Shack in the Middle, the house, is what my daughter calls a shack in the middle of nowhere. In reality, it's not a shack, it's an 1830's log house on 50 acres in eastern Ontario. It has never had electricity or running water. In spite of the Shack's rusticity it is the coziest place I know. There is nothing finer than sipping hot cider by candlelight in front of the woodstove on a cold winter's night.
There's a marsh on the property which is home to all kinds of wild creatures and is hopefully a refuge to them as much as the Shack is to us.
Being at the Shack is like stepping back in time. You quickly discover that it's actually a lot of work keeping warm and fed and hauling water without benefit of electricity or central heat. But it's satisfying and rewarding. When we're there, which is not as often as we'd like, we enjoy each other's company, the warm fire, good simple food and lots of fresh air.
Shack in the Middle, the blog, is a place where I celebrate those good things in life and work through my anger and disappointment at the destruction and waste of industrial civilization. Sometimes it's puppies and chickens, sometimes it's incoherent ranting.
Shack in the Middle, the blog, is a place where I celebrate those good things in life and work through my anger and disappointment at the destruction and waste of industrial civilization. Sometimes it's puppies and chickens, sometimes it's incoherent ranting.
