Road Salt: A Necessary Evil in Northern NH

Ever wonder why vehicles from southern states don’t have much rust—if any at all? Or, to flip it around, why northern vehicles often look like they’ve survived a saltwater shipwreck? Two words: road salt.

Up here, it’s our winter seasoning of choice—generously applied to roads to melt snow and ice. But the downside? On wet days, that salty slush splashes up into every crevice of your vehicle like it’s trying to brine it for roasting. And on dry days, the salt dust doesn’t just lie there quietly. Oh no—it floats through the air like some kind of ghostly winter fog, swirling around and coating everything in its path.

Yesterday, I made a Home Depot run to Littleton—a three-hour round trip. I came home with a truckload of materials to keep the barn-building project chugging along. But apparently, I also picked up enough road salt to de-ice the entire driveway, front yard, and probably a goat or two if they stand still long enough.

Winter in the North: come for the snow, stay for the corrosion!

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©2010 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Death Metal Rooster — Guess He Has a Lot to Crow About

I’ve heard a lot of roosters in my day—everything from the crack-of-dawn alarm clock variety to the ones who crow at midnight just to remind you that sleep is optional. But this guy? He’s in a league all his own.

Some creative genius out there decided to take a video of a rooster with the longest crow I've ever seen and pair it with death metal music—and the result is pure comedic brilliance. The first time I watched it, I nearly choked on my herb tea. This bird doesn’t just crow—he screams like he’s the lead singer for a band called Cluck Sabbath. The timing is perfect, the head tosses are right on beat, and that rooster sells every note like he’s about to go on world tour.

I’ve always said that chickens have personalities, but this one has a full-blown stage persona. You can almost see him throwing back his comb and belting out songs about corn rations, barnyard rebellion, and freedom from the frying pan. If there were pyrotechnics in the background, I wouldn’t have been surprised. Somewhere, a group of hens is probably his backup choir, clucking along in rhythm while the cows file in as his audience.

What makes it even better is how perfectly it captures the reality of farm life—chaotic, noisy, and hysterical in ways outsiders could never fully understand. Those of us who live it know that roosters take themselves very seriously. Every crow is an announcement, a declaration, and, in some cases, a warning to anyone within a five-mile radius. This video just gives that ego the soundtrack it always deserved.

So, turn up your speakers and enjoy the show. It’s proof that even in the barnyard, there’s room for rock ‘n’ roll—and that sometimes, the most unexpected performers steal the spotlight.

Rock on, feathered friend. You’ve officially redefined “cock-a-doodle-doom.”

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©2010 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Start the Tractor for Me, Please! Country Life in Winter

“Would you start the tractor for me, please? I’ll make you some breakfast and a hot cocoa.”

“Oh sure, honey—let me just grab my industrial-strength flamethrower and a prayer.”

That poor tractor looks like it’s been cryogenically frozen for a hundred years. You’d need a jackhammer to find the ignition and a team of sled dogs to pull it out of the snowbank. I’m pretty sure the steering wheel snapped off in protest sometime around the second blizzard. The seat? Probably frozen solid to the consistency of granite. Even the gearshift looks like it’s surrendered to the elements.

But hey, for hot chocolate and breakfast? I might be persuaded. Just don’t be surprised if I come back in looking like a snow yeti, muttering about betrayal and frostbite. I’ll need that cocoa extra thick—and most people would want a little something in it for “medicinal purposes.”

This, my friends, is winter in the North Country. You don’t need a weather report—you just open the door, take one look at your machinery, and realize you’re not going anywhere until June. Around here, we measure snowfall by whether we can still see the mailbox, and “warming up the tractor” means lighting three candles and praying for divine intervention.

Of course, the tractor didn’t look this bad yesterday. That’s the cruel trick of winter storms—they sneak up overnight and leave you wondering if you’ve woken up on the wrong planet. One minute you’re admiring the peaceful snowfall; the next, your equipment looks like a prop from Frozen: Farm Edition.

