The Aftermath
Three months of hassle-free homesteading. Is it really too much to ask?
“Happy New Year! Are we having fun yet?” shouts our neighbor Jean Tierney (not the actress) as we walk back from the main road on parallel snow-covered gravel roads that wind back into our properties. We’re some 50 yards apart, but our voices carry in the clear, cold sunny afternoon air.
I wave and shout back. “SO MUCH FUN! How did you do in the storms?”
“No TV. No phone. No electricity—which means no shower,” shouts Jean. “Tree limbs down. Stove pipe ripped in half. What about you guys? Looks like the storm took down the outbuilding on the side of your house there.”
“What?” I shout back. “I don’t think so. I think we’re fine.”
“Oh. Maybe it’s just that the snow’s up to the roof on that one,” shouts Jean.
Erik and I pole through the snow as we make our way back up our half-mile driveway. As we come to the bend where our road curves over a seasonal creek, now running with the first snow melt, we see it: The shed beside the cabin is indeed down.
“Thanks for the heads up!” I shout to Jean as our paths diverge and we pass out of hearing range. She waves back.
At the cabin (variously referred to as “the studio” and “the little house” or “the guest house”) we dig ourselves a path to the front door and around to the west side of the building where we can take a closer look at the shed.
“It’s a goner,” I say.
“Yep,” says Erik.
It appears an overhanging limb of a live oak, too heavy with the weight of the accumulated snow and ice, cracked off and hit the shed roof, pushing the entire structure gently but firmly southward before sliding off to the east side. The shed roof looks intact, but the tree trunk pillars holding it up are folded down neatly, parallel to the ground.
We contemplate the pile in companionable silence.
“Still, it’s a fine-looking roof,” says Erik. “We could do something with that.”
“A cat house for Mr. Bond and other strays,” I offer. “Or we could pour cement and use it to cover a picnic area in the upper meadow. Or build a carpark.”
“All possibilities,” says Erik.
We stand a bit longer, and finally Erik sighs. “What happened to that Solstice gift you promised? ‘Three months of hassle-free homesteading.’ What’s the start date on that?”
After seven years of projects, I know Erik is ready for a break. And we should be at the point now where the work is primarily maintenance. Except for the unforeseen. Like this event.
“Well,” I say, “Seems like we’ve run into supply chain issues with that one. Hopefully it’ll get here soon.”
Fingers crossed.