Sealing the Foundation of a Colonial Maine Homestead With Balsam Fir Bows

Sealing the Foundation of a Colonial Maine Homestead With Balsam Fir Bows

            This is an annual domestic activity.  It is not a task.

            “Really?”

            The lethargic of the seated homeowners and their passive

            Pathetic energies merge with their misappropriated sound stance that they;

            Doing nothing

            Therefore know what a task is and

            This (sealing the foundation of a colonial Maine homestead with Balsam Fir bows)

            Is one.

            “Really?”

            That’s done.  Or is it?

            No.  Restating:

            MOST PEOPLE... “need the exercise” (so spoken), avoid physical activities and title such actions as this (sealing the foundation of a Colonial Maine homestead with Balsam Fir bows) as ‘work’ “to be avoided”; this annual task (sealing the foundation of a Colonial Maine homestead with Balsam Fir bows).

            “Are we done with this now?”

            NO:  Your still just sitting there in front of the lost titled “boob tube”.

            I, in the Maine November air, am “out in the woods”  We have forty acres of “woods” (“forest land”).  I am looking, as annually, for Balsam Fir tree “blow downs”; large and larger trees that have recently “BLOWN DOWN”.  Preferably blown down since the first of the month (November).  There is always at least one.  And I find it.

            I want a dream tree; forty five feet tall once standing on a high rock ledge “overlooking” towards the sea.  A ‘been there for decades’ thick top bushy mess of dense packed wonderfully smelling long, long, long wind worn mashed thickness of tiptop leafage that came crashing down some windy night.  And nobody saw this.

            But I, hunting for it, find it in the November afternoon light and...

            “It’s mine”.

            I actually found two smaller (shorter) ones this fall.  That is not uncommon.  But... it means I have ‘enough’ ‘bows’ to do ‘everything’(seal the foundation of a Colonial Maine homestead with Balsam Fir bows).  “And more”

            “And more” includes covering small Rhododendrons from being eaten by the winter’s starving deer, covering the heather bed on their exposed rock ledge, covering the Pachysandra along the front door’s path and... making a wreath to hang on that front door.

All of this from blown down Balsam leafage ‘hauled’ from the forest?  Just giddy and dizzy I am from the pungent airs wrapping my clothing.  “Almost pitch covered” that smell.  “Isn’t that so?”.  So armed, literally, with the fragrance it becomes my seasonal utopia; my estuary of air chasing my every action.

            The action is the ‘work’ and ‘task’ I noted earlier.  Yes:  I smell like that from doing something and that something is hauling cart loads of thick Balsam Fir bows... for days.  Oh yes that IS a peril that wishes the holiday’s away?  Yes is it not:  To smell strongly of Balsam Fir for late November days... as I “work”.

            I have always been ‘the Balsam Fir’.  And never anything else including the “fake Christmas tree’.  A lot (all?) of ‘that stuff’ has come along in my lifetime.  I missed it; these innovative adoptions that wantonly foist the November / December holidays with “PINE BOWS” of the ‘all sorts’.  I have never bought a Christmas Tree.

            My parents did; along the roadside with the white light bulbs.  I remember that very clearly.  Always the same and always “a Balsam Fir”.  That last was ‘done’, not spoken of.  My father’s eye for a ‘good tree’ was savage.  No overruling or second suggestion was ever needed; Balsam Fir is New England Wasp.

            My family, in our Christmas Tree lifetime, cut ours ‘in the woods’.  No “this one no this one” stuff.  We cut a young Balsam Fir that just ‘touches’ the (1750) Colonial Maine homestead’s ceiling (82”) without considering the old “not level” floor of Colonial boards.  Our “tree” just goes “up”.  The real action is around the outside foundation line of the house.  We... “ho, ho, ho”, decorate that.  Carefully... but not obsessively.

            While somewhere along the way a wreath is made for the front door, the real outside Balsam Fir bows sleigh ride starts at the coldest corner; the northeast, and covers the whole homestead’s foundation line; the line where cut stone (field quarried granite) contacts the ‘old wood’ (sills) of the actual old wooden box of ‘house’.  “Around the house we go”... what?  We work in both direction from the corner to reach its far point sunny friend corner at the full opposite of the ‘cold corner’.  Carefully and considerately done this takes ‘days’ of ‘an hour or so here and there’.  Unless an early fall blizzard is coming “TONIGHT” there is “no hurry”.  Relax and enjoy this task... this work.  Have you seen what other people do with their time on earth?  One is much better off with ‘foundation level’ Balsam Fir bows.

