November is a quiet month in New England. Colors are muted, haze stands over the hills, shadows fall long on the lawn. The air is dreamy. It is a curious time, an intermission between the excitement of October and the coming of the snows. By now almost everyone is ready for winter. When we drive along the winding country roads, I note neat stacks of firewood by back doors, tractors covered by the barns, and around many of the old farmhouses, banks of evergreen packed against the foundations.
Gladys Taber, Stillmeadow Sampler, 1959
Our firewood is all stacked, though in two piles; one big one, and another smaller one on the terrace which gets replenished as needed. Our tractor is not covered because it is in use all winter long. Tom uses it to bring the aforementioned wood up to the terrace, and to plow out the parking area. And we don't bank the house with evergreens, being afraid it will draw mice, and we already have plenty, thank you very much.