Well Worn Paths

We are creatures of habit. Even the most adventurous of souls will find themselves having a routine of some sort whether it’s just a morning cup of coffee or in the way a day is lain out.

A few days ago as I walked the familiar path from house to barn I again noticed the shortened grass already worn thinner by our daily treks. We have a circle drive that we could walk, but the path through the yard is shorter so that’s the one we take. It’s not pretty: especially after the spring rains. In the winter we even clear it with a shovel or snow plow. Yep, right through the yard.

My thoughts wandered from this path to the one I walked from house to barn as a child at my grandparents. The farm too has a circle drive that my grandparents, dad, and uncle didn’t want to walk completely around either. By the time I came along and was old enough to toddle behind Grandpa to the barn the path was already well worn. There was no mistaking the dirt line running from one drive, under an apple tree, to the next drive, under a scraggly evergreen, and then to the barn.  I could probably still walk it with my eyes closed to this day.

I cannot explain to anyone why my thoughts travel as they do. Often backward, then forward again landing with some connection to current day. What lessons have I taken, or could I take, from a barn path?

One of my favorite poems is Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken.

Over the past couple of days each time I’ve covered the distance from the house to barn and back again I’ve considered places well worn versus life’s journeys into the unknown. I daresay that farm life can be a twist of both.

There are many daily constants. Before we eat our own breakfasts the animals get theirs. From cattle to horses, chickens and cats, all need water and food. Seasonally, routines of planting and harvesting mix with all of the maintenance in between. At times-like when you just want a day off, or the weather’s bad and the path to the barn looks tedious, you wish you could walk down Frost’s road of untouched undergrowth to a place of mystery and adventure from which you may wish to never return. It’s about that time when you realize you just have to pull on those boots and walk the known path anyway. I kinda felt this way when I began to walk this mental trail the other day. When I heard the soft mew of new kittens I was rewarded with the thought that surprises do await even in the steady known. Sometimes it’s new life and other times it’s a downed fence with the cows on the wrong side.

To be honest I’m about halfway through an average life expectancy now so when I close my eyes and revisit my trails I question which ones will make the difference. The well worn or the less traveled? In the end my guess is the one that has been walked a million times over by friends and family members at all stages of life. The one filled with memories, good and bad. The one I’ve traveled alone with tears in my eyes and prayers on my lips. It’s the path of home and constants that will be the most important to me.

Time to Harvest

My dad behind the wheel trying to get his soybeans in

It’s near mid-October and farmers here are running their beans in quick order. That’s the way it goes. The harvest window seems small no matter what the crop. When it’s ready, if the weather’s going to hold, you run. Sometimes it seems like you wait for the clouds to part (literally) and angels to sing while aligning all of the correct elements for the best crop possible.

There’s a cold front rolling in over the weekend forecasting rain aplenty. The last few days have had the air full of clouds of bean dust as anyone around here with a field of soybeans races against the clock.

We personally don’t raise food crops on our little mini farm but I still watch the skies and fields with bated breath hoping my family and neighbors can get it all done in time. I understand what’s at stake for the small farm. Missing the golden harvest window could cost dearly. Maybe you get another chance while the crop is prime, or maybe it rains so much you can’t get back in the field for days.

As I’m writing this we’re watching one of our favorite YouTube farmers. He also is combining beans. He just said “this is a stupid occupation”. I bet every farmer has thought it from time to time.

Yet this is how I watched my family make ends meet my whole life. At least that’s the goal; come out on top and not in the red at the end of the season. The constant cycle of sowing seeds, spending time and money on maintenance (machinery, sprays, fertilizer) praying for weather to cooperate so everything grows well, waiting and more praying until it’s go time- then praying all of the machinery stays in working order until harvest is over. When the fields are barren, the trailers have all been emptied at the elevator, and the equipment is all stored back away, it’s hoping it all paid well enough to reinvest everything to do it again next year.

So why do they do it? So many reasons. Each farmer has their own list. Whether it be what they love, or what they know; the smell of fresh dirt, hay, grease and fuel; the signature haze in the air laying in a heavy blanket below the descending sun they’re trying to beat; the feel of the rain when they need it the most or the hot July air when the mown hay needs to dry; or maybe the satisfaction of knowing they made it another year as a member of a shrinking minority called the small farmer. It’s pride. And I don’t mean in a haughty way.

I feel a sense of pride when I think about how I was raised. I love that our kids see what it means to eek out an honest living from soil.

Tonight as one of our neighbors drove his John Deere combine back into the field after an off load my son noticed a huge bald eagle standing right next to the remainder of the beans where the combine was headed. My husband commented “there’s nothing more American than that”. Apparently the driver of the combine had the same thought because as he approached the majestic bird he stopped to hop out and get a picture. Approaching rain or not he felt the need to capture the moment. I smiled at the opportunity to witness his appreciation.

