e n t r e p r e n e u r

I seem to only feel inspired to write on my blog during the winter months. But enough about that, I have another observation of this hardy community I've adopted. And yes, it's regarding snow removal.

B and I marveled at the city-wide parking bans when we first moved to Portland after a wicked snow storm. If you don't move your car to a local parking lot and off the public street, you're towed. A team of quick, agile tow trucks precede the army of eager plow trucks. There's a period of frantic shoveling and tire spinning roughly an hour before the ban starts. At that time it's very common to see industrious young men walking around the streets with a shovel and for a small fee... they'll dig you out.

The bans are successful for a city Portland size. Boston and Chicago (that I know for sure) only plow the streets, not the parking spaces, leaving it up to the local residents to dig out their own spots. Chairs, garbage cans, and laundry baskets litter these urban streets marking well-kept and heavily protected parking slots. Do not try to borrow a space.

Don't do it.

v i e w

Your view while floating on your back in the warm summer water of Kezar Lake hearing only the sound of your own breathing.

s n o w 2

s n o w

My Portland neighbors are organizing their snow.

There is a surprising enthusiasm with the first snowfall. Neighbors with gas-powered snowblowers helping neighbors avoiding heart attacks. Mainers happily sprinkling sand, salt, and often a bright blue salty substance across their newly shoveled walks. Drivers scraping off snow and ice from their cold cars that need moving because of Portland's citywide parking ban - a chaotic decree banning all public streets of parked cars. The hungry mass of gruff snow plowers stand by with warmed trucks and a big thermos of Dunkin Donuts® coffee.

Fluffy frozen water - a few degrees warmer and it would find its own way of disposing itself.

g r a v i t y

Mom and I dug a grave Saturday.

After paying a very awkward and apologetic veterinarian to fill the veins of my mom’s 17 1/2 year old Blue Point Siamese with a candy pink fluid, we watched this tiny slip of a kitty peacefully “fall asleep.” Her forced shallow breathing slowed and then stopped. We cried while mom carried the box to the car both of us remarking that Claire was heavier dead.

After rushing around Portland for various last minute supplies, we raced out to Lovell to dig a grave before it was too dark. Digging a grave after the sun is down, even a very small one, is just too creepy... and impractical.

Mom wanted to bury Claire in Lovell where other family pets “rest.” I understand that my grandfather even buried a horse at the upper end of the field.

It took us roughly 30 minutes to make our way through various levels of Lovell earth to reach a safe 2 1/2 feet. The tight circumference and rocky soil hindered our progress making it impossible to reach the recommended three feet. New England land is tough. (Stone walls are beautiful and were a smart way to mark property for pragmatic settlers who needed to clear fields of ancient glacial debris.) Besides the tough earth blunting our shovels we also ran into a lot of water from recent rains creating an uninviting cold mud puddle at the bottom of the hole. So difficult for my mom considering she was just kissing her kitty’s warm head earlier that morning.

We wrapped her in a white cloth after taking one last look at her curled up peacefully inside a tiny shoebox. All of the levels of earth were then piled back in the hole on top of Claire with the rocks last to mark the grave.

No eulogy but a simple goodbye.

We returned the next morning to check for any evidence of furry grave robbers but instead found a feral cat sitting in the early winter sun on a huge boulder two feet from Claire’s grave. Finding a cat outside in this rural part of Maine is unusual. We agreed that this vigilant cat was there to keep Claire company.

Or was it there to show mom Claire was not alone?

i n f e s t a t i o n

We’ve been outnumbered by ladybugs.

Fall has brought an infestation of Asian Lady Beetles looking for the perfect spot for winter hibernation. The cute little red and black polka-dotted beetles have swarmed our property and seem especially attracted to our light-colored house. We’ve been assured that they still symbolize good luck even numbering in the thousands. Sadly, many have been squashed around the site and many more encased in the house structure as we seal their fate while laying red cedar shingles.

No other insect could make me feel such remorse.

Ladybug ladybug fly away home,

Your house in on fire and your children are gone,

All except one and that’s little Ann,

For she crept under the frying pan.

Remember?

l o s t

Do you know how it feels to be lost? Not metaphorically, really lost.

In the woods?

My younger brother visited mid-September. We took a quick hike above Cushman Pond. I knew just where I was going, until I didn’t.

We zigged when we should have zagged.

I have absolutely no inner-compass and should always remember to do the opposite that my gut tells me. When traveling I rely on Barry who has an incredible sense of direction. I am an excellent map reader and can find the shortest route anywhere. However, my brother and I didn’t have a map, we had me.

Hiking guidebooks advise that you carry emergency supplies even on short 1-2 hour trips. I carried with me a pint of water for our three-mile hike. No energy bar. No bars even on my brother’s iPhone.

Our one-hour hike became four.

We found ourselves in the middle of the Five Kezars. We headed West refusing to turn around. When I guessed we were on the Old Waterford Road after seeing a Kezar Falls sign, I knew we were in trouble. Kezar Falls is in the middle of nowhere.

I had never experienced being lost. Ever. Panic sets in. The Maine woods get very dark at night when there’s only a sliver of a moon and the forest is dense. I began thinking of the black bear, moose, and coyote that were just waiting for it to get dark enough to make their move. Periodically my adrenaline would rise up and tickle my uvula. Swallowing hard, I would push it back down benefiting only in a quickened pace.

It was 5:45 when we hitched a ride seven miles away from Route 5. If it was mid morning I would’ve been up for the adventure, but lowering evening temperatures and still no real grasp on our location were cause for alarm. I realized the depth of our situation while sitting in a beat up old Subaru making small talk to our angelic driver, her two friends, and her baby, who kindly delivered us to the bottom of 5A where we humbly walked up the tar road home.

Our real danger was minimal but a big fat reality check for a casual hiker.