Last night was our annual holiday gathering of friends from town, city, and, neighboring farms. This farmer was up late past his bedtime. So, I leave you with this one from the archives.
The sounds of farm life are, on the whole, pleasing and conducive to a reflective life. A quiet early morning walk to complete chores before sunup, the soft thud of chickens jumping off the roost to greet me; a mid-afternoon amble through the woods, a light drizzle muting the outside world; even the reassuring rumble of Lowell on his tractor across the ridge—all help quiet the rumpus of this modern life.
Morning chore time is my chance to evaluate what needs to be done for the day. As I feed, water, and move the animals to their daily pastures I am mentally recording my to-do list: finish installing the new electric fence line, clean out and refill the sheep watering trough, add fresh bedding to the chicken coop, reattach gutter to the barn. It’s a constantly evolving list, one I need only remember until I’m back in the house and can record it on paper.
But as the seasons change, so do the livestock’s expectations and so too does my opportunity for introspection. When fresh grass gets scarce and they transition to hay, the cattle and sheep become more vocal. They will eat the hay, but they miss the grass. So, for the first hour in the morning, at this time of the year, the ewes run around bleating, loudly. The cattle catch sight of me and thunder down off the hill, bawling all the way.
My inner calm disturbed, my train of thought derailed, my ability to form and retain my to-do list crumbles with each bleat and bawl. Finish installing new elect … baahh. Let’s see, clean out and refill … something … baahhh, baahhh, baaaahhhhh. Reattach … baaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh.
Like the Vonnegut character living in a dystopian world where the IQ is leveled out by subjecting the brighter individuals to periodic earsplitting noises, I can’t help but think that the sheep have conspired to … baaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh.
Now, what was I starting to do?
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Reading this weekend: Conversations with Wendell Berry (Ed. Grubbs). This collections of interviews is quite wonderful, a rare double thumbs up here.
There were a couple of Bergeron girls (twins) several years behind me at school. Very attractive young ladies, and they would have had to wear mighty ugly masks if Mr Vonnegut’s Handicapper General had had her way.
But by observing that these twin sisters were particularly cute you ran the risk of being labeled Harrison Bergeron – and as such also insinuated to be their big brother. The Harrison Bergeron appellation didn’t smart so much as being assigned to be their brother – putting them off the market.
Dude. Too much reading can hurt.
There once was a handsome Bergeron squire
Who attempted to sport fancy attire
His ambitions were fraught
And all led to naught
When shot down with a dancer he admired
[had thought of rhyming monkey house with aping mouse… but sometimes you just have to let it go and save your time]
Interesting, I haven’t read that story since high school (perhaps the same for you). But, it sure made an impact.