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.

Back to Hoeft

This week we find ourselves once again along the sandy rock laden shores of northern Lake Huron. Michigan has quite a few hidden gems and Rogers City is one of them. It is home to a lovely stretch of beachfront, shipwrecks, and one of our states most lovely lighthouses. 40 mile point never disappoints. The town itself has a limestone quarry and several nice little shops to visit. My matcha chai tea was a delicious treat this afternoon at The Painted Lady Cafe.

This is our third trip to Hoeft State Park and each time has been a very refreshing visit. Our favorite pastime here is the search for puddingstones. I mentioned them in a post back in 2017, the last time we made the trip. They are a conglomerate of many rocks rolled by currents and smoothed into pieces of unique stone resembling beautiful artwork.

No two are alike varying in color and size. Not too far out there are boulders too large for a human to move.

Today’s coolest find is pictured above. A washed up piece of ship wreckage. The timber is broken but still measures at least 16′ x18″x 2″ ….it’s old wood with holes from the iron rods that held this vessel together years ago. I have no idea which sunken ship this hails from, only that this piece was not on shore last night. Overnight we had two thunderstorms. I can only assume this artifact finally made its way to shore due to the increased current. As I sit here by the lapping waves my mind wanders to history. Michigans northern waters are full of it.

We needed this. We needed a few days to just enjoy God’s handiwork. We needed to have our imagination stretched again. Home life is great. I love my family, my home, my animals….I also have become far too much of a homebody. I get so comfortable in my little space and forget how grand the world outside is. The time and effort it takes to get away isn’t easy. It’s a lot of work sometimes, but if you make the opportunity you’ll not regret it.