The world lost three cultural icons this week and much more.
Ed McMahon made us laugh and reminded us that you don’t need to be the front man to be a star.
Farrah Fawcett showed us that beauty without can sometimes hide a creative and courageous soul.
And Michael Jackson changed the way music is experienced in ways we may not yet understand. Unfortunately his true talent became overshadowed by his train wreck of a personal life. Didn’t you hope that one day someone would take him by the shoulders and tell him to stop? Unfortunately, his was a life cut too short. Now his legacy includes the “what might have beens.” I do have fond memories of painting my last college apartment, a lovely studio that I didn’t have to share, to his Thriller album. Thank you MJ for an excellent soundtrack for making a renovation a party. I am sorry that his death will become even more of a train wreck and circus than his life ever was. So sad.
As noted this morning on “This Week” with George Stephanopoulos, ten U.S. servicemen lost their lives in Iraq and Afghanistan this week. This was news to me. What a strange world we inhabit that the deaths of Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett and Ed McMahon, people most of us never met and who we didn’t really “know” are more compelling to us than the loss of ten of our sons and brothers and friends and neighbors, people more like us than the other three ever would be. In some way, I find it shameful that those ten precious lives, lost in the service to our country, become just a footnote on a Sunday morning talking heads policy wonk program.
Our priorities could definitely use some adjustment. It seems it's time we recaptured a little of our humanity as well.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Dung Gone It
Let me preface this little essay by telling you a not-so-secret about myself. As anyone who’s known me for more than 20 minutes will tell you, I am a frustrated scientist. If I had to do it all over again, I probably would have gotten some kind of biology degree as my thirst for how the natural world works far exceeds the average person’s. We have a good friend who is a biologist by profession and I like nothing better than to pick his brain and share my theories on the life that surrounds us from the sheep to the fishes, insects to birds. I can’t say that he enjoys our exchanges as much as I do, but he tolerates me. Now on to my musing…
Having sheep around means you also have a fair amount of their dung as well. Surprisingly, sheep poop is not really smelly. It is their urine that can really reek when they are concentrated in one area. On the other hand, I am obsessed with raking up after them twice a day so that they have a nice clean corral area, so who knows what it would smell like if I were a little less OCD about sheep poop.
I have some help in their corral and pasture in the form of two innocuous insects, the yellow dung fly and a burrowing dung beetle.
Within a very short time after the sheep make a deposit, the fuzzy yellow flies arrive. They look like some kind of mutant cross between a pale bumble bee and a fly. Within minutes of their arrival they mate and lay their eggs. Three weeks later, adult flies emerge and continue the cycle. Apparently, the flies eat other insects and feed on nectar. I wonder if we can assume that the larvae eat dung? I haven’t seen larvae yet.
I don’t know when or how the dung beetles show up. As far as I can tell, they arrive by subterranean passages and go to work. I have found piles that the sheep deposit during the night that are nearly hollow shells by the time I get to them in the morning. I’ve never gotten a good look at one of the beetles as they scurry back into the soil as quickly as I expose them. I can tell you that they are small, about a quarter of an inch, shiny and incredibly voracious. What I can’t figure out is how they find the dung, or where they came from to start out with. The area where the sheep are only has had animals grazing on it the past couple of years, so I can’t imagine that there was a population of them just waiting around. Maybe they flew in? Regardless, they are welcome.
In fact as long as the critters who like dung leave us and the sheep alone, they are all welcome. Anything that minimizes the work I have to do to build our soils is a bonus and those things that enhance our efforts are invaluable.
Managing our farm in balance with nature is an ongoing and lifelong learning experience, one which I embrace as it tickles my scientific fancy. “Using” what Mother Nature provides is a heady responsibility. If we aren’t respectful of her gifts, the consequences can be messy and adverse to our human goals, and Mother Nature always wins. Anyone who thinks she doesn’t is a fool and headed for disaster. It’s a shame that our legislators and business leaders missed this day at life school. It is all of us that will suffer for their hubris.