This is what I’m talking about. If you know, you know. It’s in your heart. It’s in your soul. Farming isn’t an occupation as much as it is a way of life that is deeply woven in who you are.

Maybe that’s just my opinion. But that’s how I see it.

What Used To Be

As the sun sets on the final days of July I see the beginnings of summers end on the horizon. The wheat fields have been shorn, vegetables are being harvested, and already I see the turning tips of Maple leaves. Oh, we still have August, but if it’s anything like June and July it’ll be gone in a blink.

The older I get the more alienated I find myself. I judge the seasons, and life in general, from a rural mindset. I see the crops and look for changes or signs of distress. I see the flowers change in waves of tulips, to summers geraniums and day lilies, then it’s on to black eyed susans and mums, and lastly winter gives us color with holly and evergreens. I hear birds songs, noting which ones have come and gone. Same with the arrival of seasonal insects. Any day now the spiders and crickets will be invading. Like an almanac, if one pays attention, any number of details can be gleaned for the future. Unfortunately it seems as though these details go unnoticed anymore.

A harvest ready cucumber

A summer hollyhock

Late summer bee balm

I love the sound of an old tractor. I love farm animals..(except pigs. Sorry, I can’t abide pigs) I love seeing newly canned produce lining our shelves. Even the chipped enamel pan holding fresh peas puts a smile on my face. When I’ve found myself talking about these things to someone generally I get a blank stare. Very few my age or younger even relate.

What brings on these thoughts?? We went to our local fair this last week. Supposedly it’s one of the oldest in our state of Michigan. It used to be steeped in rural history and the barns were full of all things homegrown, homemade, and home raised. There are still hardworking kids in the 4H barns with their livestock, but the numbers seemed way down. Open class displays are almost non existent. I was sad and disappointed to find it barren of much resemblance of rural life; marking the fact that this county is no longer that at all. Some call it progress. I call it heartbreaking.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I love me some modern conveniences. I’m not just about living in the past. I just find it ashame the two worlds don’t seem to coexist well. A generation can quickly lose its roots.

We aren’t the only small town this is happening to. Our farm way of life is being threatened across the country. It doesn’t pay and the number who choose to remain because they love it grows smaller by the day. As the powers that be push for lab grown meat and genetically modified produce it’s only going to get worse. Sorry it all sounds rather glum.

When I walked down the midway with my family I saw hundreds of hollow eyes. Interesting, I also saw very few families. We heard the crowd cheering from the grandstands: the entertainment? Mini wrestling. Yes, read between the lines. I didn’t find the wrestlers repulsive, or even the wrestling…maybe it was the thought of crowds gathering simply because they wanted to watch the oddity of “miniature” people wrestling. That our county fair chose that for highlighted entertainment turned my stomach. I thought of Roman colosseums, and though it’s a stretch, I asked myself how far are we from that?

I can’t live in a bubble. As much as I long for the peace of undisturbed countryside and the general return of sanity to humankind across the board, this ole world just keeps spinning. I will keep praying for it. I will avoid the local fair, but I will pray harder and probably speak louder to those who’ll listen. If it becomes to “citified” around here I may question why we stay…but in the meantime I’ll listen for the katydids song.

When Life Hands you Lemons….

This week my Monday morning began as it typically does. Bible reading with breakfast and coffee after outside chores were done…except I found my favorite australorp hen passed away in the hen yard. These things happen from time to time, but I mourned this one for a bit. She was pretty and up until then had been a good layer. Chin up and on with the day. It’s going to be okay.

A couple of phone calls I had been putting off finally got made. Did you know you cannot replace your own car lights anymore without messing with a circuit panel….and LEDS cost $1200? Yes, and sometimes extended warranties are fun stuff to deal with too.. About keeping that chin up…

At least I had gotten a couple loads of laundry done and on the line. Only, I smelled something akin to hot metal in the laundry room. I investigated and could find nothing out of the ordinary. So, the third and final load was going in and I’d have that task completed for the day. A few minutes later my machine beeped at me and shut off. Odd. Maybe it was off balance? Open the lid to discover that hot metallic odor was coming from the washing machine. It won’t run. It’s only two years old. Now that repair will take precedence over the taillight repair.

Mr. Washing machine repairman can’t come until next week to tell me what’s wrong with said machine, and who knows if it’ll be fixed that day or not. I do a lot of laundry. I can’t wait that long.

To cry or not to cry. These things are small potatoes in the scheme of life. The very fact that I have repair issues to deal with means I’m blessed to have a nice car and appliances in the first place. So. I won’t cry. This is where resolve sets in.

