Jumping In the Leaves

    I first visited Evansville in the fall, just after Halloween.  I marveled at what seemed to be an endless array of Victorian houses - block after block of them that I passed by as I rode through town on a borrowed bicycle.   The other marvel was the leaves.  The trees were full of the most amazing colors and shapes.  Brown oak leaves, scarlet and yellow maple leaves, golden birch leaves, and some trees that had green, yellow, and red leaves all on the same tree.  Every leaf seemed to be a jewel to be taken back to California and preserved.  Everywhere I went, the air was perfumed with that sharp tang that is unique to leaves as they change color and which cannot be compared to anything except itself. When I wasn't riding through town, I was walking through leaves, hearing them rustle and crunch underfoot.  

       I noticed that there were huge piles of leaves heaped up against the curb of most of the houses.  In Southern California, there might be a flurry of leaves skittering down the streets in the city for a day or so, and in the mountains there would be a carpet of oak leaves and pine needles on the ground - a comfortable  blanket against the snow for small hibernating animals - but the leaves in Wisconsin were just massive towers in comparison, heaped up into hills well above knee height, and row upon row of them marching down the street.  And they just begged to be jumped into.  

    Now to be fair, I'd never had an opportunity to try this before, so I just launched myself toward a pile and hoped for the best.  Within seconds I made two rather alarming discoveries:  leaves are a poor cushion between one's backside and the street, and if you jump into a pile that is over head height when you land, you will inhale leaves.  I should have held my breath, but no one thought to inform me of that.

    When we moved to Evansville a couple of years later, we settled into the annual autumn routine of raking the leaves out of our yard and toward the curb.  This activity could span several weeks as each tree in our yard, and those of our neighbors, lost their leaves at different times.  No sooner had all the leaves been raked up than another tree would lose all its leaves, and the cycle would have to start all over again.  We did our best to compost them, but gosh, the amount seemed huge.  One year we decided to leave them where they had fallen only to discover that the leaves had formed a mat during the winter which had killed all the grass underneath.  We were from California.  What did we know?

    This year I had a brilliant idea.  Instead of raking all the leaves toward the curb or compost pile, I would throw heaps of them into the chicken run as bedding.  This would be an environmentally sound, economical, and sustainable way to dispose of them and would save on using straw bedding in the chicken run, at last during the time the leaves were falling.  The leaves would absorb the droppings, and the whole thing would compost down nicely.  

      I gathered up a good-sized pile of leaves, shoved it into the chicken run, and waited to see what would happen.  At first the chickens were suspicious, but in moments it was chicken ecstasy.  The girls jumped into the leaves like small, feathered children, and with a great deal more grace than I had.   

Clever Elizabeth (left) and Isis (right) make their first foray into the leaves

Isis (left) invites sister Judy (above right) down the ramp to enjoy the fun.

    Initially there were lot of hesitant "Hey, what's this?" clucks followed by what I can only describe as chicken laughter. They scratched and scuffled through the leaves, tossing them everywhere. They were truly having fun.  I chucked in another big pile of leaves a few days later and watched the happy pandemonium start all over again.  Had I known it would be such a hit, I would have set some leaves aside for another round or two.  I considered asking our neighbor if I could take some of hers, but Harvest gave me a stern look, and I decided against it.  Still, the chickens did as good a job as any leaf shredder, and the endless raking was reduced.  Now that I know the girls like to play in the leaves, I can give them lots and lots next year.

    As the weather begins to edge ever closer toward winter, the girls don't have leaves to play in, but I try to give them an hour or so outside the run on sunny days.  This afternoon, I found all six of them having a dust bath in the last remnants of the leaves that had spilled out of the compost pile.  Fun is where you find it.

 The Surrey With the Fringe on Top

(This post was originally published on The Dancing Lamb Facebook page on Oct. 20, 2020)

    Ever since I've known her, Harvest has loved nothing better than a ride in a horse-drawn carriage, particularly if it's drawn by a heavy horse.