We respectfully continue to do what we can here on our little farm with the help of sheep and dung eaters, bees and butterflies, bats and wild turkeys, and of course the fat robins, and the myriad of other creatures with which we are blessed.
Except the bald-faced hornets. In no way are they a blessing. Mother Nature can have them back.
Having sheep around means you also have a fair amount of their dung as well. Surprisingly, sheep poop is not really smelly. It is their urine that can really reek when they are concentrated in one area. On the other hand, I am obsessed with raking up after them twice a day so that they have a nice clean corral area, so who knows what it would smell like if I were a little less OCD about sheep poop.
I have some help in their corral and pasture in the form of two innocuous insects, the yellow dung fly and a burrowing dung beetle.
Within a very short time after the sheep make a deposit, the fuzzy yellow flies arrive. They look like some kind of mutant cross between a pale bumble bee and a fly. Within minutes of their arrival they mate and lay their eggs. Three weeks later, adult flies emerge and continue the cycle. Apparently, the flies eat other insects and feed on nectar. I wonder if we can assume that the larvae eat dung? I haven’t seen larvae yet.
I don’t know when or how the dung beetles show up. As far as I can tell, they arrive by subterranean passages and go to work. I have found piles that the sheep deposit during the night that are nearly hollow shells by the time I get to them in the morning. I’ve never gotten a good look at one of the beetles as they scurry back into the soil as quickly as I expose them. I can tell you that they are small, about a quarter of an inch, shiny and incredibly voracious. What I can’t figure out is how they find the dung, or where they came from to start out with. The area where the sheep are only has had animals grazing on it the past couple of years, so I can’t imagine that there was a population of them just waiting around. Maybe they flew in? Regardless, they are welcome.
In fact as long as the critters who like dung leave us and the sheep alone, they are all welcome. Anything that minimizes the work I have to do to build our soils is a bonus and those things that enhance our efforts are invaluable.
Managing our farm in balance with nature is an ongoing and lifelong learning experience, one which I embrace as it tickles my scientific fancy. “Using” what Mother Nature provides is a heady responsibility. If we aren’t respectful of her gifts, the consequences can be messy and adverse to our human goals, and Mother Nature always wins. Anyone who thinks she doesn’t is a fool and headed for disaster. It’s a shame that our legislators and business leaders missed this day at life school. It is all of us that will suffer for their hubris.
We respectfully continue to do what we can here on our little farm with the help of sheep and dung eaters, bees and butterflies, bats and wild turkeys, and of course the fat robins, and the myriad of other creatures with which we are blessed.
Except the bald-faced hornets. In no way are they a blessing. Mother Nature can have them back.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Mama Don’t Take My Kodachrome Away…
Among the other sad news of the week, was a short piece I almost missed on NPR about Kodak’s decision to no longer manufacture Kodachrome film.
I have become as lazy as most Americans and have embraced my digital camera. It’s easy, quick and I can take lots of bad photos for little or no cost. For my artistic side, this is not a good thing.
When I was younger and had more leisure time I fancied myself as an above average photographer. I even had a show at a local bank. I loved working in black and white. I was inspired by Ansel Adams, whom I heard speak near the end of his life. He drove home the idea that the initial image was important, but the manipulation done in the dark room was where real artistry is achieved. Black and white allowed me to explore his theories at little expense.
When I was feeling flush and frisky, I would experiment with Kodachrome or Ektachrome transparency films. Since I liked to photograph the natural world, my film of choice was Ektachrome for its ability to capture blues, greens and other cool colors with such vibrancy and almost grain-less clarity. For me, Kodachrome was reserved for photographing people and the most amazing sunsets, sunrises and other “hot” images.
Time and life and other interests have caused me to put my old Nikon SLR in the closet. Every once in a while I fantasize about pulling it out and spending days exploring my current world through its lenses. Sadly, I haven’t done so. Yet. But when I do, I will mourn the loss of one more link to our manual, analog past. Twitter and Facebook and email do not replace handwritten letters. Texting is not a phone call. MP3s and CDs can’t duplicate the richness of vinyl. The internet is not a newspaper. A blog is not a diary.
