The year, in four seasons
The snow shovel by the back door, the last frost, the three clear days of July, the storm windows going up in October — what each month is like to live in, and what a house and a garden do about it.
Winter
Citrus and candlelight. The season of staying in without apology — soup on the stove, a stack of books, the year folding shut and opening again.
The Shortest Day on a Northern Farm
On a northern farm in December the light comes after seven and goes before five, and every chore squeezes into the hours between.
December Ice, Vicinity of Brockton
In Jack Delano's December 1940 Kodachrome, a pond near Brockton is frozen clean, and the skaters are out on the dark ice.
The Snow Shovel by the Back Door
In December, the snow shovel by the back door is no longer put away after each use; it stays out from the first snow to the last.
December Nights at the Kitchen Table
In the early dark, the kitchen table becomes the whole of the month — the lamp on, the mending out, a neighbor coming up the back steps.
The Lost Week of December
For a few days after Christmas and before New Year’s, time goes soft, and December holds its breath.
Ten Decembers to Make a Christmas Tree
A Christmas tree spends ten years in the field before one week in the living room. December is the month that ends the wait.
The Ice Takes Its Time
In January the lake turns solid and the whole neighborhood comes out to stand on it.
The Week the Winter Loosens Its Grip
For a few days every January the cold steps aside, and people go outside to remember what winter nearly made them forget.
The January Woodpile and the Winter to Come
Mid-January, a woodpile is a ledger; every split left in the pile is a stake in the rest of the winter.
January Is the Gardener’s Best Month
In January the garden stops working, and what remains is a finished thing: the whole place visible, quiet, and not yet in need of anything.
A Garden Made of Paper
The seed catalogues arrive when the ground is frozen solid, and the gardener begins the work of the year in the only medium February permits: paper.
Pruning the Sleeping Orchard
The apple tree's spring begins in February, when the saw moves through the dormant orchard and decides the crop before the sap does.
Old Houses and the Long Cold of February
In February the cold moves in and settles down, and the oldest houses answer with chimneys, storm windows, and patience.
Spring
The year comes back one degree at a time. Seed packets, asparagus, the first dinner outside — everything feels slightly ahead of schedule and none of it is.
The Sweet Thaw of March
When March nights stay cold and the days climb past freezing, the maples wake and the sugarhouses fill with steam and company.
A March Saturday in Woodstock, Vermont
On a Saturday in March the storm has already moved on, leaving a ploughed street in Woodstock, Vermont, a working horse, and no pedestrians in sight.
The Night Harold Calls About the Peepers
Spring starts on no fixed morning but on the first mild, rainy night in March when the peepers rouse — the night Harold phones to say so.
March Mud on the Boot Tray
Inside the back door, the boot tray holds everything March brings off the yard — the melt, the sand, the salt, the mud.
Waking the lawnmower
The first cut of the year starts in the shed, with stale gas, a fouled plug, and the first pull of the season.
The Three Weeks of Asparagus
Before the garden is awake, the asparagus spear is already up — and the whole crop is done within three weeks.
Waiting on the Last Frost
In April gardeners order the whole season around a date that is only a probability, and the waiting is its own particular pleasure.
The Month the Ground Gives Way
April is the month the north goes soft, when the frost comes out of the ground and the roads turn to something that is neither dirt nor water.
Why Nobody Says Where the Morels Grow
April morel hunters measure their season in days, and the location of a good patch is guarded like a family secret.
The seed flat under the shop light
In April, a black plastic tray of seedlings rules a kitchen windowsill, leaning, drying, and bowing under one cold fluorescent light.
The Lilac at the Door
For two weeks in May, the old farmhouses of the North Country smell of lilac — and then it is gone.
Summer
The loud, generous heart of the American year. Long light, warm water, cheap tomatoes. Everything the site is about happens twice as hard in summer.
Strawberries, Shortcake and the Shortest Night
The season's first fruit ripens in a two-week rush while the year's shortest night comes and goes, and the long light is spent on porches, tables and company.
What the Last Bell Sets Free
School lets out, the days stretch long, and June slowly teaches everyone — children and parents alike — its own unhurried shape.
The Wooden Porch Swing on Its Chains
In June the porch swing comes back to work: its wood swells with the humidity and its chains wear bright at the hooks.
The Box Fan in the Bedroom Window
In July the box fan comes down off the closet shelf and is set in the bedroom window, running from sundown to first light.
The Three Clear Days of July
In July haymaking, the whole month hangs on a simple hope: three clear days, one after the next, between storm fronts.
The Short July of Sweet Corn
The roadside stands open at the start of July, and for a few weeks the corn is worth everything the month has.
The Great July Squash Giveaway
By late July the vines outrun every kitchen, and the code of the porch drop takes over American doorsteps.
The Sweatshirt Comes Out of the Drawer
The first cool morning of late August asks for something warmer, and the drawer answers.
The Rain Barrel in a Dry August
The barrel under the downspout is empty in August, and its screen gathers dust instead of rain.
The Dog Days of August
August is the month the dog days do their worst work, and the phrase is older than anyone thinks—bound to a star that rides with the sun.
August, the Month That Fills Itself
When the lists are crossed off and the Saturdays lie blank, August fills the space itself, with company, with bounty, with the last of the light.
The Tomato That Took All Summer
All August, a farm stand sells what the whole summer was for: tomatoes still warm from the vine.
In August, Doing Nothing Is the Whole Point
The month that asks nothing of anyone, and the American habit of trying to fill it anyway.
Autumn
The year gets serious again, pleasantly. Sweaters come down from the shelf, ovens come back on, and the light turns the color of cider.
The Honor Stand in September
In September the roadside stand runs on trust: a coffee can, a penciled price list, the last tomatoes and the first squash of the year.
The First Cold Night Brings Everyone In
Sometime in September the air turns cold, and the house that has stood open all summer closes — and gathers everyone inside.
The Last Evenings on the October Porch
October turns the porch into a room with a deadline, and every clear evening is a withdrawal from a shrinking account.
The Sweet Press of October
October turns the Northeast's orchards gold, and the cider press runs late into cool evenings, making the year's sweetest run.
Screens Out, Storm Windows Up in October
On a hard-frost morning, the old house trades its summer screens for winter windows, one opening at a time.
October on the Hillside
At a farm stand in the Green Mountains, October is measured in frost, light, and the slow reddening of the hillside maples.
The Last Mowing
The grass goes down for winter, and the mower is put away empty of gas, to wait in the garage until spring.
November Puts the Garden to Bed
The hard freeze stops the season cold, and the real work begins: hoses drained, tubers dug, and the ground tucked in for its long sleep.
Draining the Outdoor Faucets and Sprinkler Lines
Before the ground locks for winter, the outdoor faucets and sprinkler lines have to give up every drop of water they hold.