Candid Maine Coon Cats

I’m deep into the bookkeeping part of the year, when I get everything together for the taxes, and when my creative side is put on hold, acting like a restless child waiting its turn. 

The Boy "Buzzer"

It’s also cold.  Winter in Maine, even this year with very little snow and some mild days, is drab, gray, and seemingly endless.  And with the cold, drab, grayness (especially the cold) my outdoor exposure is made up of a house to car to office to car to house routine.  No lingering near the lilies in the driveway.  No taking the long way.  This is the worst time of year for me.  January.  February.  At least March has some promise – the first day of spring, moving the clocks ahead.

Because so many of my best photographs have been the result of having my camera with me and being at the right place at one of those times and taking a few shots usually outdoors, I haven’t photographed much lately. 

What have I photographed?

Kittens.

Maine Coon kittens.

We got kittens.  Two.  A male and a female.  The male’s name is Buzzer and the female’s name is Bella.  This is what has been in my viewfinder for the past month or so. 

My daughter and the kittens.

One of these days I’m going to set up a set with some props and get them to act cute for the camera so I can take some shots to sell to the greeting card people.  For now, this is it. 

Keeping me company while I work.

A little background on the Maine Coon:  there is only speculation about the Maine Coon’s origins.  Some say that somewhere back a couple of hundred years ago a cat mated with a raccoon (highly unlikely if you ask me) and on down the generations and here we are. 

Hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.

Another story says that Marie Antoinette was preparing to flee France and had her prized possessions loaded onto a ship, including 6 of her Persian cats.  The ship set sail without Marie (you might know what held her up) and landed in Wiscasset Maine.  Cats bound out of their confines and into the arms of the local feline population and here we are.  I like that story best. 

We really don't need to buy cat toys.  Boxes work just fine.

Whatever the true history of the Maine Coon cat, it seems that several personality traits are constant.  One is their gregarious nature.  They want to be with their people, hanging out on the couch, near my desk, on our bed.  They’re like dogs in cat’s bodies.  They’re not the kind of cats that scurry away in fear when people come around.  No, they want to “help”. 

Searched all over before finding them here on New Year's Eve.

They’re also very vocal, “chirpy” even, and communicate with each other and with us pretty darn well.  Maine Coons are the biggest breed of cats, with the record for the longest cat held by “Stewie” a Maine Coon measuring out at 48.5 inches from tip of the nose to end of tail back in August of 2010.

Just so sweet.

We got them from Coldstream Cattery in Enfield, Maine.   Marie, the breeder, had two litters available at that time.  My daughter and I went to see them, not sure if we were going to get one, but knew if we did it was going to be a surprise for my husband and it had to be a male.  We were set on a brown tabby male and there were quiet a few to choose from, but so hard to do when they're so young.  Something we didn't expect was to fall for one of the two silver females.  Both were so alert and absolutely beautiful.  One our second visit, we decided on one of the brown males, mostly because he just kept coming back around us and didn't seem afraid.  The fact that he was completely adorable made it even easier.  When we met Marie to pick up the kittens just after Christmas, they had already been vet checked and had their first shots.  Our vet recently confirmed their health and complimented on their appearance. 

Blanketed in kittens.

Bella is a silver tabby and Buzzer is a brown tabby.  Our kittens are true to their breed, in temperament and personality.  Bella doesn't like to be picked up but does like to ride around on your shoulders.  She's the more vocal of the two; very chirpy and meows very loudly whenever I get near their food bowl, clearly asking for more (though there's usually plenty of food.)  She favors my husband, having found the perfect spot on his lap from her first days here.  Her preferred place on our bed is right up near his head on the pillows.  Bella purrs easily, instapurr we call it.

Bella, the gray tabby Maine Coon kitten, snoozing on the couch.

Buzzer was nameless for some time while we debated and tested names.  With my daughter just having finished the Twilight series, she named Bella.  I did not allow the male to be Edward or Jacob.  Not happening.  I gave the naming rights to the boy to my husband.  The cat we lost (and still miss) was named Ocho.  We tried out a lot of different names that were similar to that but in the end, he went with Buzzer, trying to find something that went with Bella (a bell and a buzzer . . . yeah, I'm not that good with it either).  My daughter and I liked "Taco" like Taco & Bella.

Buzz in the best spot in the house; back of the couch in front of the fire.  Smart cat.