Easier is definitely not always better and I fear these small losses of reality as we digitize ourselves are lessening us in some intangible way.
Sigh.
I have become as lazy as most Americans and have embraced my digital camera. It’s easy, quick and I can take lots of bad photos for little or no cost. For my artistic side, this is not a good thing.
When I was younger and had more leisure time I fancied myself as an above average photographer. I even had a show at a local bank. I loved working in black and white. I was inspired by Ansel Adams, whom I heard speak near the end of his life. He drove home the idea that the initial image was important, but the manipulation done in the dark room was where real artistry is achieved. Black and white allowed me to explore his theories at little expense.
When I was feeling flush and frisky, I would experiment with Kodachrome or Ektachrome transparency films. Since I liked to photograph the natural world, my film of choice was Ektachrome for its ability to capture blues, greens and other cool colors with such vibrancy and almost grain-less clarity. For me, Kodachrome was reserved for photographing people and the most amazing sunsets, sunrises and other “hot” images.
Time and life and other interests have caused me to put my old Nikon SLR in the closet. Every once in a while I fantasize about pulling it out and spending days exploring my current world through its lenses. Sadly, I haven’t done so. Yet. But when I do, I will mourn the loss of one more link to our manual, analog past. Twitter and Facebook and email do not replace handwritten letters. Texting is not a phone call. MP3s and CDs can’t duplicate the richness of vinyl. The internet is not a newspaper. A blog is not a diary.
Easier is definitely not always better and I fear these small losses of reality as we digitize ourselves are lessening us in some intangible way.
Sigh.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Bad News on the Manure Rule
We had our organic inspection yesterday. All went well and my crazy worrying about it all was just plain stupid.
During our inspection we chatted about the manure rule which defines when a farmer can apply it. In the case of crops within 18" of the ground, there needs to be a 120 day separation between application and harvest. For crops more than 18" from the ground, the separation needs to be 90 days. Our certifier interprets the rule to mean that animals grazing (and pooping) in the orchard is "manure application." For us this means we have to keep the sheep out of the orchard for much of the prime grazing time.
So, back to the conversation with the inspector. As if the manure rule weren't restrictive enough, the NOP, in their wisdom (?), recently determined that farmers who use work horses will now have to put bags on the horses' butts to keep them from dropping "manure" in the fields as they work.
I am as concerned about food safety as any responsible farmer, but this rule and subsequent decision is not serving the goals of organics well. In all of the recent food scares, organics have not been the culprit. Conventional agricultural practices have been to blame.
We are focused on creating vibrant soils, growing a healthy, quality product, minimizing our impact on the local environment (which includes the lake), and lessening our global impacts as they relate to CO2 and fossil fuel usage. By requiring us to manage our sheep in an illogical manner, we are forced to 1) apply more off-farm fertilizers and 2) run our gas guzzling equipment more to mow and fertilize. This is contrary to our philosophy of what organics should be about.
I had hoped that we were going to see a more thoughtful approach to the use of manure.
During our inspection we chatted about the manure rule which defines when a farmer can apply it. In the case of crops within 18" of the ground, there needs to be a 120 day separation between application and harvest. For crops more than 18" from the ground, the separation needs to be 90 days. Our certifier interprets the rule to mean that animals grazing (and pooping) in the orchard is "manure application." For us this means we have to keep the sheep out of the orchard for much of the prime grazing time.
So, back to the conversation with the inspector. As if the manure rule weren't restrictive enough, the NOP, in their wisdom (?), recently determined that farmers who use work horses will now have to put bags on the horses' butts to keep them from dropping "manure" in the fields as they work.
I am as concerned about food safety as any responsible farmer, but this rule and subsequent decision is not serving the goals of organics well. In all of the recent food scares, organics have not been the culprit. Conventional agricultural practices have been to blame.
