A ham just removed from the salt.
When two or more of my fingers poke through the ends of a glove, or the cloth or leather has torn or frayed so that even duct tape no longer makes it serviceable, the glove is retired, nailed to the joist at the entrance to the barn breezeway in the shade of a large maple.
I recently nailed up another glove, to join its well-used relatives in the ranks. As I climbed the ladder, a cluster of long threads floating in the air brushed across my cheek. Only at eye level with the joist was it apparent where the threads had come from. The nail from which formerly had hung a glove now held only a remnant of fabric. I gazed down the line of gloves and spotted two nails that were missing theirs.
For years birds have put the cloth to good use, unravelling it bit by bit to build their nests. We have seen nests in both trees and bushes, held together by colored canvas threads (and sometimes, unfortunately, bits of plastic string from weed-eaters and synthetic feed bags), but it was only on this day, up on the ladder, that I realized how far the expectant parents’ patient recycling efforts extend.
My discovery was one more small insight into our natural world, an act of resilience and adaptation that I applaud. Yet it is also just one example of my endless and ultimately futile fight to hold back the forces of nature that would reclaim the progress I’ve made in harnessing this land to suit my own purposes: a recognition that the infrastructure—the result of years of sweat labor—is so frail and fragile when measured against the forces of time and nature and all of her creatures seemingly marching in legions against this farm; that the loss of whimsies like my glove museum are minor when compared to sagging fence posts or depredations in the gardens. This endless course of work is all done merely to maintain my place on the treadmill, and when I am gone, unless someone shares my vision, the fruits of my labor will also disappear one thread at a time.
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Reading this weekend: Norwegian Wood: Chopping, Stacking, and Drying Wood the Scandinavian Way (L. Mytting). The Farmer’s Wife, My Life in Days (H. Rebanks).
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A personal favor to my readers: My book, Kayaking with Lambs, is set to be released next weekend. If you have ordered it (and thank you if you have) please take the time after reading to leave a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads. For all books—but more than ever for books from small presses like Front Porch Republic—a comment from the reader means the world to any effort by the author to bring the book to a wider audience. Thanks!
Brian,
Your profound essay reminds me of what my Dad told me several times: “Thirty days after you’re dead nobody will remember you even existed.” A little harsh, perhaps, but basically true. I am blessed to have a child that cares for this farm as much as I do. That fact gives me much comfort at my advancing age, realizing I was just the caretaker for a relatively short time.
Don
From what you have shared, you are lucky to have your son both work with you now and inherit the farm.
Dear Don, I very respectfully beg to differ. I was raised on the stories of my ancestors, on all sides, Irish (going all the way back to Ireland), Yankee English (Vermont), and Appalachian Scottish (and my grandfather traced the family back to Scotland). I heard stories about them every day, and my family was full of wonderful storytellers. My parents generation is now all gone home (I’m almost 70), but I think about them every day and about those who came before them whom I never knew, except through stories. And many of us (siblings and cousins) try to live the values passed down to us.
And I am so glad you have a child to take over your farm! We are all just caretakers of this beautiful earth, aren’t we?
It does seem, Heather, that your experience (and mine) are fast becoming the exceptions. I spoke with a teenager recently who did not know his mother’s maiden name.