Three Years of March
This simple sentence captures the essence of hope at this time of year. Summer is a distant memory, yet every sunny day we have such great expectations of what is to come. Eager to be outside and feel the sun on my face, it is surprisingly warm, but as soon as a breeze wafts or shadow creeps across my body the cold is waiting to bite. But each day the sun grows stronger and graces us with a few more minutes of daylight.
Great Expectations
This March is brimming with “Great Expectations”. In a few short weeks, I will be moving to BC for the summer to work as much as I can on the cabin. Those days, hours and minutes stretch ahead, out of reach, like a great open chasm filled with uncertainties, hazards and to-do lists longer than my arm. I want it to come quickly so I can get started and yet want to stretch out those minutes here as long as possible to complete as much as I can before I go. Every shower I take in steamy luxury well aware water may be in short supply, every load of washing easily stuffed into the machine, I may be doing by hand, and every evening on the comfy couch with Dave I will be alone in silence.
Time waiting stretches ahead an impossible distance to breach, hours feel like days, yet looking back the years blur and merge into one and are gone by in a flash. This March it is already three years since I first stepped onto that overgrown five acres in BC that was to become Fernhaven. Now I can't remember how it feels to not think of Fernhaven every day.
A beginning
In March 2021, Easter, Dave and I had almost given up on finding any affordable land, then by chance, I took a gamble on an old for sale sign hung in a tree. Little did I know at that point how much change I was forcing upon us. I often imagine this as a scene from a movie in slow motion I step out of my shiny white Ford truck, and in that second as my worn-out running shoe crunches into the gravel, my life pivots to a new direction. I blink slowly then turn to look up at the for sale sign. The shadow of a future me cries “Noooo!” and takes a dive pushing me back into the truck or another version shouts with joy “Yesss” and leaps fist punching the air. It started a journey of discovery and tested my determination, my relationship with Dave, and my problem-solving ability to the limit of what I thought I was capable of. That first year was a huge lesson in patience, warding off doubts and controlling my runaway mind.
Year Two
By March 2022 the fears had changed from what-if to what now? I was out of my depth, with a severe lack of knowledge and a shortage of available help. I felt alone in my quest, unsupported and unsure of my capabilities. I knew what I wanted, just didn’t know how it was going to be possible. With no money, no knowledge, and no local professional help.
I had a concrete pad buried under the snow, a pile of metal to turn into a storage building under a tarp also under the snow. A metal tube sticking out of the ground, (the well) with no idea if it would yield any water. A trailer haphazardly pulled off the driveway, in the brown bracken, also covered with a tarp buried in the snow.
But most importantly a vibrant, beautiful piece of forest and small meadows full of potential waiting to be tended and nurtured, but still buried under mounds of deep snow.
Fast forward to March 2023, the snow was deeper than last year, but now Fernhaven had facilities! An outhouse, a pumphouse, and a workshop/garage. Ok, the electricity was connected but not yet accessible, the well pump was hooked up but the water was not accessible either. The trailer had a new home and was safely protected in the workshop/garage from the deep snow. It was possible to visit, even though it would take hours of snow clearing to get in the driveway. Note for next year get someone to plow the driveway after each snowfall.
The Present
Now here we are at year three in March 2024. The trailer is again safe in the workshop, the driveway is plowed even though there is generally less snow than last year. The cabin, with its symmetrical triple-paned windows on either side of the white door, sits perfectly proportioned like a modern-day Hansel and Gretel fairy tale cabin. With its shiny metal green roof and unfinished siding, it is nestled between the trees and bracken just off the curved driveway.
Smoke curls lazily from the chimney, as snow falls silently into the trees. The glow from the windows, brightened by electric lighting, is warm and inviting. The wood stove, crackles and pops, orange flames dancing, spreading the kind of heat you can only get from a wood stove. It is pleasantly warm even though uninsulated, with the interior stacked high with kitchen cabinets, an unplumbed toilet, plastic bales of insulation, and a love seat. All waiting to be installed and put into place.
What will be done by next March? If this insight intrigues you or you’d like to find out how I got from there to here, you can read the full story about finding and buying the land and building the cabin, in my book Little Haven in the Woods. If you would like a signed copy you can order directly from my site or internationally it is available on Amazon.
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