(Photo taken from Route 16 in Conway, by Linda Burns, a Troubadour reader from Conway, NH)

The Walk

by Linda Lambert

Winter silence brings peace to Bridgewater Hill.
The slap of the wind on my face forces
my steps to hasten.
The sky opens to majestic vistas,
It restores my soul.

The dog named Angus is spirited beyond control,
Leading the way, stopping to mark his spot.
He bounds ahead, turning on occasion,
To see if his friend is close behind.

Snow capped mountains, fields blanketed by white,
pure and untouched. The farm gate shivers
and clangs as the wind skips over the fields.
Birches bend and groan.

The sun has kissed the unpaved roads,
Which reminds me of the New Hampshire
season called……MUD
Spring water that refreshes in summer has
ceased its flow; hibernating until the earth
is free from its cold embrace.

My return is fraught with ice patches and
rutted roads. I approach where the wind
sweeps across my path.
My hat is pulled down, mittens secured,
the jacket zipper is pulled up to my chin.
This crossing is affectionately called, the tundra.

The warmth of home and thoughts of hot chocolate
with a floating island of marshmallow keeps
me focused on my goal.
Angus speeds up his approach. We’re almost home.
Home sweet home.

(Linda Lambert is a Troubadour reader from Amherst, NH)

Massabesic Trails

by Tom Andrew

Across a rolling meadow the skier makes his way.
Through silky snow, fresh and crisp, a slender trail invites the traveler
toward distant trees to visit here this cold and frosty, glistening day.
And there, deep within the solemn silence of a wood,
a vast and sylvan expanse,
I came upon a bosky glade and lingered there as in a trance.

“Rat-tat-tat”- the woodpecker taps staccato sounds
among the sighing trees.
Within the lonely isolation of these woods
a welcome companion speaks to me from his lofty perch,
and many wondrous tales to tell had he.

He told of spirits of the woods,
of disembodied ghosts and imps,
of the ancient Seneca, Passaquo, the hunter,
who dwells yet amid this place;
of unseen creatures, sprites and nymphs,
all those who visit here without offense.
Bur ere I could bid him stay,
with no further word, alas, he flew away.

(Tom Andrew is a Troubadour reader from Hampstead, NH)

Recession or Depression?

Does it really matter? Remember the adage—if my neighbor loses his/her job, it’s a recession. If I lose my job, it’s a depression.

I recently opened an old (non-copyright) cookbook at my favorite thrift shop, to the following recipe:

Eisenhower Stew
To 4 tablespoons hot fat, add 2 pounds beef, cubed and brown. Add:
2 peppercorns                    ½ teaspoon thyme
1 bay leaf                        pinch of cayenne
3 cloves                        1 clove garlic
3 cans beef bouillon
Cover and simmer for 1 hour. Add:
1 pound potatoes                        8 or 10 small onions
1 bunch carrots                        2 tomatoes, chopped
Cover and simmer for 40 minutes. Remove spice and thicken with 3 tablespoons flour.

This quickly brought to mind the leanest times my husband and I have ever experienced in our 55 years of marriage. It was during the Eisenhower administration in the 1950’s. Good times and bad times come and go. I hope that our country will come through this recession/depression stronger and more able to manage finances—both personal and governmental.

(Anita Hart was born in the east bedroom of the Lone Pine Farmhouse in Stark, NH and has lived all her life (so far) within a 20-mile radius of the farm.)

The Wild Life

by Beverly Stanier

People from away come to our rural New Hampshire home expecting to see moose, deer, and bear wandering around the yard, as though we run a wildlife refuge.  Visiting family ask whether they’ll see a moose this time; as if we can order up a moose to go, like an ice cream cone from Ben and Jerry’s.  In truth, we are as thrilled as anyone to see wildlife ambling through our yard, the reward for sharp eyesight and keen hearing.

Early one morning, a large brown mound in Teacup Lake stopped me in my tracks. Head down, feasting on pond lilies, a large bull moose lifted his rack, spying me as I spied him.  Knee-deep in pond water, shoots clenched in his jaw, he silently watched me.  Confident I meant no harm, he continued moseying along the water’s edge munching greens, until turning to swim away.

It’s a thrill for me to see a doe and her spotted progeny on the edge of an open meadow, cautiously alert, ready to flee with the flip of a tail.  One afternoon when blueberries were plentiful in the field, I saw two bears and a coyote feasting on August’s bounty.  I like picking berries in that field, too, but always scan it carefully before venturing in with my pail.  After crouching low picking, I find it unsettling to stand and see not-so-very-far-away bears sharing my patch.

Visitors to our home are more likely to see chipmunks playing tag on our fieldstone walls, snakes coiled on the rocks of the barn foundation basking in the sun, and broad-winged hawks on high.  P-wee-e-e-e, p-wee-e-e-e, we hear their high-pitched plaintive whistle and watch them coasting on thermals.  Turtle sightings are common in spring.  They lay their eggs in the loose gravel at the road edge.  Ruby throated hummingbirds dart and whirr in our flower gardens.  And, seldom seen but often heard, coyotes wail sending eerie shivers through the stillness of a summer’s eve.

Fox, beaver, otter…..keep an eye out.  You’ll see.  We do live the wild life.

(Beverly Stanier is a Troubadour reader from Center Sandwich, NH)