 So, Buzz is sweet.  He comes trotting out when I get home, tail up, purring and happy to see me.  He virtually jumps us and is in our faces rubbing his face against us and then just flops with an audible thud.  He's very lovey.  We like that in a cat. 

Sleeping near the window in my office.

Together they've brought new life to the house.  It was way too quiet without a cat around.  With all of these cute kitty photo opps, I say it's no wonder I haven't looked beyond.  Well, okay, that's a lame excuse for not photographing more in the winter.  Or writing more blog posts . . .

Buzz, in my "in" box.

Maple Syrup Sunday in Maine

If you read my last post, you know that I’ve been exploring my Franco American heritage. In my contacts with the Franco American Center on the campus of the University of Maine in Orono, I was lucky enough to meet Lisa Michaud. Lisa extended an invitation to visit Dragonfly Farm & Winery in Stetson with her group. On Sunday, March 20th, a small group of us were welcomed warmly by the Nadeau family and given a tour and tastings of the operation.



 Bangor is a relatively large city in this part of the state. My home is just over the bridge, in Brewer, and maintains the feeling of a populous area. As we drove out of Bangor, into Kenduskeag, then Corinth, and finally into Stetson, the land and homes transformed into fields and farms. The day felt like spring, with blue sky and sunshine. It was nice to be getting out of town.

I’m not sure what I expected when I thought of a “farm”. I didn’t really expect livestock or rows of corn, but I was surprised to see two beautiful modern homes flanking the curved driveway. A small sign by the road told us we were in the right place. Between the homes and the road, blue tubing stretched from tree to tree, intertwining, meeting, and all the while, collecting sap from the maples. Co-owner Todd Nadeau, offered tastings of the sap out of one of the buckets hanging on the tree. It was only slightly sweet, unexpectedly refreshing.


Next Todd showed us the vineyard. It was obvious that this is a passionate endeavor. He and his wife Treena started this vineyard seven years ago with 275 vines. It has now grown to 600 vines, many different varieties and a distinctive fruit wine selection.


 For us, though, that day was about all things maple. Todd led us down to the edge of the woods, to the “cabane a sucre” or sugar shack, the home of the maple syrup production on the farm. Todd’s parents, Rita and John Nadeau, are from Jackman, Maine. As Rita explained, many of her friends and family made maple syrup when she was growing up. As retirement neared, the Nadeau’s decided to make the move. They built the “cabane” with wood from the land, and recently purchased a large evaporator to increase production of maple products.

 Pails hung from most of the trees, already tapped and running. John Nadeau let the kids in the group install a tap and hang the bucket with the cover on the tree. It didn’t take long for the clear liquid to start dripping from the tap.

Steam billowed out of the cupola vents on the roof of the Cabane. Inside, the evaporator was bubbling and frothing, filling the room with warmth. Rocking chairs and a woodstove gave the space such a homey feeling that it was difficult not to sit and relax. Rita was taking out the plates and napkins and serving up a slice of Maple Sugar Pie to each of us. It was delicious, sweet and creamy. I remembered my grandmother making sugar pie when I was young. Rita said it was a traditional recipe. On the stove nearby, she had pots bubbling the evaporated sap, boiling it down to syrup. Periodically she would pour some into a container where she would compare the color to a set of samples. She explained that syrup is lighter in color early in the season, and deepens as the weather warms.

After the pie, we went back out with John to collect sap from the buckets that hung on trees around the cabin. He used a tractor with an industrial sized plastic barrel strapped to the front. The kids took the buckets off the trees and poured the liquid into the barrel. John let the little ones ride with him from tree to tree.

When we made our way back to the cabin, Rita instructed us to fill a child’s sled with snow. With our hands, we packed in the crystallized snow and brought the sled back. After some stirring and testing, it was finally ready. After handing everyone some popsicle sticks, they poured some hot thick syrup onto the pressed snow. We swirled the warm gooey maple onto the sticks and enjoyed the maple taffy.

My daughter and I thoroughly enjoyed ourselves visiting the Dragonfly Farm and wish to extend our thanks to the Nadeau family and the Franco American Center for giving us an experience that we had never had. Many of my ancestors had their “cabane a sucre” and supplemented their farming in the off season with maple syrup production. It was a nice reminder of simpler times.