            Originally I laid old rough cut pine boards against the foundation line and then buried those under Balsam bows.  The intention is to prepare the foundation line to ‘catch’ and ‘capture’ the snow.  This crusts and freezes in place so ‘seals’ the line “from the wind” (and cold).  Today... and the last decades... large sheets of plastic have appeared in neglect and ‘don’t want’ at household clean out sales.  These, acquired for ‘pittance’ I cut into four foot wide (sort of) strips and tack them with small shingle nails along the foundation line.  I then support these placements with scraps of pine poles and ... in actual fact... 1830’s handmade bricks “made right here” I was given when a neighbor took down an old chimney of an 1830 addition “butted onto his cape”.  They are my collection.  I show them around the foundation when they are not in actual use (for this annual foundation sealing).

            Just for the record I will notice that this ‘old handmade brick’ is “quite nice”.  Handling them each season increases ones sense of what an ‘old brick’ may be... could be... can be... and... can be a part of ones aesthetic AND Colonial New England aesthetic should one choose to include ‘old bricks’ in ones life... style.  They do not sell them at box stores and one... must keep the eye out if one becomes an ‘old brick hunter’.  They are around but are rare in piles. Most are found in small gathers and, of course, the “OH!” discovery of a  “very old” lone lost brick... one promptly purloins. That may make one giddy with delight.

            As the plastic with the pole pieces and brick are placed along the foundation, the Balsam bows follow behind being placed to fully cover this plastic shield.  The more and the thicker, denser the Balsam bows the more abundant the cover and... the more ‘full contact’ the bow man has with the stink and smell of these ...wonderful holiday wonders; the Balsam Fir bow. I find myself puttering and dawdling in the November sun with the bushy bundles.  I use a pitch fork to place the bows.  A pitchfork is my friend for it removes a lot of ‘bending over’.  Upright one always feels in command of the task... the work... in progress. 

Before I know it I am done;

Rounding the far corner

            In the sun.

            I stand back and admire the fair job; the horrid holiday task, now a ‘completed work’.  The task was a special moment of my ‘each fall’.

Thick and Shaggy

Thick and Shaggy

Between ... and about... November fourteenth and December fourth I have my annual active contact with Balsam Fur trees and their leafage.  This is the season slot when I employ, by harvest, their leafage for the winterization of our ...Maine (New England) Colonial era homestead.  I’ll get back to that in another post.

The do-course of that annual farm ritual includes a dumpage of a ...farm utility hand cart load... of the thickest Balsam Fur bows I “can get”... out in front of the barn’s doors...

So I may make our wreath

For our front door

Of our

Colonial era (1750’s) Maine (New England) homestead.

This is not a craft project.  This is not an art thought.  This is not a “What do you think?”

No.

When the right moment arrives... with I preferring the mid-afternoon time slot on Thanksgiving Day... because no one will bother me and... being in front of the barn doors that are “back from the road” the holiday drive-by “I SEE YOU” are too far off AND ‘on mission’ preoccupied to

“...Ahhhh...”

NONE THE LESS my exposed position IS factored in so I ...stick to task.  That’s where we first part company.  This is not a ‘start up’ event for I.  No.  I have been doing this for... I say... thirty-five to forty years... ‘here now’.  Yep.  And just this same every year.

I ‘fetch-off’ last years now browned but otherwise ‘whole’ wreath from under its ‘chucked there’ woodshed repose.  (I DO see it all year in this ritual storage.)  I carry the wreath in the cart to the front of the barn.  I get my nippers, scissors and “wreath wire” off of and out of the tool bench.  (I have never ‘bought’ any of these ‘tools’ because I ‘get’ them from ‘estate cleanouts’).  I stand before the open barn doors.  I am dressed in my go in the woods during ‘Deer Season’ full ‘safety orange’ battle gear.  I... START

By snipping off the dead dry old Balsam Fur bows with the scissors cutting the last years wire.  This dead waste falls off into the empty cart.  Next I snip up a bountiful pile of “THAT-OUGHT-tah do it!” fresh ‘thickest possible’ Balsam bows from the dumpage pile.  The ‘doing that’ smells great.

Once piled, I turn back to the old (thirty plus years of same yearly usage) wire wreath ring.  Additionally... I have preserved the old 1970’s cheesy and ratty red wreath bow that, once again, I notice the thick dust on its backside that I always look at and... never clean off.  (no one has ever noticed this dust safe)

No one knows that ...treasure... is there... ever... either.

Going hard tack (sailor’s term) around the wreath ring with fist full and hard handed gripped grabs of bows that are cinched wrapped by the wire from the wreath wire roll following these grabs right behind... I bind these bow grabs to the wire ring.  Again:  This is a vigorous and swift action... enhanced by being out in front of a Maine (old) barn door and having NO ONE else THERE.

Left alone at this creation procedure I quickly create a heavy (15 pounds) full

            THICK and SHAGGY

Christmas / Holidays wreath for our

Old Colonial era homestead’s front door.

