Terra Nova

Newfoundland -- first mapped as "Terra Nova" -- and Labrador, named for a Portuguese sailor, meaning "landowner" -- look cool on the map of North America, and because they're huge, mostly roadless, difficult to access, and nobody I know has been there, and I was seeking myself because I'd lost myself--that much I knew, but not how or when--after four years of yearning to do it I chose to spend 12 days in the province in northeastern Canada that seemed to mirror me.

Towns such as L'ans Amor ("Love Cove"; formerly named L'ans a Mort, "Cove of Death," but I'm told tourists like sweeter names), with a population of 6, are common. The words for this land are "pristine" and "extreme." The green and blue ocean is clear to its bottom; icebergs and whales swan by. Winters are abrupt, long, and bitter; no fruits, vegetables, or grains grow there; except for fish there's no farming or processing; all other products must be shipped in. You eat seafood and potatoes, and pay $2.50 for an orange. Polar bears ride into tiny towns on icebergs from Greenland and ransack houses. Jacques Cartier called it "the land that God gave Cain." Yet in June, July, and August pointed black and white fir trees cover the coasts, and lakes, rivers, mountains, and wildflowers; just now the wild irises are blooming. In Labrador it was 55 degrees and fleece was my best friend.

The road in the photo, in western Newfoundland near the Gros Morne ("Big Sad One") National Park, looks nice, but half of it is under construction, impossible at any other time of year. We didn't get to Blow Me Down Provincial Park on the west side of the island. The roads in Labrador, on the other hand, are terrible, all of them, every inch, period; the partially paved Trans-Labrador Highway breaks the suspensions and axles of buses. Awesome. Extreme. With trackless sea and stone and fjords and icebergs and timber you get a sense of the entire planet. And I got a sense of my place in it and that there might be more to the story of my life.

...What's That Smell?

I had just served fresh pasta and hearty Italian tomato sauce to an appreciative guest, and stepped out on the screened porch where in February the opened bottle of wine keeps cold between pours, and --God Almighty-- a skunk had gotten into an altercation nearby, and the fumes made my my sinuses throb. My city guest called to me, "Zare a skunk out there?" The stink invaded my dining room although I slammed the door shut fast. Angel cake ala skunk suddenly became dreadfully unappealing.

I lit a scented candle and said, let's go into the living room and watch Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler. The skunky atmosphere crept in and we kept our breathing shallow. See, my city friends love to come out and visit, but I need a disclaimer that I'm not responsible if a skunk has a bad date with a coyote just outside, or a blacksnake is hunting mice in the bathroom. What is the etiquette if a skunk (the animal, not the human kind) ruins your evening? Do you politely pretend it doesn't reek to high heaven although your eyes feel bathed in onion juice? Do you ask pardon? Do you feel freer to expel your own gas? How about, "I know you want to get the hell out of here ASAP, so at your leisure please feel free to take the opportunity"?

My Machete

Demetrius the Gardener died almost two years ago now, and left in my garage his machete, his favorite and most savage tool, which I never touched until today because I was afraid of its size, weight, and wickedly sharp double-edged head. It's 54 inches tall. I'm 62 inches tall. He also left me all the heavy outdoor work he used to do.

My winter project is clearing two years' worth of weeds, briars, fallen branches and Japanese honeysuckle around my twin oaks, with an eye toward a hammock or treehouse between them someday, and I've toiled along with a weed whip and then brushcutters, but in places the brush (you can see some of it behind my blue jacket there) made barriers so dense I couldn't cut through them except with an axe -- or the machete. As usual when I'm reluctant I told myself, "Ain't nobody gonna do it FOR you," and got to work and learned it. The concave side was good for hacking down piles and layers, six feet tall, of dry fallen branches; the convex side for pulverizing them.

While I worked I kept peeling off clothing and wondered why I dreaded winter when it wasn't that bad at all. And every now and then I rested, because I'm older now, and saw that the machete was really a handsome tool. And when I got tired I took off my work gloves and told myself, "Put the machete away now; you have no business using such a thing when you're tired," congratulating myself on my wisdom, except I told myself, "Just a few more minutes" and that's when I cut and scraped my hand -- not on the machete, but on a dry branch sticking up. I said, "Okay, I get it; that was a warning," and put the machete away for the day.