We are focused on creating vibrant soils, growing a healthy, quality product, minimizing our impact on the local environment (which includes the lake), and lessening our global impacts as they relate to CO2 and fossil fuel usage. By requiring us to manage our sheep in an illogical manner, we are forced to 1) apply more off-farm fertilizers and 2) run our gas guzzling equipment more to mow and fertilize. This is contrary to our philosophy of what organics should be about.
I had hoped that we were going to see a more thoughtful approach to the use of manure.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
I'm a farmer now
Tonight I transitioned from a wannabe farmer to an actual working farmer. I didn’t know I hadn’t made the shift until it happened. I thought I had been a farmer all along.
Since Muffin wouldn’t tell me where he got out, it was time to walk the fence looking for his escape route. It wasn’t where I thought, a weak spot on one side of the cabin where the fence wire is just a tad short, leaving a gap that an insistent sheep could be tempted by. No, he had pushed the fence off of the other side of the building, crumpling it pretty well. Darn. That one wasn’t going to be so easy to fix, and by now it was closer to dark than dusk.
Fortunately I had recently purchased some t-posts, so up to the shed I went to retrieve them and the post pounder, pliers and some wire. I trudged back under my load to the cabin and after some creative language combinations, fought back the prickly bush that resides immediately adjacent to Muffin’s escape route. Of course all of the boys were there to assist…truthfully they are more like a CalTrans road crew than actual assistants, but I enjoyed their company anyway. We got the post in the ground, the fence uncrumpled and attached to it, and the boys got a special late night cookie treat for their sweet natures.
Thank You, Paul Simon
Yesterday it was my birthday. I hung one more year on the line. I should be depressed cause my life's a mess but I'm having a good time...
Yes, a fabulous, ridiculous, delicious, maddening mess, but it's suiting me.
Yes, a fabulous, ridiculous, delicious, maddening mess, but it's suiting me.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Jack, the Crackerjack Mechanic
Last Friday was our first spray day of the season. The first time is always the most challenging. The temperature (not too hot or cold) and wind speed (not too breezy or dead still) have to be just right. You need to remember your rate of speed, just where to start your turns so you don't take down the fence or damage a tree, just how much throttle makes the sprayer hum, how to recognize the sound it makes when you are almost empty. Our 300-gallon sprayer is older than sin but, fortunately, not terribly temperamental. It has an ancient Wisconsin air-cooled engine in it, which is extremely loud, but also amazingly simple. Even I can discern most all of the visible parts.
Maintenance beyond what we can do on the sprayer and tractor is done by a bona fide Montana native by the name of Jack. Albert calls him a “crackerjack” mechanic. Me…I think of him as a MacGyver of the engine. A piece of tin foil, some chewing gum and an eraser and he can make anything work. He was the first true character we met when we moved here. I have never seen him without a woolen watch cap, whether it is January or July. He smokes hand rolled cigarettes while working and drinks cheap beer. His property is scattered with the remnants of myriad machines and he buys old vehicles he spots in his travels just because they fascinate him. His house and shop look much like his yard. I think I counted five or six stoves inside? He drives an old Saab and keeps at least one more in his yard for spare parts. The car doesn’t always start and I have had to give him a push a couple of times to get him going. He often wanders off in the winter to warmer climes. His family has been in the area long enough to actually own an island out in Flathead Lake.
It took him a while to warm up to me. I am not sure he is used to dealing with women regarding farm equipment or in his other job, working on boats. But I think he appreciated my earnestness and willingness to learn about our equipment. He commented that I am one fine assistant. He is fond of telling me how to troubleshoot some engine problem over the phone to keep from having to come out here. More than once I have held the phone up to the sprayer or tractor so that he can hear what it’s doing.
Today I dropped off some parts we pulled for him to replace. He is actually building us some new spark plug wires as he doesn’t trust the commercial ones we could buy at NAPA. Our conversation ran from catalytic converters, acid rain and CO2, to music and computers, international politics, and tree felling, all the while guitar jazz played in the background. I am sure I left something out. While we chatted he showed me how his cat fetches and shared stories about how gentle his dog is.
