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By Root 327 0

pelts of her prey—anything from squirrels and skunks to roadkill—on the cabin balcony. The Nearings were, of course, scandalized by her predatory ways, but our neighbor, Keith, also a hunter and carcass eater, connected with Chip over their shared passion for game. Mama was too busy to care about Chip’s choice in diet; she was just glad for any help she could get, and Chip was a hard worker. If it was tough raising two children and running the farm for a couple, it was twice as hard for a woman alone. In Papa’s absence, Mama gained new respect for all he did on a daily basis to keep life running smoothly. She wrote down the litany of tasks in her journal:

November 14, Thursday

Got two loads of seaweed before lunch at Hoffman’s Beach. Lots more too. Took Liss between loads to catch bus.

November 17, Sunday

Looks, feels, smells like snow. Rained instead. Worked on wood stack and also immediate firewood. Took goats a load of rhubarb chard. Brought in entrance, welcome and park signs. Spaded up entrance flower bed.

November 19, Tuesday

Took Jeep’s starting motor to Steve to check it. We need a new one, plus bushing. It made me realize that I don’t take care of Jeep very well since I don’t know enough about what to listen for: When something doesn’t sound right, I just ignore it.

November 20, Weds

Moved frames into garden and placed over parsley and for lettuce. Transplanted lettuce—25 Boston and Webbs into frame #1. Covered back field kale frame with windows. Rototilled manure in the well and rose hip patch. Also cross-tilled back corn field. Anne took Tansey and young goats.

We’d been caring for a herd of Nubian goats over the past year as a mutual favor for the owner, but it was time to cut back on numbers and return them to their home, leaving us just one milker. They bleated and flapped their short tails as we herded them into the trailer where they looked out through the slats in the walls, the black bar of their pupils making a minus sign in the round unblinking marbles of their eyes.

Mama, though relieved to have one less responsibility, cried dearly to see her goat friends depart. After keeping herself together for a week on her own, she couldn’t hold back any longer. Heidi and I cried, too, for the goats and because we couldn’t bear to see Mama sobbing like that.

“Don’t cry,” we pleaded, pulling at her hands that covered her face as she knelt in the kitchen by the stove. “Please, don’t cry.” The top of her head leaning toward us was divided by the jagged part of her hair as she rocked her upper body over her knees.

“It’s okay,” she said finally. “It’s okay.” But we weren’t convinced.

Mama was learning in Papa’s absence both that she could hack it on her own, and that she preferred not to. Life without Papa made her sluggish and lethargic. As long as she was working, she was fine, but the minute she stopped, fatigue slipped in and all she wanted to do was sleep.

When Papa returned we nearly suffocated him, we so desperately wanted to fill ourselves up with him, but though happy to see us, he seemed preoccupied, his hands shaking and eyes popping with the excitement of all he had learned in England. The timeless techniques of the farmers he visited made more sense than anything he’d seen in America and laid the foundation for his later contributions to the organic movement. He was also skinnier than before and the lump like an enlarged Adam’s apple in his throat was bigger. Not long after he returned, the heart palpitations began. He knew the doctor in Blue Hill wouldn’t tell him anything new, so he went to see a specialist in Bangor.

“They want to put me under the knife,” he said to Mama, shivering from the cold drive home in the jeep. “To remove the part of the thyroid that isn’t functioning right.” The only option to surgery was ingesting a radioactive iodine capsule to shrink the overactive gland, but Papa thought that sounded even worse than the illness.

“No!” Mama whispered. It was their greatest fear—expensive doctor bills accompanied by the loss of Papa’s manpower while he recovered—but Papa was