Open House

The kitchen door and screen here aren't flush with the doorjamb. Underneath and through those doors have slunk and marched and flown all sorts of creatures, right into my house like they owned the place. In October, spiders creep in to take refuge for the winter. I once had a Halloween dinner for family and it was as if I had ordered spiders to walk across the room every minute as a party favor.

Mouse settled in and stashed an ounce or two of cracked corn in the toe of a boot I don't often wear. That same year a mouse (the same frugal mouse?) made a silo in the ring-binding of my Betty Crocker cookbook. During a really hard winter when all food is secured against mice, they scratch at and eat my Ivory soap. In the pantry closet, just last month, a mouse chewed a stack of 250 table napkins to shreds and built a fabulous nest of them.

Wasps buzz indoors and sleep or build nests all winter up in a window frame. I found one who drowned in a jar of honey (I'd lost the cap and topped it with saran wrap and a rubber band; the wasp broke its way through). They sleep all winter in window frames, and in spring wake up trapped behind the plastic window insulation. The question is, how do I free them and direct them out of the house without getting stung? (I'd squash them, but they get really aggressive when I try!!)

During the drought of 2006, a lizard in search of water came in beneath the door and spent two weeks residing in the laundry room. I grew fond of him and named him Harrison.

Moths flutter in starting in August, planning to eat my clothes and blankets, and I chase 'em but rarely catch 'em. Once, though, I was boiling some sugar water for hummingbird nectar, and a moth flew right into it and boiled to death. I said to it, "What were you thinking?"

Woke up on a very rainy night, and there in the bathroom was a foot-long blacksnake in who probably came in under the kitchen door so he/she would not be drowned. Night crawlers, plain earthworms, fuzzy caterpillars and large centipedes do this also. These I pick up and throw outside.

Every year a "walking stick" comes and hangs on the screen door at eye level. Clearly he wants my attention. I tell him thanks, but he's not my type. Then he changes his color, comes back and looks hopeful: "Is this more your type?"

Somebody cut the kitchen door wrong long ago -- looks as if it was done with a handsaw -- just about a half-inch too high, and curved -- and it can't be fixed.

Mom's Roosters

I'm told Mom's rooster collection began with a pair of salt and pepper shakers...and this aint all of em, either. I can understand why people like roosters: confident, crowing, pretty, winged, masculine, symbol of the daytime.

The Country Newspaper

Among the delights of rural living is the local newspaper, in our case called "The Current." Issued twice a month, it is packed with ads and interviews with local merchants and members of the Chamber of Commerce, plus photographs of local awards ceremonies, benefit events, and ribbon-cuttings -- and the goings-on at the food pantry and Senior Center. I favor those photos of a philanthropic group handing over a poster-sized check to whoever gets it. I also enjoy finding out what names folks are giving their babies these days: Painter, Logan, Chance, Destiny, Harley. All the writing and photography is bylined by one person, except for the Letters column. This week's Current front-page headline is especially charming: "Kiwanis Celebrates 15 Years of Bowling." But see for yourself...I read every word, including the "On Grandma and Grandpa's Knee" anecdotes.

There's an election April 6 and you can bet this week's Letters column is a hoot.

VFW: Entertainer with Squeezebox

Lunch today at the VFW, a benefit, featuring homemade Italian sausage, peppers and onions, and mostaccioli pasta -- & sprinkle on that Parmesan. Diners were serenaded by this concertina player. He isn't blind, he just wears shades. He told me the concertina was made in Louisiana by a Cajun, and for such a small instrument it had surprisingly deep sound. This guy sang, too: "Never on Sunday," and "That's Amore," and I had a wonderful lunch hour today. Yeah, I ate everything on the plate, plus I drank the beer.

Meal #53,672: Organic Beef Salad

Hawkeye and I were dining out and she & I figured we each eat 1,000 meals a year, given that we skip some, and she had therefore eaten 55,000 meals and me 53,000 and change. If you work hard and play hard it stands to rights that you should eat well. Here you see that a friend gifted me with an organic beefsteak I pan-fried and sliced and tossed into an organic-lettuce salad -- that way I got everything good-for-me in one bowl. It looked so tasty I wanted you to at least see it. Dessert was watermelon. That's not wine; it's grape juice cut with water. I never drink by myself (wish you'd been here; I would've brought out some real wine!). But I like the look and it don't taste bad either. Some time ago I realized that if I don't feed myself good no one else will!