Like many of the long time or native locals we’ve met in Montana, he isn’t interested in the trappings of life. There isn’t one scintilla of pretense in the man. He is what he is, take him or leave him. I don’t think he really cares either way. The dichotomy between someone like Jack and the folks who breeze into our community for a few weeks or months each year is astounding. I can’t imagine what they might ever have to say to one another. But imagine how much richer their lives would be if they spent just a little while getting to know Jack.
Give me more of the Jacks of the world.
Orcharding is nothin' but glamor, baby!
Maintenance beyond what we can do on the sprayer and tractor is done by a bona fide Montana native by the name of Jack. Albert calls him a “crackerjack” mechanic. Me…I think of him as a MacGyver of the engine. A piece of tin foil, some chewing gum and an eraser and he can make anything work. He was the first true character we met when we moved here. I have never seen him without a woolen watch cap, whether it is January or July. He smokes hand rolled cigarettes while working and drinks cheap beer. His property is scattered with the remnants of myriad machines and he buys old vehicles he spots in his travels just because they fascinate him. His house and shop look much like his yard. I think I counted five or six stoves inside? He drives an old Saab and keeps at least one more in his yard for spare parts. The car doesn’t always start and I have had to give him a push a couple of times to get him going. He often wanders off in the winter to warmer climes. His family has been in the area long enough to actually own an island out in Flathead Lake.
It took him a while to warm up to me. I am not sure he is used to dealing with women regarding farm equipment or in his other job, working on boats. But I think he appreciated my earnestness and willingness to learn about our equipment. He commented that I am one fine assistant. He is fond of telling me how to troubleshoot some engine problem over the phone to keep from having to come out here. More than once I have held the phone up to the sprayer or tractor so that he can hear what it’s doing.
Today I dropped off some parts we pulled for him to replace. He is actually building us some new spark plug wires as he doesn’t trust the commercial ones we could buy at NAPA. Our conversation ran from catalytic converters, acid rain and CO2, to music and computers, international politics, and tree felling, all the while guitar jazz played in the background. I am sure I left something out. While we chatted he showed me how his cat fetches and shared stories about how gentle his dog is.
Like many of the long time or native locals we’ve met in Montana, he isn’t interested in the trappings of life. There isn’t one scintilla of pretense in the man. He is what he is, take him or leave him. I don’t think he really cares either way. The dichotomy between someone like Jack and the folks who breeze into our community for a few weeks or months each year is astounding. I can’t imagine what they might ever have to say to one another. But imagine how much richer their lives would be if they spent just a little while getting to know Jack.
Give me more of the Jacks of the world.
Orcharding is nothin' but glamor, baby!
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Cat Cave...na na na na na na na...Cat Cave
I call it the cat cave. Or should it be the cat canyon?
A little background may be in order here. George, our lovely geriatric cat, decided that he really prefers sleeping in an enclosed space during the day. It started out by him “asking” to get under the covers early in the morning. He would root around and paw at the covers until I lifted them up and he could snuggle under. But, being a cat, it wasn’t enough to be under the covers. For some reason he won’t tolerate having the covers touch him. So, when I am in bed alone with him, I put a pillow across from me and drape the covers over me and the pillow, essentially making a “cave.”
I guess he has been doing that for about three or four years. Some mornings he doesn’t want to get up when I do, so I started replacing me with another pillow and leaving him to the bed for as long as he likes. On some days, that turns out to be the whole day, with breaks from napping for a quick bite to eat, potty breaks, and drinks of water.
During the winter, when the wood stove is constantly burning, he has a commercially made kitty tent that sits in a rocker that he inhabits. It really concentrates the heat of the stove and couples that with his own kitty furnace output for one very cozy spot. But as the seasons change, and the stove sessions become more infrequent, he moves back to the bed.