I ‘balance’ the wreath by ‘trimming’ it  (“giving it a haircut”); very quickly hanging it “UP” on an old nail on the small barn door and “going at that”... and tying the old dust safe... safe harbor... bow on with its ‘I’ve done that for forty years’ twisted wire and

Stand back and snip a bit more and

On down to the house’s (“I HEARD IT GOING UP” – The Wife)

Front door

To be hung up’

On that..

Front door

“NOW”.

That is ‘making’ a

Real old Colonial Maine farm Balsam Fur wreath

Takes about an hour from bow pile at the barn door to front door

Of our home

Hung.

Maine Critters. After the Fourth of July

Maine Critters

After the Fourth of July

            Maine Critters:

            You don’t know what I mean by that and you don’t have any contact with them.  You could have seen one.  See one.  Think you see one.  Wonder if ‘that’s one’

            “There”

            “That Fella.”  You wouldn’t even say that.  Out loud.

            “You’ve been BY ‘em; been CLOSE to one?  You say?

            I don’t think so.  Mister.

            They don’t like July.  “Too hot”.  So they are ornery.  And circulate amongst themselves.  They don’t “do anything like that” (“put the boat in”) (“crap”).  They “GO UP TO CAMP.”  Mostly... if they have one.  A camp.  But MOST of the Maine Critters... do not have a ‘camp’ to ‘go to’ and

            LIVE IN a ‘camp like’.... NO IT AIN’T ‘camp like’:  Those are OTHER camps other people “OWN” that are... ‘camp like...’ sort of ...like a Maine Critter’s

            HOUSE (HOME).

            There we go:  NOW we are starting off the trail and into ‘the brush beside that trail.  NOT that you’d KNOW THAT (you going off the trail) even when

            YOU SMELL IT.

            So we’ll go back and walk through again.

            Maine Critters do not like July.  It is too hot.  They stay home at what fancy folk try to emulate and title their “camp”.  But Critter Camps are THEIR HOME.  What does that mean?  Well we start with “no power” (electricity) “except”.  That last word, when linked to “power” is a whole ‘on-going’ subject.  That I don’t have to touch.  Because it is JULY so

            A Maine Critter “doesn’t need it” (power) “Now”.

            Then there is “water” (at a Critter’s home).  Explanation words include “well”, “spring”, “carry in” and “don’t have it” (“running water”)

            No bathroom (in the B, B and Beyond) sense.  Or in your mind’s eye “camp” sense.

            Nope:  There is a ‘shit house’ (outhouse) that... in July... is not seeing the same usage it sees in January.  “IN JULY... I GOT THE WHOLE DAMN MAINE WOODS to SHIT IN so what do I want to USE (mess up) THAT (the outhouse) FOR?”.

            Food:  Crackers.  Peanut butter.  Cheese.  And:  “There IS a LOT of food around” for Critters... in Maine... in July.  They probably are not as “interested” in a salad dressing  you “I MADE” and would probably eat ALL the radishes on a “BUNCH” without your notice or comment until “AFTER” “THEY WERE GONE”.  YES they (Maine Critters) stew Dandelion greens but that was

            BACK IN THE SPRING.

            This is JULY.  “TOO HOT” to stew anything.  Or is it?

            When I know ‘critters’ are ‘about’ during the heat of July mornings I know because I am told.  They say to me, for an example...; a come forth from the mouth of a retired barber from ‘around Boston’ (a ‘Masshole’):  “YOUR MAKING ME HOT JUST LOOKING AT YOU”.  He means the wool cap I am wearing.  The cotton bandana (old Boy Scout neckerchief) I am wearing.  The wool “FILSON” shirt I am wearing.  The long leg ‘old chino’ (Bean’s) VERY LOOSE (“too big”) fit (and field use dirty) “pants” (Critters do not wear ‘blue jeans’) WITH SUSPENDERS... and a belt... (all critters wear them both) and... wear the, traditionally, tall  (full standard lace) Bean Boots... I am too... wearing.  For the record this is too... a... standard... ‘not worried about ticks’ outfit.

            HE (the barber from Masshole) is wearing... “camp moccasins” with no socks, faux Madras shorts, a shirt that suggests he plays polo and an up front belly the size of a small beer keg ‘hanging over’ “his balls”.  No hat.  That ‘this’, then, is the separation of church and state of...

            Maine Critters.

            I ain’t taking my shirt off to please that guy.  NO I am not taking my BOOTS off.  I don’t care if you ‘get bit’ from not wearing a bandana.  YOU can get the damn tick at your hair line off.  I don’t want to... and never do (find one) “ON ME”.

