Tag Archives: Berry

Killing Rabbits While Reading Poetry

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All men kill the thing they love

By all let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

Some with a flattering word

The coward does it with a kiss,

The brave man with a sword!

                                    —Oscar Wilde

 

I came around the corner in my farm truck and there it was. The rabbit ran almost all the way across the road, but an oncoming truck sent it back into my path. Then it was over — a couple of thrashes and it lay still, carrion for any nearby buzzard. Around the next corner I braked, stopped, and moved a box turtle to the other side of the road. Such is the state of small mercies on a small East Tennessee highway.

This particular trip, I was dashing into Sweetwater, after a nap, to pick up some diesel, in the truck, for my tractor. Because more fuel was needed to cut the hay, to feed our sheep over the next winter. While driving over rabbits I listened to “Crazy Town,” a new podcast from the Post Carbon Institute decrying the absurdity of our faith in a pro-growth, fossil fuel­­–dependent future on a planet of finite resources (even if partially powered by “sustainable” energy). I shook my head sagely in agreement as I listened, earning an indulgence against the sins of this life. Fortunately, these indulgences are for now only $2.49 each a gallon.

Earlier in the week a post on eating lamb fries resulted in a couple of vegetarians unfriending me on Facebook. They can handle my omnivorish ways but not my nose-to-tail (or should I say, cheek-to-balls) culinary choices. For in our modern hierarchy of privilege and separation from our sins against nature, consuming testicles apparently ranks as a much more serious crime than devouring steak.

Last weekend, after helping me replace the expansion bolts on the sickle bar mower, some friends stayed to dine with us. One of them defended the Green New Deal as we ate farm-raised catfish from Mississippi that had been conveniently delivered to our nearby Walmart. We all agreed that the plan and the deal were next to useless, having been predicated on the same notion that growth is both sustainable and desirable. “But still,” one of them said, “it is better than nothing.”

Last month one million-plus students around the world went on strike against our inability or unwillingness to do anything about climate change. They caught rides, drove, and used mass transit to attend rallies; they posted on social media and waved signs. Reporters jetted to far-flung locations to catch the latest soundbites of sincere Scandinavians and city dwellers in 125 countries in order to rebroadcast the urgent message to an aging and dwindling audience of people who still watch TV.

Between April 2017 and April 2018, Tennessee beekeepers lost 75 percent of their colonies.

We each kill rabbits.

All men kill the thing they love

By all let this be heard….

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Reading this weekend: Nathan Coulter (Berry), Rocket Men (Kurson)

Listening to this weekend: Crazy Town podcast

Welcome to the Monkey House

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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.