Knowing that Albert, my husband, isn’t crazy about having the cat sleep in the bed throughout the day (there are those occasional stray bits of kitty litter that end up between the sheets), I started making a cave out of two pillows on top of the bed that are covered with the ubiquitous fleece blanket. This seems to be an agreeable compromise and all three of us are happy…George, because he gets his cave and his way, Albert because he gets the cat out of the bed and gets his way, and me, because both my bed mates are happy.
About a week ago I got up and George was already downstairs doing his morning business. I made the bed, but didn’t make the cave. There was plenty of sunshine pouring through the windows elsewhere in the house and I figured he could make do with that. There are plenty of other cozy spots to take a nap. He has a kitty cliff hanger device in my office window that I figured (apparently wrongly) would do just fine.
About an hour later, George disappeared and then reappeared, meowing very loudly (he has a funny meow, but more on that in another missive). He wouldn’t stop and when I walked toward him, he started for the stairs. He stayed about three steps ahead of me, meowing, and led me up the stairs and to the bed. Up he jumped, where he stood in the exact spot where his cave should be. He continued meowing as I placed the pillows. He lay down between them, and dare I say it, smiled as I pulled the blanket over his head. Needless to say, I haven’t missed making his cave once since then, and he now goes through the same procedure, waiting as I neaten the covers, and then standing or sitting where his cave should be until I finish constructing it.
Now even a cat can get too warm, and the sun shines into our bedroom rather strongly in the late afternoon. So for the past couple of weeks, his cat cave becomes a cat canyon in the afternoon. At some point (I haven’t seen it happen) he moves from under the covers to lie between the pillows in the lovely cozy valley they create. That’s how I find him in the afternoon, all warm and snuggly in his fleecy canyon with the sun baking his old bones.
I’ve lived with this cat for 18-plus years, and he can still surprise me with his intelligence, persistence, and charm. Those who claim that animals don’t think, who go so far as to say they have no soul, are sad and lonely folks. All they really need is a day with a cat like George to change their wrong thinking. His companionship and constancy, and ability to grow and change, have been a blessing without measure.
The View, Part 2
One is never at a loss for something to look at around here. This photo is a couple of weeks old (we have just finished the cherry bloom) but is just too gorgeous and spectacular not to share. Am I gloating just a little?...you betcha. Most days Mother Nature reminds me that I am one very fortunate girl.
The peak is known as Haystack. Not too obvious a name from this vantage, but well-named when you are looking at her from the valley. The blossoms are cherry, and the bird to the right of the mountain? I think it is a crow or raven, but let's fantasize and call it a bald eagle, if you'd like. There are plenty around these parts at this time of year.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Oh, Happy Day!
Is anyone out there as excited, giddy and emotional about today as I am?!
What an amazing day.
Amen.
What an amazing day.
Amen.
The Angel
An angel crossed my path today. I got too smart when I was driving down our icy road today and got stuck in the deep snow on the shoulder. While I was struggling to get the vehicle out, an older man, a stranger to me, noticed my plight and stopped to help. After pushing and pulling and a trip to a neighbor's for a shovel and a bit of added gravel for good measure, we got the old van out. I barely got his name as he turned to walk back to his truck and then I was on my way.
We are blessed to live in such a place and among such generous neighbors. I hope I'll have the opportunity to pass it on.
We are blessed to live in such a place and among such generous neighbors. I hope I'll have the opportunity to pass it on.
Growing Up
In my "about me" statement, I noted that I am "still waiting to feel like a grown-up." As of today, the waiting is over.
Today I watched a 47 year old man take the reins as the "leader of the free world." As a 47 year old myself, I think the willingness to take on that level of responsibility qualifies as being a grown-up.
What qualifies a person as being considered responsible? It is a willingness to put yourself second to the needs of others. It is doing things you don't feel like doing simply because they need to get done. It is being someone that others can rely on, being there when you say you will be. It is the doing of things for their own sake, and not for any ultimate benefit you may receive. It is the "putting away of childish things."