    I remember the romantic progressive dinner that was held around Christmastime in Riverside, California, where we lived. We all got into our holiday finest and met our transports at the historic Mission Inn (I was wearing Victorian-esque clothing even back then). From there carriages ferried groups of us from one historic house to the next as we worked our way from appetizers through dessert.

    The first time we came to Wisconsin was another Christmas season, and our friends gave us the gift of a ride in a horse-drawn sleigh. It was one of those incredibly clear, cold days in late December. We swaddled ourselves in the traditional heavy blankets and clopped down a snow-covered street. That clinched it for us: we were going to move to Wisconsin.

    Since then, Harvest has never missed an opportunity to ride in any horse-drawn conveyance. When we have attended an historic re-enactment event, rather than walk from one end to the other, Harvest would rather queue up at the carriage stop and wait for it to arrive. We could easily have reached our destination on foot, and much more quickly, but the enjoyment of traveling via horse is worth the wait.

    When we visited Kidron, Ohio, to go to Lehman's (a huge dream of a store for those of us who are low tech), we were in Amish country, so we were able to take a ride in an Amish buggy with an Amish man named Joe. I asked him all about the buggy and harness, which I'm sure weren't the usual questions he was expecting. Again, Harvest loved it.

    Until this year, I didn't know there was a day called Sweetest Day. I guess it's the fall equivalent to Valentine's Day, which is a good thing, as here in Wisconsin, February is brutally cold. Thanks to the Evansville Carriage Company, I was able to give Harvest a trip through town on Sweetest Day in our own version of the surrey with the fringe on top.

    We got into our best clothes first, of course: I had a Victorian day dress I'd been dying to wear, and Harvest decked herself out as well. Our transport picked us up right in front of the house, just the way it would have back when our house was built in 1896. It was wonderful to see the carriage coming down the street to pick us up.  

    We had a delightful conversation with our drivers, Camille Skotnicki-Garbe and her sister Desiree Skotnicki, as we travelled at a leisurely pace through the historic district and up to Lake Leota Park courtesy of Bo, the beautiful, black Percheron. Horse-drawn carriage is absolutely the best way to see Evansville in the fall.

 A Witch, A Spectre, a Skull, and a Snap

(This post was first published to The Dancing Lamb Facebook page on November 4, 2020. It is a tale worth telling twice.)

    Dear readers, this story will read like a tall tale, but every word of it is true. This post has taken over three hours to write. The reason for that will be revealed at end of the post. Sit back and enjoy.

Bear enjoys Halloween as much as we do.

    Halloween is a huge event in Evansville, exceeded only by the Fourth of July. When we first moved here, our neighbor to the east asked if we had taken out a second mortgage yet. Somewhat nonplussed, I asked why. "Halloween," he said, smiling cryptically. That year 300 trick-or-treaters scrambled up and down the porch, and the numbers have only increased since then. We now invite over 600 of them to scale the steps each year.

    Our house has become known as The Witches' House. Every year in the middle of October, we transform the front yard into a witch's paradise. Harvest creates a suitably spooky tableau with the seven-foot high witch, and on Halloween night we light the candles in the lanterns, dress in our witchy best, tuck a flask of hot, mulled wine between us, and settle into our chairs to welcome our guests. With the exception of last year, when there was a substantial snowstorm and biting cold, we never disappoint.

    Evansville is an organized little town, so trick-or-treating lasts from 5:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m. - no more, no less. During that brief time, Harvest cackles "Whaddya want? Whaddya want?" as each visitor is offered her or his choice of small toys: bouncy balls, fake spiders, lips with whistles in them, ghoulish fingers, and so on (we figure the kids already have plenty of candy). Anyone dressed as a witch is greeted with, "Oh, sister! I'm so glad you could fly in tonight!" followed by another maniacal cackle. (Harvest only makes this sound on Halloween. I'm not sure if she's capable of it any other day of the year.) Costumes are admired and exclaimed over, and no one is turned away, including the teenagers who arrive well after 6:30 or the kids who ask for an extra treat for absent siblings or friends. No questions asked. My job in all of this pandemonium is to encourage the small and timid up to receive their treat. I am not always successful.