Tuesday morning I hauled the double washbins that were my grandma’s out of my laundry room and out the backdoor. Years back I asked for them because they were no longer being used at her house and had been stored out in her back garage. I wanted them so I could wash oversized items and rugs without running to a laundry mat. I also have fond memories of using these washtubs on laundry day with her. It wasn’t until the 80’s before she bought a modern washing machine. My NEW machine with all of it’s fancy computerized stuff obviously can’t hold a candle to the tubs that have washed literally thousands of loads over the last half of a century. If only I had her ringer as well (which still works too by the way, it’s just at her house not mine).

Buckets of hot water and soap filled one side and I put a load of laundry in for a good soak while I went about other morning things. By noon my daughter and I had them hand washed, rinsed, and hung on the line. Thank God for gorgeous weather and the ability to make lemonade with lemons.

It’s Thursday today and this has been the daily routine. Not saying I’d like to continue this indefinitely, but just knowing that I can make good in a bad situation with knowledge and experience from an age gone by puts a bit of a smile on my face.

It’s true. They don’t make things like they used to. So maybe hang on to some of the past just in case the future isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Large in Life

The familiar smell of old wood and mothballs greeted me even before the morning suns rays cracked my eyelids. I recall many childhood summer mornings that began in such a way from the spare room off of the kitchen at grandpa and grandma’s house.

The clatter of kitchen utensils and hum of the kettle on the stove just outside of the door announced the beginnings of breakfast. Grandpa and grandma had risen with the dawn and he was probably already out at the barn doing chores. Hopefully he’d waited to feed the cats so I could go back out with him after we were finished eating-and oftentimes he did wait; even though he’d had ample opportunity on the first trip he’d taken to the barn. Just knowing I’d ask he would place priority on my desire.

There were many things I could not help grandpa with, but when I could he’d usually let me. When he wasn’t in the field or working on some project around the farm he might be in the garden. This was one of the places I knew I’d be put to work. I learned a lot about gardening from my grandpa. As we planted, hoed, weeded, and picked he’d give instruction. Sometimes we worked in silence and at others he’d look up to scold because I was stepping in the rows or pulling on the plants too hard. He was mostly patient. Always kind. Stern at times, but kind.

When the sun would get too warm after lunch we found a lull on most days. Many times I convinced the hard working man to give up his short nap for a game of checkers or marbles, or my favorite – a story. I had a few favorites in their Little Golden Book collection that I never tired of. I treasure them to this day. “Puffy Plays Baseball” is about a little steam locomotive that just couldn’t keep up with the new powerful diesel engines. He began to feel very low about himself until one day he discovered he could play baseball by shooting the ball out of his smokestack. Big diesel couldn’t do that because he had no smokestack. Yay for the penant winning underdog in the glory days of baseball. I have no idea how many times I convinced grandpa to read this book to me!

These are some of my fondest memories and I replay them for you now as today is the 8th anniversary of grandpa’s passing. Commemorating these losses isn’t typical of me. The years just keep going and the memories do not fade. They need to be shared and enjoyed.

Grandpa had no ‘retirement’ years. He simply worked until he could not. He was faithful to God, family, and his farm. Even at his last the smile on his face remained little changed and his memorable laugh still replays in my mind when I see an old photo or remember a funny story. These are the things I celebrate today and wish to share in honor of a man small in stature but large in my life.

Evenings Like This

As if the day knew it’s name…October 1st, even at it’s brightest the autumn sun held it’s lengthening shadow and dust hung in our air all day long. Like a timer went off most the crops have chimed “ready” so the hum of combine engines, semi haulers, and tractor tires whirring by have sung a melody from mid morn until now- dusk. And what a beautiful evening it is. The kind a country girl kinda lives for.

Forget the crazy world. For this moment I sit on my homemade swing with a slight chill on my arms. In front of me an orange orb is setting into it’s bed of lavender and pink swirls for the night. But tonight a dust cloud hovers like a fog machine has lent mystery and a unique beauty to the view. Add the crickets to the background noise and I hear: peace.

Neighboring combine working hard to bring this fields corn in.

This is the haze. The harvest haze.

Alright. Alright. I apologize to the allergy sufferers out there. But it is pretty, if not easy on your other senses. I’d take this any day.

Today is also bow opening for deer season in our area. I have four family members enjoying the woods this evening. So it begins. Late dinners and early breakfasts from now until January 1, 2022. It’s worth it. Even if we don’t tag out the solitude, the peace, the freedom to just be in nature getting back to the things that really matter in life is worth it.

Sow the seed, watch it grow, harvest always comes you know.

In fields, in the woods, in the world at large this is true. Just look around.

Tonight I am breathing this country air deeply. Thankful, I have good things here to be harvested. In the natural and in the Spirit.