            So at five in the morning one critter confided to me that he’d “started a fire’ when he got up.  That morning.  It is a ‘hotter than Hell’ July ‘didn’t go below seventy last night’ morning in Maine and this guy (critter) ‘started a fire’ in his woodstove to KEEP WARM.  Okay now we’re getting somewhere.  RIGHT?

            How many layers is he wearing?

            NOW we’re getting somewhere.  RIGHT?  Five layers? (shirts).  DOWN from seven layers a “MONTH AGO”.  Oh you don’t think so?  Yeah well when you get to ‘peel off’ layer FOUR your gonna know by nostril your getting into ‘old’ territory.  His bare chest has, simply, NEVER seen daylight that ‘anyone can remember’.

            In July, Maine Critters... “come out from camp” (leave their remote home) and “of course” (as always, year round “anyway”) attend the flea markets.  July offers ‘outdoor’ flea markets in addition to the year round ‘indoor’ flea markets.  Critters attend both in July.  And.

            It’s the ‘and’ I nuance.  Foremost, understand that in July (and year round for that matter) a ‘flea market’ is not only considered a safe haven to appear in public for a Maine Critter but is also a sort of dock in the ‘out and about’ world of a Maine Critter that they may, at any time of need ...paddle over to and hold on to when paddling their canoe upon the lake of ‘out and about’.  NOW that may be of little consideration especially if one views the Maine Critter’s world as being socially misfit, miss begot and ...just simply (you) missed (it).  Maine Critters are very sensitive to NOT attracting your attention.  So a “beat ass back to the flea market” is the full blown game plan ‘emergency evacuation route’.  NOT that you’d notice.

            Until we get to the “It’s the ‘and’ I nuance”.

            The Maine Critter’s world view includes a heavy view value placed on ‘food’... notably ‘bear bait’ food such as cookies, donuts, breads, breads filled with anything, breads made by farmer’s daughters neatly wrapped with little handmade labels saying ‘what it is’ including the visual support of a big gob of homemade ‘her raspberry jam’...  And...:

            Pie.

            In July

            Rhubarb pie.

            No ‘Rhubarb and’ pie.  JUST

            RHUBARB

            PIE.

But the nuance is the source... of the bear bait offerings:  “Farmer’s Markets”, so called... and often found suspiciously (conveniently) close to a ‘flea market’.  This, applied to the ‘paddle to’ dock denoted above, allows the Maine Critter an irresistible ‘drawn to’ bear bait trap that forges, as a blacksmith hammers a horseshoe on an anvil, a singular world of Maine Critter notice.  These old critters and the farmer’s market farmer’s daughters have a mutual border world they share, inclusive of the ‘known-to-critters’ denotation that the critters “ogle” a bit too.  But the nuance

            Is the Rhubarb Pie

            In July. (“Is she still making ‘em?”)

            I won’t go so far as to say “I SEE” a whole rhubarb pie ‘set out’ in a truck cab for a “MISTER WILLARD WHEN HE COMES BY YOU KNOW HE (can talk with wild ducks he says)”.  Mr. Willard has five shirts on

            In July.

            But he also brought along a little ‘witch stick’ he whittled himself and that ends up sitting on the truck seat when he leaves.  His cash payment for the “He buys one from me every week” pie is always “put in her pocket I watch her do that”.  I said ‘ogle’ above.  “I’ve always liked milk maids” Mister Willard told me once.

            It’s a special relationship, now quite common in Maine... at flea markets and farmer’s markets:  Critters and local baked goods.  “Coffee” is another ‘plus’.  Yes, Mister Willard and his fellows know a ‘good cup’ of “her coffee”.  They retreat back to the flea market to “eat” and then

            “GO BACK”.

            Yep... the whole damn morning is filled with what I just... it is NOT a ‘five minute deal’.  The critters know who, what, why, how and ‘did she MAKE’ “THIS WEEK”.  They know.  They hunt.  They track.  They sight in.  And don’t get their belly too full for then they don’t shut-up.  And that includes the ‘ogle’.  You can see it coming.  Send in the tow truck and tow the critter away before he...:  “Time for you to go back to camp Mr. Willard.”

            It is a fine line

            But it is real human interaction.  It is not on the cyber space.  It is, too, a mutual fascination.  For example:  What starts as a suggestion that including a ‘strip of bacon’ to go with a broccoli / spinach stuffed “roll” (every baked good, excepting ‘cookie’, ‘donut’ and ‘pie’ is a “roll” to a critter.) ends in a ‘I know those bugs too mine had it I got rid of them with that LAVENDER dish soap the GAL sells down at the WATERFRONT (farmer’s) market”.  You don’t need to understand what they are talking about.  It’s just a couple of Maine Critters chatting at ‘the market’.