Bones in the cauldron Creepy skulls at the stair rail

    Parents are just as involved as their children in creative costuming. One year an entire group arrived dressed as playing cards. They were milling about, so I wasn't able to determine if they were a royal flush, but they very well might have been.

    Our house is not the only one with an elaborate display in the yard. Main Street is lined with one Victorian house after another, perfect for a spooky Halloween. A block down the street, a life-sized Dracula holding a hangman's noose raises and lowers his arms menacingly. There are any number of graveyards, some of which include skeletons hanging from the eaves which remain clinging to their building throughout the year, and we are positively awash in spider webs, ghosts, and headstones.

The "ghost corgi" standing watch near our front steps

    Then there are the mobile delights. One year a tractor with a flatbed full of hay bales rumbled through the streets offering rides to weary travellers. The Evansville Carriage Company ferries small groups through the historic district with tales of haunted Evansville, and about three years ago, The Spectre arrived. Ambling slowly down the street on a tall, dark horse, The Headless Horseman made two passes through the historic district and disappeared as silently as it had come. The following year, a skeleton horse with a skeletal rider glided by just as silently. It is the icing on the cake.

    Beginning in mid-September this year, endless discussions began about whether, and how, to have some kind of safe trick-or-treating in Evansville. Most of us on Main Street had decided against it, but as time went on, many of us relented, and plans for socially-distanced, creative solutions began to be hatched. Down in the basement, Harvest cut out and painted a four-foot-high Day of the Dead sugar skull. The nose was hollow, allowing ample space for hands to reach in and grab a treat from the basket cleverly mounted behind. The skull was placed just where the walkway up to our house meets the sidewalk. It took some time for the kids to figure it out, but there were no problems once the secret was discovered. There was one little boy who took one look at it, however, and backed away moaning, "I don't like it!"

The amazing sugar skull Harvest built

    Had I not been unexpectedly home this year (more about that in a moment), I might have missed the arrival of The Lady of Death with the Grim Reaper trailing at her heels. Not a sound did she make as she rode her tall, dark horse through town. Even the horse's hooves seemed muffled: I could hear no sound at all. I was determined not to miss the chance for a spectral photograph this year, and as she passed by for the second and last time, I dashed out of the house to get the photo you see below.

    Why, you might wonder, was I at home? This is the part where the Snap comes in.

    Harvest and I were preparing to go to our annual Hallows gathering. Because of COVID, our event was being held in mid-afternoon at a park rather than later in the evening which would have allowed us to enjoy the show in Evansville first before leaving for the gathering.

    While Harvest went to our neighbors and friends to deliver the small sugar skulls she had made before we left, I thought it would be a good idea to go out and feed the chickens. I was wearing my clogs, as usual. Harvest hates my clogs. She has deemed them unsafe, and they are a bit unstable on uneven ground. I suppose I knew that this would eventually catch up with me, and on Halloween it finally did.

    We had moved some pavers near the woodshed around and were still waiting for them to settle. I had a bucket of chicken food in my left hand and stepped on one of these pavers just so in my tippy clogs, and the inevitable occurred. The first thing I heard was the crash of the bucket followed by a tiny, but ominous, *snap* near my right ear where my right hand had reached out to break my fall. Moments later, I muttered, "This is not good. Not good at all," and then decided to lie down in the leaves rather than pass out. I was grateful there was no snow.

    It was some time before I sat up and looked at my wrist. Nothing, other than serious pain, seemed to be amiss. My sister had broken her wrist - twice - and each time it had looked decidedly peculiar. Sprain or break, it was clear that I wasn't going anywhere. Harvest's friend, Connie, was called to sit with me, and I sent Harvest on to the gathering.

    By the time Harvest returned, it seemed pretty clear that the pain was in all the wrong places for a sprain. Off to UW Hospital ER we went. For the next six hours, I spent my time waiting in a room, alternately reading and doing Zen meditation, as I was examined and x-rayed while listening to the intercom announce the arrival of an ambulance followed by yet another ambulance - about two every 45 minutes or so. Poor Harvest, who was not allowed to be with me due to COVID, spent the time watching movies (the ER parking lot has wi-fi, suprisingly), dozing, and waiting for a call from the doctor. To no one's surprise, my wrist was broken - my first break ever - and I was put into a plaster splint to await further treatment by an orthopedic surgeon. Perhaps assuming that I had been up to some early Halloween high-jinx, the members of the ER staff seemed decidedly skeptical about how I had sustained the fracture and kept asking me how I had broken it.

    And thus, we found ourselves back home again just at midnight, the Witching Hour, with no treats, one big trick, and nary a wander through a graveyard. Which is why it has taken me about three hours to write this post, and still nobody believes me that I broke my wrist on Halloween feeding the chickens.

    (Update: There was no need for surgery. I have learned to do all manner of things with one hand during my six weeks in a cast, I have two new pair of shoes which have been approved by Harvest, and both pairs of clogs were consigned to the bin where they made a satisfying thud upon landing.)

Pancakes for Thanksgiving

    2020 has been a challenge by anyone's standards.  We had planned to roast half a turkey that we had bought from a local farmer in October.  Harvest would have made cranberry sauce, or our friends would have brought some.  We would have made mashed potatoes with the potatoes we grew this year.  I would have baked homemade rolls and cooked a vegetable, and someone would have a brought dessert, or more than one.  Wine would have been part of the celebration as well.

    Of course, the usual feast and the number of guests were reduced because of COVID.  And reduced.  And reduced again.  We were down to two guests; then one.  To our distress, that last guest was diagnosed with COVID and went into hospital the day before Thanksgiving, so we decided that we would wait to have Thanksgiving until she was well again when we would truly have something to be thankful for.  

    That left just the two of us.  With a broken wrist to contend with (read the next post to find out about that), I was going to be useless in the kitchen, so we decided on waffles and latkes for dinner instead.  This turned out to be a fine idea, and by sheer coincidence our meals that day were all based on the theme of pancakes.

     Harvest started our day with homemade crumpets.  Crumpets, as some of you may know, are a form of thick pancake baked in a ring on a hot griddle.  When done properly, the batter is full of air bubbles which pop to form little craters which are perfect for holding butter.  Harvest has made these before, but they've never come out quite right.  However, she found a recipe from Warburton's, the largest maker of crumpets in the UK,  and decided to try it.  They were wonderful!  They reminded me of the crumpets I had eaten as child, and my English dad would have been delighted.  Harvest served them with honey butter.  Delicious!  I don't know how many she made, but they were gone by lunchtime.

    By dinnertime, after a couple of rounds of Mah Johngg which Harvest is teaching me,  I started firing up Milly, our wood cookstove, so that she would be good and hot by the time Harvest was ready to cook the waffles and latkes.  Harvest made the latkes with potatoes and onions from our garden and eggs from the chickens.

The secret to good latkes is to grate the potatoes, dump them into a cloth, and squeeze out the starch.

     

    Now, it wouldn't be Thanksgiving if there wasn't some glitch in the kitchen.  I had put the waffle iron on the stove to heat too early, and the oil on the waffle iron began to smoke.  While we didn't have huge clouds of smoke billowing through the kitchen,  there was enough that it required us to open the windows, and I waved away at the smoke one-handed with an L.L. Bean catalog while Harvest finished preparing the latke mixture.  We were lucky: it was above freezing outside, and the heat from the fire in the stove made the kitchen pretty comfortable even with the windows open. 

    

    Despite the interruption, the latkes were done perfectly.  Cooking on a wood cookstove is a wonderful experience, and there will be future posts to tell you all about it.  We accompanied the latkes with sour cream and applesauce.  I laid the table with the good Spode china and our fancy silverware, lit the oil lamp, and we sat down to a simple but tasty meal.  

    And what happened to the waffles, you might ask?  We decided to save them for another day.  One can only handle so much cooking this year.

 Welcome!

    I am delighted that you have chosen to spend time reading this blog.  I'm sure there are many things which demand your attention, and I hope this blog will be a refuge from the pressures of daily life for a few moments, especially in this period of the COVID pandemic.

    You may be curious about the name of our blog.  Scott A. J. Johnson from the Low Technology Institute (https://lowtechinstitute.org) is a reader of my Facebook page, The Dancing Lamb, which contains a number of the posts you will find in this blog.  The Low Technology Institute is a long-term experiment in living with minimal technology, and Scott and I have demonstrated flax processing and spinning together.  After reading a number  of my Facebook posts. Scott dubbed us the Victorian Technology Institute, and the name stuck.

Our home in Southern Wisconsin, built in 1896.  

    We live in a small town of just over 5,000 people which is located about 35 minutes southwest of Madison, Wisconsin.  Evansville boasts the largest number of historic homes of all the small towns in Southern Wisconsin, and indeed, we do have a sizable historic district of about 300 homes in which we live.  If Currier & Ives married Mayberry, RFD, Evansville would be their child.

With the exception of cars versus carriages and the dome top of the corner building, Evansville's Main Street has changed very little.

    

    I've been interested in pre-industrial life since I was a child.  When I was growing up, our house had lots of antiques in it.  My dad, Antony Ellis, was a scriptwriter for CBS and wrote for a series called The Monroes (a precursor to Little House on the Prairie), so I used to pretend I was a pioneer.  Thanks to an exceptional high school history teacher, I began to wonder about how people lived in pre-industrial times:  how people made clothes, what they ate, how they cooked and washed and grew food - the lives of the common people behind and around the nobility and the wealthy.

    I started shopping for antiques in my first year of college, and I spent hours looking at old photos, comparing the stiff poses and faces with the faces in modern photos - so alike, yet so different.  Who we're these people, and how did they live? Shortly afterward, I decided I wanted to live in a Victorian house and learn how the Victorians lived.  

    When I was about 23, I took my first spinning lesson from a wonderful woman who lived in the California desert near Death Valley.  She had a wood cookstove which she used during cooler weather and baskets and baskets of raw wool which had that unforgettable, comforting smell of sheep.  I started spinning seriously when I was about 30, and this led to the purchase of several spinning wheels, a small flock of sheep, and learning about shearing sheep.  Chickens arrived at about the same time.

One of the many spinning wheels in our house

    In 2004, Harvest and I achieved our dream of owning a Victorian house when we moved from California to our home on Main Street in Evansville and began the adventures you will find in this blog.  In the past few years, we have acquired a small flock of chickens, built gardens, installed a wood cookstove, and hung oil lamps throughout the house.  I started wearing Victorian clothing as everyday wear, which included getting used to wearing a corset (they're wonderful, but that is a post for another day).  I've taught classes in wool and spinning, become a fleece judge, and learned to knit.  Harvest has discovered all kinds of crafts including weaving and embroidery.  We've pulled carrots, split wood, hauled water, made sourdough bread, and learned more than we ever imagined, and it goes on.  You'll find an account of all our adventures in this blog, including a few that were published earlier but are still worth the telling.  

    We hope you will add your own comments - reminiscences of your family or tips and hints on how you learned to do the things we do or where you learned them.  So much has nearly been lost and needs to be preserved before it disappears forever, and there are other folks out there who are learning from the past.  Whoever you are, modern or old-fashioned, please do share.