Yeah, it's the same kind of bowl I use for grits. I have a passion for this set of 6 (now 5) Williams-Sonoma pasta plates from the middle 1990s, got pictures of herbs in the bottom.

Where the Hail You From?

Everybody loves lettin' other folks know where they hail from, and here's the push-pin map down at Gary's/Dowd's Catfish and BBQ Restaurant in Lebanon, MO. They serve mighty good catfish, plus mashed potatoes better than Mom's, and then the red-velvet cake -- well, just get yourself down there to Lebanon, if you like catfish and can't ketch em yourself. I been there twice; it's worth the two-hour drive each way. You can see from the map that lots of locals eat there; always the sign of good food.

Wild Petunia & Friend

The poet James Russell Lowell -- "What is so rare as a day in June?" went on to write in the same celebratory poem, "There is no blade of grass too mean/to be some happy creature's palace" -- and today I found a grasshopper enthroned in a Hairy Wild Petunia (Ruellia humilis), common Ozark wildflower. Photograph taken very early this dewy morning.

Joining the 21st Century

The Divine Cabin has joined the 21st century; thought you'd like to know. Last night I got to watch Kill Bill and then a 1986 Mike Tyson fight. Wow. And that after a 30-mile cruise on the freeway seeing all the fireworks from the all the towns from the city to out-here. And that was after dinner at my favorite Italian place, with good comp'ny.

Zion Oakfield United Church of Christ

I like country churches. This one dedicated in 1879. Note the outhouse at left. Quaint. Church located near what was once Glencoe, Missouri. Unincorporated Glencoe was absorbed by the town of Wildwood.

Cut Hit Bit Shiver Sweat, Part 2

Don’t pee facing uphill.

If it’s Missouri, it’s poison ivy.

After a summer day outdoors, a long hot shower will only drive the ticks deeper into your groin.

Don’t park the car beneath a female Osage-Orange tree when it's dropping 7-ounce hard-shelled fruits.

If you sneak outside wearing only flip-flops, do it after delivery people are done for the day.

Never say, “Aw, it’s too warm for black ice. . .”

Don’t poke at a wasp’s nest with a broom handle.

Cut Hit Bit Shiver Sweat

Stepped on a rake once. The handle up and hit me in the face. Thank God no one saw me. I was 48 years old.

Anyone moving to the country in mid-life has to take the motto "Live and learn." You're going to get cut, scraped, sweaty, bitten. Ants will float in your coffee. I found a wasp drowned and ambered in my jar of honey. You'll slip and fall and be stupid. Live and learn.

A couple days after a flood I stepped up on what seemed like solid-packed creekside debris and fell through it up to my hips.

Stepped in quicksand (silica makes top-notch quicksand). It was like cookie dough and I couldn’t fix it to get one leg out so I could pull out the other one.

On a slick riverbank, fell backward into a bed of stinging nettle. Didn’t know what it was. Eight seconds later I figured it out.

Make sure guests don't park beneath the tree when the hickory nuts are dropping.

Clapped a fat huge four-inch tomato hornworm between two bricks. Thought I was being clever. It squirted 360 degrees all over creation including onto my glasses and mouth.

Oh, it don’t matter if that machete is a little too weighty for me and has a dull blade. . . .

Live here and learn.

Self-Reliance

"Ain't nobody gonna do it for me."

That's what I tell myself when I'm in a "situation" or a jam. Like yesterday, had to carry an 8-foot wooden ladder. Weighed quite a bit and awkward. Then I had to arrange it upright against the house. It took everything I had. I even had to let it go and drop it once, it was so heavy. And then I had to climb it. And then get back down. There was no choice. But I tell myself, "Ain't nobody gonna do it for you," when I need, but don't want to:

-move an item weighing more than 50 pounds
-climb on the roof
-jump
-negotiate a steep incline or slick pathway when there's no other way
-find my way when lost in the woods
-get the gun
-use a power tool
-keep moving when injured
-repair something
-confront a trespasser

Wish there were magic lamps with genies inside that would come out and do things for me, but there ain't. Today after looking all over for advice, and just about giving up and taking it to the man, I fixed the CD drive on my computer all by myself.