Still, there’s a strange kind of beauty in it. The soft white blanket muffles all sound, the air is still, and even the most stubborn machinery looks poetic—like it’s taking a long winter’s nap.

Now, if only it would wake up before spring.

--Linda Chappell photo

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©2010 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Sunset — Country Beauty

Today's sunset was absolutely breathtaking—like the sky was exhaling a sigh of color after a long, snowy day.

The whole world seemed wrapped in stillness, that kind of deep winter hush when even the air holds its breath. The sky glowed with soft, warm hues of peach, lavender, and pale gold, spreading slowly across the horizon like watercolors bleeding together on paper. It was the perfect contrast to the sharp, cold beauty of the snow. Every drift and snowbank shimmered faintly, reflecting just enough light to glow in the gathering twilight.

The trees stood motionless under their heavy coats of snow, branches bent but unbroken, their outlines etched like lace against the glowing sky. Some caught just enough of the sunset’s reflection to look dusted in gold, while others were deep blue in shadow—a silent audience to the day’s grand finale.

There’s something about winter sunsets that feels both lonely and comforting at once. Maybe it’s the way the cold amplifies the colors, or the way the snow-covered world reflects the last light like a mirror, making the day linger just a little longer. Standing there, watching that slow fade from color to night, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of peace.

It had that magical, almost surreal winter evening feel—the kind where time stretches thin and you forget for a moment about to-do lists and chores and muddy boots waiting by the door. For those few minutes, it was just me, the snow, and a sky that looked painted by angels.

By the time the colors melted into dusk, the world felt new again. Cold, yes—but beautiful in a way that makes you grateful to be there to see it. Sometimes the best view in life isn’t something you plan—it’s the quiet moment that finds you when you finally stop and look up.

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©2010 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Feathered Trees — Beauty in Northern NH

It’s been snowing off and on for about a week here in northern New Hampshire. Yesterday, the weather shifted gears and gave us a fine, freezing mist—despite the temperature clinging to the teens like a kid to their favorite blanket. That’s Mother Nature for you. Moody, mysterious, and occasionally show-offy.

This morning, I stepped outside and thought I’d wandered into a snow globe. The trees weren’t just dusted—they were feathered. Every branch wore a delicate layer of icy snow, giving the whole forest a soft, shimmering look, like someone had decorated it with white feathers.

Several trees looked exactly like they were made out of white pipe cleaners. I later found out that this magical phenomenon is called “hoar frost.” I’d never seen one before, and let me tell you—it’s one thing to read about it and another to see it turning your woods into a living snow globe.

Meanwhile, reactions on the farm were mixed.

Roxie and Jack, our English Shepherds, peeked out the door, took one whiff of the frosty air, and decided they were strictly “indoor philosophers” that morning. Jack gave it the old college try and promptly skidded across the yard like a curling stone. Roxie didn’t even pretend to consider it. She just gave me a look like, “You go ahead. I don't have to pee that bad.”

The goats didn’t care, from the dry safety of the barn, of course. As long as they could climb something and occasionally shout about it, all was well. And the sheep were just happy to have someone else to make them look like the calm ones. The chickens on the other hand, informed me long ago that they don't do snow.

But the Great Pyrenees? Oh, they were in their glory.

Those big, snow-loving guardian dogs who live with the sheep and goats had no interest in the barn. They could’ve been tucked in on fresh straw under a roof, but instead they were laying right out in the open, paws tucked under, heads held high, surveying their kingdom like frost-covered lions. This is their kind of weather. While the rest of us are trying to keep warm, the Pyrenees are celebrating. It’s their season to shine—literally and figuratively, thanks to all that white fur.

Farm life doesn’t stop when the world turns sparkly, but every now and then it lets you admire it in between chores. And today, with trees dressed in hoar frost, dogs lounging in the snow like it’s a spa day, and goats treating it like a jungle gym, I’m reminded that beauty doesn’t need to be practical to be worth noticing.

