The Great Thing About Trees

The boys making (surprisingly tasty) woodchuck chili

Once again we awoke to the sound of rain slapping the metal roof over our heads. There are many things a tin roof is good for – shedding snow, being cheap and easy to install, longevity – but none compare to its excellence in transmitting the sound of raindrops upon contact. I pity a fool with asphalt shingles, yes I do.

The rain has been incessant. Everywhere you go, first cut remains standing; perhaps not all of it (and holy jeez but we were fortunate to get ours off the ground when we did), but plenty enough, growing taller and stemier and less palatable by the minute. It’s a full month past when most farmers prefer to be finished with first cut, in part because the nutritional content is vastly superior before so much precious plant energy is expended in the seed head, but also because there’s a fairly simple rule of haying, which says that you can’t take second cut until you’ve taken first cut, and you darn well can’t take third until you’ve taken second. In other words, it’s not only that the first cutting will be of reduced quality, it’s that there will be less time for second and third cuts to rise from the soil.

But whatever. I have little patience for lament regarding forces over which we have no control, and the same could be said of the majority of the famers I know, whose very livelihood is dependent on such forces in ways that mine is not. I do not hear complaints from these men and women; commentary, sure, perhaps a sigh, a roll of the eyes, a shrug of the shoulders. But not complaints. Complaining takes energy; it is a brittle and hollowing force, not unlike anger or judgement. It does nothing to forward the human intellect and spirit, and therefore it is best saved for moments that are truly worth inflicting these wounds upon ourselves, such as when the boys track mud into the house or leave spent shotgun shells on the ground.

All this rain has reminded us how fortunate we are to inhabit a piece of land that drains well. Despite the sodden state of things, the gardens are (mostly) looking hale and hearty, and the critters are their usual implacable selves; I’ve long thought that cows might be a better model for human behavior than the majority of our so-called leaders. They’re just so accepting of whatever is offered them, and their default mood seems to be one of quiet contentment. Nip the grass, chew the cud, rest the bones, and all the while the generosity of milk, meat, and manure. Cows don’t start wars, or discriminate against cows of different color or predilections. And get this: With just a modicum of management, they actually improve the soil and environment. If only we could say the same about ourselves.

Soon enough, it’ll stop raining. Soon enough, I suspect, everyone’ll be talking about how dry it is, about how we sure could use a day or two of rain or we’re not even going to get a third cut at all. And the cows? They’ll be gathered under the same fence line maples they gathered under back when it wouldn’t stop raining. Because that’s the great thing about trees: Rain, sun, snow, whatever. They’ll shelter you no matter what.