This past weekend was Maple Sunday here in Maine. That’s when many maple farms open their doors and allow the public in to see how maple syrup is made. Dragonfly Farm and Winery is a participating farm. For more information, visit their website. Here is a link to Dragonfly Farm and Winery in Stetson, Maine. http://www.mainewinegrower.com/


Here is the link to the Franco American Center in Orono. Great resource for history and support. http://www.francoamericanarchives.org/

Snow is a four letter word

Snow map? Did he actually say we need to take look at the SNOW MAP? It’s April 27th and the weatherman on TV is giving out the details of the snow fall that is expecting throughout the state today and tomorrow.




Snow is a four letter word.



I’m wearing two pairs of socks today and it’s just not right. My long johns aren’t so deep in drawer that they can’t be retrieved if needed.  The sad part is that they might be needed. 



Cold is another four letter word.



Okay, okay. I’m good at letter counts. What I’m not good at is dealing with winter weather, especially when it’s happening well into spring. I was photographing tulips last night, people! As I get older, it seems that my tolerance for the cold is diminishing.

I’m not a skier, snowboarder, snow shoe enthusiast, snow mobiler, or one of those crazies who “just likes the cold”. I have no desire to venture out when the temperature is lower than 40 degrees. I don’t like the “brisk” winter air or the “crisp” fall days. As far as I’m concerned, autumn’s foliage is a sign of the impending doom of winter. The holidays get me through until January, but after that, bring on the spring. I’m ready for crocuses, daffodils, green grass and birds chirping. A white Christmas is all fine and dandy but enough is enough. Snow should be gone by January 1st. People comment on how it’s “so beautiful”. A bucolic snow covered meadow with the requisite red barn New England postcard scene? Ugh. The glistening, crystal clear icicles decorating a winter berry covered tree limb. Daggers of death, just waiting to leap off and impale you from behind, leaving you crumpled and frozen on the path, not to be found until the late spring thaw. Winter photographs do nothing except chill me. Being a photographer, I have a habit of envisioning myself in the shoes of the person holding the camera. That’s why I so love the photos I took of a deserted beach in Mexico. Not because they are visually stunning, photo contest winning scenes, but because MY TOES WERE IN THE SAND when the photo was taken. I was HOT when it happened. Winter scenes might thrill others, but if I have to see them, I’d rather it be in a magazine, instead of being right outside the door.



One of the only things that redeems winter weather is a good snow day – you know, schools closed, work cancelled, an excuse to stay in my pj’s and read or play games with my husband and daughter. Another is winter cooking: stews, chili, casseroles, pot roast, macaroni and cheese, lasagna, fresh baked rolls, apple crisp. I could go on and on about the food, but then it leads me to the offset: the sedentary lifestyle I lead in the winter. The couch and the warm crocheted blanket, a hot cup of something, the inability to budge from there, except to partake in the aforementioned culinary endeavors creates a recipe for the pudgy shape I seem to develop each winter. Snow days and winter cooking. That’s it. Winter pleasures stop there.



Deep breath. The grass is really green. Trees and flowers are budding and blooming. Spring truly has a grasp. This is just a little reminder of where we are and that we are not in control. Life in Maine can be pretty darn nice. The summers here are awesome. Near perfect for the short time they exist. There is a joke about the weather in Maine. It goes something like how there’s nine months of winter and three months of damn poor sledding (or sleddin’ if you’re going to say it right). Then there’s the classic “if you don’t like the weather in Maine (or New Hampshire or Vermont or just about anywhere) wait a minute, it’ll change.” Well, I don’t think it’s that volatile, but many a stunning summer day has been ruined by rain. And the summers are stunning. Really. Low humidity, maybe five days hot enough to run the air conditioner. Heck, we don’t even put one in the window any more. A few days that make you think “wow, it’s hot.” Not a complaint of mine, actually, more like a cause to turn my direction to that of the beach or lake.

Summer is close enough for me to envision it. May is just next week and it’s my favorite month. I love the long days, light until well after supper. I love the crazy colorful flowers that decorate even the most humble of homes. The bird’s songs are so insistent this time of year. Everything so urgently arriving. The threatened appearance of a little snow today is cause for appreciation, I suppose. Would I feel the same intensity about the flowers and green grass if they were in my life year round? Would I really find myself lingering to take it in before I head into the office? I dream of a year without snow, a year of traveling to stay out of the cold, but would I really want to live without winter for the rest of my life? I hate to say it, but I doubt it.