gooders, municipal servants, selfless angels and hidden gems. It's really exactly like every town. Except that outside this town, there lies a mysterious, wild country, that few have truly explored. I guess you can't have one, without the other. <a href=\"https://www.minds.com/search?f=top&t=all&q=vermont\" title=\"#vermont\" class=\"u-url hashtag\" target=\"_blank\">#vermont</a> ",
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"content": "My town is many things to many people. While some clink glasses over a well appointed festive dinner table, others are cold dipping in the frigid mountain waters. Some are trying to recover from illness, and battling loneliness, feeling forgotten; others float in a timeless oasis of familial love & affection. There are kitchen stove tops bubbling with calendula blossoms, for skin cream manufacture; there are yards filled with glowing, plastic Santas & reindeer. Many are glued to electronic devices, arguing politics, maybe angrily, while being cooked for and fed sumptuously from larders fit for kings. While others, across town, are opening a can of soup, and wishing the new year would get on with it, and normalcy return, whatever that is. Vacation rentals bring another layer, of eager, enthusiastic, albeit temporary residents. They are shaking the snow off their hats, as they clomp into a general store, marveling at the magic of being in real Vermont, & at finding a place to buy Sushi-to-go, in the seeming wilderness. Some have to go to work: nurses, waitresses, snow plow drivers and many others who do things we hardly notice until we need them. A lone skier crosses the parking lot of the town offices. A flock of turkeys flies up in front of my truck, slowing me to a crawl, while someone in a big hurry, passes me, unconcerned. I have to remind myself, that I have important things to do also. My pace is not about being female, or old, or a bad driver. I just really like living in a place where you can stop in the middle of the road to salt your sandwich. One person who retired here in the 1990s, had a dancing school that was bombed and destroyed in Germany, during WW2. More than a few, worked for the CIA. A few used to have successful dairies, and herds of healthy cows. One was a brilliant, closeted gay man who lived alone in a cabin with no amenities other than those he invented, until he had to move to town, when his health failed. One who in his early years skied over the mountain gap to get to work, still bartends at that same ski area. A lawyer or two married their secretaries, and moved to the Caribbean. A man who shot our dogs out of spite, then burned some buildings down, and killed someone is still in prison, all these many, many years later.This is our town. We have more than our fair share of do-gooders, municipal servants, selfless angels and hidden gems. It's really exactly like every town. Except that outside this town, there lies a mysterious, wild country, that few have truly explored. I guess you can't have one, without the other. #vermont ",
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