Industrial Arts...

Mon, 04/03/2017 - 12:00

Eva Murray

Wanda the cow and a pickup truck loaded with sweet maple saplings. (Courtesy of Laura Livingston)

The arrival of this excavator on Matinicus resulted in a ‘serious epidemic of excavator envy going around the island, symptoms of which include drooling, bugged-out eyeballs and rapid heart rate when in the presence of the Caterpillar 311C.’

Mary the cow. (Courtesy of Laura Livingston)

Darlene the cow. (Courtesy of Laura Livingston)

Wanda the cow and a pickup truck loaded with sweet maple saplings. (Courtesy of Laura Livingston)

Mary the cow. (Courtesy of Laura Livingston)

Darlene the cow. (Courtesy of Laura Livingston)

Sometimes people ask: "What do you guys do for fun out there in the winter?" Out there meaning our beloved Alcatraz of the Willing. Winter is one thing; most people leave and the few holdouts read the meters on snowshoes or sit around their bonfires or hope for a decent snowfall so they can cross-country ski to work at the post office. Mud season, however, is quite another thing.

This March a few of us have been railroading. If you drive over toward the west side of the island after the ground has re-frozen, your truck tires might just fit perfectly into the extremely deep, straight-sided wheel ruts. You can take both hands off the steering wheel, and step gently on the gas. Your vehicle will inevitably follow the tracks through the curves and you can picture yourself driving a train.

This is a short-line railroad, sort of a three-station operation. Last I rode, it ran from West Side Orchards, offered a local flag stop at Mitchell's, and terminated over by the microwave tower, at which point the rails subsided and you had to take up command of the helm once again or end up in Russell's Lake.

There really isn't any reason for most people to drive to the west side of the island this time of year — all the houses being closed up for the winter — except to clear trees from power lines, work for the phone company, watch the sunset or steal firewood. Anyway, people seem to have their reasons.

We like to entertain ourselves with machinery of all sorts. Excuse me, no, I meant "to get work done" with machinery of all sorts. One of the islanders had occasion to require a large hole be dug last week, and so a good-sized excavator and a couple of triaxle dump trucks were dispatched our way aboard the vessel Island Transporter. This of course resulted in a serious epidemic of excavator envy going around the island, symptoms of which included drooling, bugged-out eyeballs and rapid heart rate when in the presence of the Caterpillar 311C. Look it up; you'll be impressed. We all were. Unfortunately the excavator came with its own operator, he being the owner, and when he had to leave it on the island through the snowy weekend, he asked me if it was alright parked in my dooryard. I told him it matched our décor nicely. I noticed, however, that he put the key in his pocket before he headed for the airstrip despite the many sincere offers of help and continued progress, which several kind folks guaranteed would be made while he spent the weekend off the island.

I figure he parked the excavator at my house because I didn't have my eye on the excavator; I had my eye on one of those dump trucks. That, he parked at Marty's house. I suspect he's been to this dance before.

Maintenance of any road is challenging during Maine's mud season, but as Matinicus has no pavement whatsoever, our municipal infrastructure takes a special beating. Words such as "bomb crater," "tank trap," "Lake Chungamunga" and "woolly swamp" are tossed around casually, and four-wheel drive is required if you wish to park at all close to where the airplane pilot unloads our groceries. Dogs are universally brown, cats are generally annoyed, and kitchen floors and the post office lobby are practically ready for the first planting of peas.

The municipal officials of this city order gravel by the truckload whenever delivery can be arranged, but that isn't necessarily very often. Forget posting the roads like they do on the mainland; we need every dump truck we can get.

I was given a nice load of ash firewood for Christmas — a noble present indeed — but working out getting it here took me about three months. There's a reason we mostly burn spruce. Anyway, we got the ash over here on last week's ferry (which you won't have found on the schedule, because it was a "make up" run replacing the March 14 trip that was canceled due to a blizzard), but the pile had to be moved again, requiring roughly 20 trips with the John Deere 1050 tractor from the roadside to the woodshed, and that did interesting things to my dooryard resulting in an easy worm harvest. The robins were delighted and had a feast before the snow began to fall.

One of the dump truck drivers mentioned in passing that he'd read somewhere that the big, rugged-looking robins we see out of season around here are Canadian robins; that the "regular" kind do fly south but to the Canadian variety, this IS south. Anyway, the place is lousy with robins, especially where we've torn hell out of the ground with heavy equipment, eh?

Speaking of avian visitors from Canada, our postmaster saw the snowy owl on the south end of the island a couple of times this March. I say "the" snowy owl because the creature has become such an iconic and storied character out here that we tend to think of it — I mean them — as just one lone spirit, a symbol more than a bird, something more folkloric than real. Many of us hope to see a white owl each year but most are disappointed, and the lucky few who happen to get a peek consider themselves very fortunate, as it is an honor and a privilege to even lay eyes on an owl. Do you think this is getting just a bit overly sentimental? Yeah, that happens.

Unless you do happen to see an owl, the island is not exactly scenic this time of year, between the mud and the results of a wind-blasted winter. Trees are snapped off in what almost resembles the ice storm of '98 in places, shingles are on the ground in many yards, and most homes are still empty. Things do look a bit lonely. It is the perfect time of year to think long and hard about whether you want to be here — and so, I have been told, the superintendent of schools has decreed that any applicants for the one-room school teaching position open next year ought to get themselves out here posthaste and have a long look around. Very sensible.

But, if you aren't busy looking for the snowy owl or trying in vain to sweep mud off the floor, and if you want a break from repairing and setting lobster traps or moving fire woood, and you don't have your own earth-moving equipment to keep you busy, you might go pat the cows.

We have cows. Well, I don't have cows, Matinicus has cows. Ah — you have perhaps heard that line about cows on Matinicus? For years I have shaken my head at summer visitors and off-island Smart Fellers who repeatedly insisted with a straight face that, "Since there is no store on the island, you should get a cow! Then you could get your milk for free!" I still cannot believe people are that bad at math. Anyway, there had been no cows on this particular rockpile since roughly 1950 until recently, when Millie and Mary, two pregnant Jersey/Dexter crosses, rode the ferry and took up the year-round island life. Early last summer, two female calves were born and named Wanda and Darlene, after a couple of island women who live or worked right across from the cow pasture. Everybody loved the cows so much I heard that a couple of people were irked that they didn't get a calf named after them.

That is a fairly exclusive honor.

Anyway, Laura, the farmer responsible for said four head of cattle, discovered that the ladies greatly enjoyed munching on the tender twigs of maple trees this time of year when the sap is running. We haven't got anybody running a maple syrup operation on the island — or heating their home with island hardwood, either, because there is so little — but there are a few random maples, here and there, hither and yon.

We had to cut a smallish maple tree in our yard a week ago; it was a shame we didn't hang a few buckets because the sap ran from each cut limb like water. We were delighted to hear that Millie and Mary and Darlene and Wanda would help with the pile of brush. No doubt it tasted delicious. The only problem was the mud was so deep in Laura's driveway that she could only manage one load in her small pickup before encountering the serious likelihood of going right to the axles.

If you're going anywhere this week, probably best to just give up and walk, unless you're lucky enough to be driving a dump truck.

More Industrial Arts...

Eva