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Barn Building Continues — In a North Country Snowstorm, Of Course

 If you’ve been following along with our barn saga, you might remember that last year we finished the second section of the barn.

Over the summer, we tackled the center section of the roof, and just this past weekend—right in the middle of a snowstorm, no less—we enclosed the west end of the center section, finally connecting the two sides.

Yes, we worked straight through the storm. It was in the high 20s, snow falling softly, no wind to speak of… in other words, practically a tropical vacation by northern winter standards. Next weekend we’ll tackle the east end—weather permitting, of course. Once we’ve got it all enclosed, we can take down the temporary center walls and finally have one big, glorious barn instead of two separate mini barns pretending not to be twins.

Now, in case you’re wondering why part of the siding looks like we let a raccoon choose the color scheme, let me explain. I had the brilliant idea to pre-paint the panels before putting them up. Genius, right? Well, it would have been—except right in the middle of that project the skies opened up and it rai
ned for what felt like 40 days and 40 nights. We could still install the panels in the rain, but painting them? Not so much. So, some went up fully dressed in dark brown, some went up au naturel.

Rest assured, once all is said and done, the whole barn will match the dark brown of the house. But in the meantime, we’re calling the look “farmhouse chic with a modern twist.” Very avant-garde, don’t you think?

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Red Wilde's Cat

Here's yet another great story sent to me by my friend Jesse Taylor II, shared at his request. If you like his stories please let him know by leaving a comment in, of all places, the comment section. 

--Guest post by Jesse Taylor II

I've never felt any real sense of shame when telling folks that my Daddy was a heavy drinker. That's just the plain truth. I grew up with it and accepted it as part of his nature. He wasn't a "mean drunk". If anything, drinking brought out the entertainer in him. It was the times when he was drunk that he most often turned to his music and story telling talents and enjoyed the laughter it brought from his friends. Having said that, let me tell you a little more about the man.

Daddy was a heavy construction worker. That's what he liked. He would rather work on a bridge building crew, a road crew, or with a crew that dug ditches than to operate some factory machine. Of course, back in "his time", many of the construction crews quit for the winter. Cold weather takes a heavy toll on machinery, materials and men. It can be dangerous...much better to wait for better weather.

During lay-offs, there wasn't much to do except sit around the house, which Daddy couldn't stand. He didn't have any real hobbies, except for drinking, and he craved the company of his pals. Even so, there's only just so much time anyone can spend at the local VFW, or anywhere else with a fine selection of bar stools. The mind can only enjoy as much as the seat of the pants can endure. So, it wasn't unusual for men of Daddy's kind to "take the show on the road", so to speak. They'd get a "pint or a fifth" and a cold six pack and drive around to see the sights. Yes, yes, I know...drinking and driving is a terrible thing. It was back then, too, but it wasn't the huge crime it is now days. It was more socially accepted and that's just the way it was.

Of course, you realize this is all leading up to a story. So, having "set the stage", here it is.

It was a few days before Christmas. It had been real cold and the snow was heavy and deep. Daddy was laid-off from his job, so he was pursuing his favorite hobby...we'll call it "socializing".

As it so happened, Daddy was socializing with a workmate named, Russel Wilde. Folks called him "Red", because of his bright red hair and full, red beard. Red was another "old drunk", for lack of a better description. He made good money, but like most of his kind, he kept it all "drunk up". He lived as poor as a church mouse. The old house he rented was sparsely furnished and was heated by a single "pot-bellied" stove. His wife did have an electric cook stove.

Oh yes, he was married. Poor old girl, she was a good wife and mother who struggled along and endured Red's ways for the sake of her family. As I recall, she wasn't much to look at, but that's neither here nor there. Time is seldom a friend to a woman's beauty and that's especially true for a woman who has a drunk for a husband.

I went to school with Red's daughters. I'll never forget their names...Kathy, Lootie, and Vondretta. They were all healthy and happy little girls, even if they didn't have all the "niceties" denied them by Red's over indulgence. As I mentioned, their Mom was a very good mother and she saw that they were well fed and had clean clothes to wear, even if they weren't of the latest fashion.

