One family’s rituals for readying home and hearth.
Photo Above: am, Eli and Elaine prepare wild persimmon waffles as a reward for the boys’ and Granddad’s labors in preparing for winter weather. Bruce Ingram | Styling by Janette Spencer
The forecast is ominous that February day: accumulations of ice with snow mixed in. That likely means several things here in Botetourt County, Virginia. I won’t be teaching school the next day, our electric power may go off, our chicken run has to be storm-proofed and, as always, wood needs to be cut.
Elaine and I decide to tend to the chicken run first. Fencing wire holds up plastic mesh netting, and autumn’s leaves have bowed this defensive cover that protects our Rhode Island Reds from hawks. Ice and snow accumulation could cause the netting to buckle further, then tear.
My wife cuts openings in the covering while I funnel the leaves through the holes. Meanwhile, seeing the leaves filter to the ground, our chickens enthusiastically scratch among the debris … hoping to find hapless insects in this unexpected windfall. Leaves removed, Elaine and I use twist ties to seal the openings.
Next, the henhouse needs a thorough cleaning. Earlier, Elaine called our daughter Sarah to send grandsons Sam and Eli across the hollow to assist in storm preparation. I explain to the boys that we have to give the coop an extra-good cleaning, as our birds will likely spend much of their time inside, and, well, their poop will likely accumulate even more than usual. I add that several winters ago, a mite infestation occurred, and a timely cleaning could keep that event from happening again.
I slide the manure-laden mats from the coop, then begin sweeping out the remaining debris while the grandsons clean and hang the mats to dry. I next apply a natural enzyme spray to the floor, walls and ceiling of the coop to repel insects. To finish the job, we position clean mats and fresh straw in the henhouse.
Looking around to see what needs to be done next, I realize that I should have pruned our heritage apple trees before now. I ask Sam to retrieve loppers from the garage and, when he returns, both boys begin arguing over who can prune first … without knowing what the word means.
I explain that cutting inferior limbs or branches growing in the wrong places will allow the tree’s remaining limbs to receive more nourishment and sunlight and, consequently, produce more apples. The tree that needs the most work is our Black Twig, and I’m impressed how well the boys follow my instructions to sever the offending limbs close to the trunk without harming it.
Then it’s on to our 38-acre woodlot. A dead, medium-size ash is our first target. Since no precipitation has occurred the last week or so, I tell the grandsons that we can burn the wood from this tree immediately. Such is not the case with our next target: a downed red oak in the hollow.
I explain that we will cut the tree in 14-inch-long chunks and tote them one at a time 75 yards across the hollow to my house. The hauling and later splitting of the chunks is not a pleasant task, but after the red oak seasons in our garage for a month or so, it will be prime firewood.
The ice storm arrives the next day and our electric power fizzles around 2 p.m. But the wood stove (well-stoked with the newly cut ash) radiates warmth. And the solar panels that Elaine had had installed after the 2012 Derecho keep our refrigerator and two freezers (stocked with vegetables, wild game, fruits and mushrooms from our land and nearby farms) humming.
Around 4 p.m., Sam and Eli come over to help me shovel snow off the sidewalk and from around and under the two solar-powered electric wires that run around the perimeter of our two chicken runs and deter predators. Our reward? Elaine assists the grandsons in making persimmon waffles for dinner. Even during an ice storm, life is good in our little corner of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
The story above first appeared in our January / February 2026 issue.