Vitamin C and Propane

Eager to fill the Divine propane tank now that gasoline is so low -- $1.79/gallon in Eureka, and propane prices tend to parallel gas prices -- I phoned the propane company. And the driver came today. I hopped over and said hello, and "What's the price of propane today?" He said, "$2.83." I said "That's high." "But it don't look like your place uses a lot," he replied, nodding toward the Divine cabin.

So that was his comforting take on how my hard-scrabbled $400 got me 135 gallons and a tank up from 30 percent to 50 percent full. On the open market, propane trades at about $2.18. The delivery company tacks on 65 cents per gallon for the truck, its driver, office and whatall. Beats the cold, though, and beats getting bloated bills from the natural gas company, which city folk tell me is really puttin' the thumbscrews on its customers this year.

Oh, the Vitamin C? When the year's deteriorating like it is, and fuel bills depress you, take extra C!

Spider Invasion

Nothing like weekend guests to bring in all the 2-inch wolf spiders seeking shelter for the winter. Saturday night three or four wolf spiders ran around the kitchen and dining room all at once, eliciting concern (black widow? brown recluse?) and tales of spider bites, tarantulas and scorpions. The spiders were stomped by the tough-talking "kill 'em and grill 'em" brother-in-law and defended by my squealing school-aged niece who thinks they're part of the environment. I was only dismayed that these spiders all showed up at once at dinnertime. It was like I rang for them or somethin.

By the end of winter, behind the shelves or baseboards or in the closet, they will grow to about 4 inches long, and leave huge webs that droop like hammocks. Wolf spiders are harmless.

Wald Hick'ry Nuts

Today I hauled myself up to the pump house roof and picked shagbark hickory nuts, and here's the basketful, in their green husks. Some hickories' nuts are bitter, but shagbark is the one for eatin'. When the husk dries and splits, the kernel shows, a light beige. It dries out and turns brown. Inside the kernel is the edible sweet nut. (See the second picture.) Lots of folks say it's such a trial to get the kernel off it ain't worth it. But this ain't the year to waste food!

If you won't take that trouble for the nuts, at least gather the split husks and dry them out and throw a load of 'em on your fire next time you smoke or grill.

Usually I leave the hickory nuts for the turkeys and the squirrels (they throw the husks down from the tree at me), but how often in life are you gonna pick and dry out and crack and eat wild hickory nuts? And the real trick to cracking 'em is patiently wait till November when the kernels will be really dry and crackable. All in its own good time.

How You Get Born

The strange night sound from the meadow kept repeating itself. Sounded like a buck snorting -- but over and over, rhythmically. Never heard the like, and nervously I stepped out on the porch a few times over the evening hours to listen. It didn't go away. And with my wild, city-bred imagination that is full of ax-murderers, etc., I decided not to get a flashlight and venture out to seek the source. Locked the doors and went to bed.

A week passed and toward dusk I saw the local doe and she was nosing along a very small fawn -- "a football with legs," a friend had described it. Just one fawn. (She usually has two.) But just this one. And I added 2 plus 2 and realized what I had heard that evening was the doe in labor. I could have seen a fawn being born under a meadow of summer stars! I missed it because I made myself afraid!

Open Windows

Out here there's no need to blind the windows. The sky pours in all day. I see birds and sun, sunrises and sunsets, storm clouds, the porch. Yesterday came three fat bluebirds trying to drink from the birdbath. I can see Highway F and the postal carrier's lime-green jeep, the hills across the road, my rugged rural Missouri.

And the sky pours in all night. Woke this morning with rulers of blue moonlight right on top of me and my bed. That tells me the moon is waning. I'm snug under two blankets and a flannel sheet. The south-facing window on clear nights is full of stars. Nothing in their way: Just black sky and constellations.

If I curtained my windows, what would I have? It is true that SOMEBODY can sneak around the house and peek at me or my stuff. But a Peeping Tom would get no thrill, I guarantee you. And a thief wouldn't see anything he wanted. What, a space heater? A 25-year-old exercise bike with 4,500 miles on it? Hey -- you don't look INTO my windows to see treasure. You look OUT.