One of These Times

We are caught in a cycle of weather so idyllic it seems almost surreal. I began chores this morning clad in a wool sweater, the late summer fog dense enough that I could feel moisture on my cheeks, an almost-rain. By the time I’d slopped the pigs, fed and watered the meat birds, and moved the cows, the rising sun had burned the dampness from my face and I’d unceremoniously shed and dropped my sweater in the middle of the pasture where, come to think of it, it still lies.

It will be September soon, and that is fine. I do not lament the end of summer anymore than I lament the beginning of fall. Both are merely points on the strange compass of time. One means tee shirts and evening dips in the pond; the other means wool sweaters and morning fires in the cookstove.

I suspect that some people view our life as being rather static, as being an unending cycle of repetition and the familiarity repetition breeds. In a way, I suppose they’re right. But strangely enough, it doesn’t really feel that way. Truth is, I’m sort of excited for the first morning fire. It’s ridiculous, really, considering how many morning fires I’ve started in my life; conservatively, I’d put the number in the 5,000 range. Five thousand fires and I still get excited about the first of the season. As you can see, I’m rather easily amused.

Not long after the first fire comes the first bale of hay, and you know what? I’m sort of looking forward to that, too. How many bales of hay have I fed out in my life? I don’t know, but I’ve definitely clocked more bales of hay fed out than fires lit. I’d guess around 10,000, plus or minus. Not enough to call myself a farmer. Not enough to brag about. Then again, not enough to have grown weary of it. It’s the smell, mostly, and I’ll tell you what that smell is if you don’t know: It’s extract of summer, that’s what it is. Feeding hay in January is the shortest, cheapest vacation a broke-ass backwoods Vermonter can take. And I get to do it every day. Twice a day, actually.

What else? The first ski, probably a lap or three around the field on a flimsy layer of early snow, the cows watching from their winter paddock in abject bewilderment. Or maybe it’s jealousy. Bewilderment, jealousy; it’s hard telling with cows. Ah, and plowing. It’s stupid, I know, but I love plowing. We have a quarter-mile driveway that’s real narrow and steep in spots. How many times have I plowed it? Shit, I don’t know. A couple hundred, probably. How many times have I gotten stuck, the boys running back to the house screaming to Penny “Papa’s stuck again! Papa’s stuck again” while I dig bare-handed with the flimsy shovel I keep in the back of the truck before retrieving the tractor in defeat? A couple dozen, probably.  Yeah, that’s coming, too, and it’ll be just like last year, only different.

Later this afternoon I’ll walk down the pasture for afternoon chores, just like I’ve done more times than I can count. I’ll do much the same as I did this morning: Slop the pigs, feed and water the meat birds, move the cows, collect the eggs, take kelp to the sheep. I’d like to think I’ll remember to grab my sweater, but there’s some precedent to suggest that I might forget it again. But that’s alright: I’m heading down that way again tomorrow. And the day after that.

I’ll get it one of these times.