Still, every once in awhile, she'd pack the girls up and leave Red to stay with her mother. It never seemed to worry Red. He knew she'd come back. He just went along with business, or lack there of, as usual. Lord only knows why, but Red was the love of her life. They say a woman marries a man hoping he'll change, but he seldom does...and a man marries a woman hoping she won't change, but she always does. Such is life, but to continue...

When we left our "heroes", it was about 2:30 or 3:00 am and Daddy and Red were driving around the countryside when Red says, "You getting hungry, Willard?"

Daddy maintained that he could go for a bite. So, Red suggested they go to his house where he'd "get the old woman up out of bed and have her fix us some 'tatters and eggs". So, that was the plan.

When they got to Red's house it was almost as cold inside as it was outside. The fire had gone out in the old pot-bellied stove and there wasn't anyone around to re-stoke it. A note on the kitchen table told the whole story. The wife had packed up the kids and ran back to her mother's to spend Christmas "in a decent family fashion". This didn't bother Red. He just told Daddy to pull up a seat while he kindled up a fire and they'd fry up their own 'taters and eggs right on top of the old stove.

Now, you didn't really want to sit down on Red's upholstered furniture, or what was left of it. You see, Red loved cats and he had about 20 of them in and around the place. So, always being fashion conscious and with an eye to keeping cat hair off his clothes, Daddy pulled an old, hard-backed chair in from the kitchen and sat down in front of the stove. Beer in hand, legs crossed and his foot nervously twitching, partly to provide a little warming exercise, Daddy sat there, observing Red's fire building skills.

Red had a rather unusual way of building a fire. First, he put a couple of large, split pieces in the stove, followed by a liberal covering of kindling, followed by an armload of wadded up newspaper. Over this, he poured a large "soup can" full of kerosene. Then, he grabbed up another section of newspaper and began twisting it into a torch, which he would throw into the stove to ignite the kerosene. He was having some difficulty getting his old "Zippo" lighter to work, but finally got a spark and was turning the torch over and over so as to insure enough flame for positive ignition when it was applied to the combustion chamber.

As this was taking place, Daddy continued his "cross-legged" vigil, sipping his beer and bouncing his foot, as was his nervous habit. As Daddy later recalled, it was about this time that Red's favorite cat, a white, long-haired cat that Red called an "Angora", took it upon itself to spring into action...no doubt coaxed into a playful venture by the dancing strings of Daddy's nervously bouncing work boot. From around the corner of the couch, it sprang onto Daddy's foot. Being startled by the unexpected attack, Daddy kicked his foot. He said the cat sailed through the open door of the stove even as Red turned and threw the flaming torch in, right behind it. Red slammed the door shut and stood over the stove, clapping and rubbing his hands together as if expecting instant heat. Daddy, somewhat bent over towards the stove, looked up at Red and said, "Red...I think I just kicked ye cat in the far (fire)!"

Red said, "You done what?"

About that time, they heard "Scritch, scritch, scritch" in the stovepipe. The cat worked the damper as it went through, rounded the elbow into the chimney and continued to "scritch" its way on up. Red, who's eyes were big as saucers as they intently followed the sounds, gave a big jerk and took off towards the front door with Daddy right behind him.

Outside, both men stood in the knee-deep snow, staring straight up at the chimney on top of that big, 2-story house. The snow was still falling fairly heavy, but they could see there wasn't any smoke coming out. Then, there was a large "poof" of black smoke, presently followed by, what looked like, an animated and independent portion of that smoke descending down the side of the chimney to the roof, where it smoked it's way along the peak, sat down on the gable end and started to lick itself.

Daddy was on his knees, laughing, but Red was not amused as he stood there, staring straight up at the smoking, black cat. Daddy said he'd just got up off his knees and was dusting the snow off his pants when Red shot him a glance and said, "Well, damn it! I hope he's got enough spit to put himself out!" Daddy hit the ground again.

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©2010 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm