October 2006 Archives
With a little digital magic, we'll catch you up on a month of weekends at our new place:
Bare kitchen wall:
becomes an easy access pantry:
An empty corner:
with a little tap, tap, tap:
becomes a cozy library made from dump scavenged i-beams:
Another empty wall became the mudroom:
(of course those aren't all my shoes, two pairs are Keith's)
And Evil-Dog:
ate a little kibbles-n-beef stew:
saw progress on her new estate:
and became the Furball-Curveball of affection.:
Keith's on the porch of Twenty-Something Rabbit Line, with our new Big Red. Thanks to Jonathan John and his wife, we're moved comforably into the cabin they built eight or nine years ago out on native allotment land...where the "city" cops can't catch us.
The cabin is half logs and half sawn boards, about a twenty by forty footprint. There's a barrel stove in the log/sleeping half, a nice propane cooking stove in the board/kitchen living space.
The same week Keith moved us the 1/4 mile out the trail to some peace and quiet and cozy adventure, I spent in Fairbanks training for my new job as town preschool teacher.
All around good moves for everyone in September.
To top it all off there's just the sweetest golden retriever in the yard of our new house.
Nestled out the trail to the Sucker River is the highly underrated and underplayed Fort Yukon Golf Course, 6 fabulous holes hidden amidst rabbit dens, fourwheeler tracks, knee high decorative grasses, natural swamp traps, and hundreds of shotgun shells. This last round of the season, September 4th, was spectacular. Blue sky, yellow beeches, breeze and sun.
And only one lynx carcass.
First carrot harvest, September 9. This sucker had been growing in five inches of clay inside an old tire, I'd given up on it after dropping the seedlings in there in August. But this little guy was tasty, if shrimpy. The six pea pods I harvested as the first frosts were upon us were were delicious. The basil I planted was teeny tiny, but flavored quite a few pizza and pasta dinners. I'm ready for next year.