I was mulling this over while I was raking up sheep poop this afternoon. I was thinking about the gradual transformation some of us go through as we change from carefree 20-somethings to responsible 40-somethings. You don't even know it is happening until it's already happened. One day you realize that you haven't lounged in bed for years, that you read books by the pages rather than the chapters, that playing with your friends has taken a back seat to taking a family member to a doctor's appointment. Some of it you miss. Some of it you wonder why you ever wasted so much time. Moments of freedom are precious and few.
The funny thing is...I like this other way of being. I like being needed, of needing to take care of others. I like helping where and when I can. Yes, I even like raking sheep poop (most days).
But I must be honest...I don't fit the reponsibility bill on the "benefit" side. There are lots of benefits, realized and hidden, to being responsible. The most important? The wonderful feeling you get for showing up. It's schmaltzy, I know, but the biggest gift you can give yourself is giving of yourself.
Perhaps I've been confused about being grown-up. Seems I've been a grown-up all along.
Today I watched a 47 year old man take the reins as the "leader of the free world." As a 47 year old myself, I think the willingness to take on that level of responsibility qualifies as being a grown-up.
What qualifies a person as being considered responsible? It is a willingness to put yourself second to the needs of others. It is doing things you don't feel like doing simply because they need to get done. It is being someone that others can rely on, being there when you say you will be. It is the doing of things for their own sake, and not for any ultimate benefit you may receive. It is the "putting away of childish things."
I was mulling this over while I was raking up sheep poop this afternoon. I was thinking about the gradual transformation some of us go through as we change from carefree 20-somethings to responsible 40-somethings. You don't even know it is happening until it's already happened. One day you realize that you haven't lounged in bed for years, that you read books by the pages rather than the chapters, that playing with your friends has taken a back seat to taking a family member to a doctor's appointment. Some of it you miss. Some of it you wonder why you ever wasted so much time. Moments of freedom are precious and few.
The funny thing is...I like this other way of being. I like being needed, of needing to take care of others. I like helping where and when I can. Yes, I even like raking sheep poop (most days).
But I must be honest...I don't fit the reponsibility bill on the "benefit" side. There are lots of benefits, realized and hidden, to being responsible. The most important? The wonderful feeling you get for showing up. It's schmaltzy, I know, but the biggest gift you can give yourself is giving of yourself.
Perhaps I've been confused about being grown-up. Seems I've been a grown-up all along.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
The Warming
I am one of those crazy individuals who hopes to live in a Currier and Ives Christmas card from Thanksgiving to Easter. I love the snow. I love the squeak of it underfoot, the shush of it as it falls, the silence it creates as it absorbs other ambient sounds, the amazing whiteness of it, and the sheer wonder of the perfect individual flakes. I love the way snow makes everything look better...compost piles turn into mini moguls, fence posts into mushrooms, trees into icing confections. All harsh edges are erased and flaws obscured.
Here in Northwest Montana we have enjoyed a long spell of particularly snowy weather. A series of muscular storms covered our little farm with a think blanket of fluffy snow, deep enough to make doing chores a chore, but not so deep that we were housebound. With nearly three feet on the ground and even deeper drifts, I have been in heaven.
And yet my white heaven has turned to hell in just 24 short hours with the arrival of a warming trend that has swirled its way out of Oregon and Washington and turned my winter wonderland into an ugly, slushy mess. Shallow pools of melted snow sit over frozen ground and the sheep's winter quarters have turned into a soupy, poopy mess. Poor babies, they can't seem to find a dry spot unless they lay in their spent hay.
One bright spot in the morass is that it will help with our nearly impassable road (the UPS man got stuck yesterday and uttered a VERY bad word which I heard from nearly 1/4 mile away) and allow us to pick up a load of hay from a local farmer. That should make the sheeps happy.
But as an eternal optomist, I know it will snow again, and the ugliness exposed by the warmth will once again be shrouded in soft, rounded whiteness and I will sigh, happy.
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