Chapter Four

The main vegetable garden was a sight to behold. Thirty feet deep and forty feet wide, tilled to resemble soft mounding rows of coffee grounds, black and loamy, aromatic. There is an sorcery that calls me to the garden every spring that I could no more ignore than to breathe or drink. The days would always start as an invitation by the sun and warmth and light, with birds singing and flitting and building. Everything was alive in anticipation of what was about to happen. The bucket of sticks and strings would be resurrected from the basement, powdered and sandy from last years excavations, happy to be remembered and included again. The map of what was planned held in inescapable proximity with a ignoble rock, placed in service for the greater cause. This event, the beginning, is always, at least in our minds, a great celebration. Seed packets, some displaying works of art, some plain and simple with hardly a word from the serious seed houses,were gathered from near and far, by foot or venturing or mail, and splayed on the ground, ready for disbursement. Deep consideration was given to each and every placement. Beans, by the outside edge making a marked distance of the corn, keeping it from the horses will to eat what is over the pasture fence. Pumpkins to the back reaches where they can sprawl and spread while basking in the full heat of the sun,  performing the magic they do, to become monstrosities for our halloween pleasures. Trickier were the watermelons. They needed lots of room to roam, yet could not be near the pumpkins or they would mutate to some inedible gourd de jour, deformed in color if not shape adding to our holiday festivities, but only in the form of entertainment. The same was true of the other gourds, the butternuts, the spaghetti squash, the zucchini and the cukes. All related in ways only they understand and are happy to inter-marry when given the opportunity. Just like the civil authorities, I must enforce the laws for the good of all. It is a thankless and difficult job that no one, seemingly, willingly, signs on for. The great corn wall, planned and executed in it's design, placed down the center, keeping hidden all the pheromones, temptations and perversions the gourds could muster.
Sticks were pounded, strings were strung. If you could not have an orderly garden who knows what would happen. The sticks went in, easily because of the soft earth, on one end of the garden . Tie a string to the stick and pace out to the other end, a line to attach to another stick. This will keep the rows nice and tidy. Using the long, master stick you make your row. The depth of the seed is directly proportional to the size of the seed. Larger seeds need to be planted deeper or they would bolt out of the ground once the plant reached maturity, leaving what was produced, to lay in a heap, withering in the killing sun. The sun, another example of what is good, very good, can also be bad, very bad. But, I will not digress.
Row after row, stick after stick, string after string, the garden is constructed. Concentration is consuming in it task. Order and discipline. Do this. Do that. The dirt covers your knees and cakes to your shoes. Your hands and nails are no longer recognizable as something belonging to you but some man from some hard place who never rests or washes. When you are done it is difficult and painful to stand erect. It is a tired of the best kind. You have created a masterpiece.You have given birth. It is there and its name is hope and future. Prouder is something you could not be.
Just add water and wait.
Every spring, this is the scenario that played out. The winter spent planning and buying all for the spring. The hope for hope. New life. Continued life. Just as if we were expecting a child we are giddy with the anticipation of all that is possible. Now we wait.
It seems an eternity for those virgin fronds to break through the soil. Some take longer than others, as is meant to be. But, oh how exciting when they start. Here they come. Look everyone, look. It's growing.
I only have eyes for my new prodigy. It will feed me. It does feed me even now.
As summer matures, we tend, mostly I tend, as is understandable, to the needs of this fledgling before me. Weeding, watering, feeding, pruning is all so automatic and, mostly when I have had enough sleep, done without complaint.
Some years there were great wire cages constructed, with hinged plywood tops and wooden sled bases. We would put a wooden dowel through the center of the cage across its width to hold ropes that dangled water and food cans. On one end, we would place two or three wooden dowels a foot apart, one over the other, for the chickens to roost when the instinct appealed to them. The plywood, hinged doors afforded much needed shade and protection from the elements and prey and allowed access to the chickens and the food and water. These frameworks were eight feet long by two and a half feet high and one garden row wide. We deposited them at one end of a row in the garden, stationing the previously unrestrained chickens into their new, mobile cloister, gave them the unique opportunity to scratch and forage, unchecked on the hallowed ground known as garden. This oracle would be their home until either the roosters were of age to leave for seminary, of a sort, or the pullets were beginning to deposit their leavings of miniature eggs in and around the cages. The roosters left in the early summer and the chooks did their penance all the way up to the harvest and beyond. Insects and weeds were handled, without unhappiness, by all parties involved. Prayers were answered on so many levels. Bellies would be full, minds satisfied and a hearts turned to God.
There were years when the chicks would come and the weather was uninformed as to the timing of things, not cooperating, leaving us no choice but to incorporate their little lives into our home, just to keep them alive. Out would come the baby pool, a formed plastic bowl with a flat bottom and happy dolphins. Situated under a hanging heat lamp. we arranged food dispensers and water dishes, all swimming in a tide of sawdust. The chicks would crowd around the buoy of food, grow and eat and grow and eat, never stopping to tell everyone who would listen, "Come in, the water is fine." When the weather decided to hold its temper, we would move the toddlers to the barn to wait for their graduation. During this time you become attached to these birds and their well being. So it begins, the stresses that come with being responsible for another life. Happiness is a state, balanced, between worry and dread. What choice do I have then to be happy? To worry? Why do I do this to myself? It is life in its most basic form.
Some years, when,weeding the garden,or harvesting , we would tumble and roll gargantuan, yet to be split, logs of wood from the neighboring wood pile. These would serve as seats, saving our backs from an eternity of bending. At the end of the weeding sentence we would take ourselves for sustenance and rest, securing the chickens in their cages. Occasionally, a chicken would manage to free itself from the cages, unbeknownst to us, only to be revealed the next morning by a macabre warning from the local owl gang. Our innocent charge, left, in part, to live eternity on the seat of judgement in the garden, that once served as a seat of harvest. "What a stupid girl", is our reaction for our mistake. Sorry and more diligent in caring for the flock in the future.
Great and beautiful owls have taken many animals from us in the years we lived here. We could not guess at the strategies and plans they have constructed in order to survive in this world with us. There is a price we pay. A toll. We pay it to the owls, the hawks, the fox and the occasional skunk. No one gets an easy pass.

Chapter Three

In trying to find an inspiring subject to paint, I am almost always sidetracked by the countless distractions. I am like a horse on a windy day. I cannot resist the temptation to follow any movement that dances at the corners of my periphery, leaves, grasses, birds,at the ready. Ready to bolt. Flight mode engaged,yet,unlike the horse,it is leading me to the distraction. The sky was beginning to give in to the battering of the wind, parting the cloud banks, giving a glimpse of the purest blue, only to retract back behind the smoke colored down. Oh, to see the cleanest blue top on this kettle of swirling, twirling, blowing bowl of noise and movement. It is a respite for my eyes. I  lay on the frosty ground, allowing the cold to seep into my back, while the opening to the heavens seeps into my eyes. Clear my mind, clear my thoughts. Giving me a chance to think about what I can do. As I lay back I remember a teacher I had in college, who insisted we paint only things that are unlovely. Her logic was," Why paint that which is beautiful already?" Well, I have a plethora of subjects to paint here. The barn that needs paint, the tractor consumed by tentacles, the garbage, the weeds, the destruction, the decay. None of them attract my attention\ as subjects d' art. When I ponder these relics of rust and ruin, I see the life that coursed through the veins of the dead or weary. I cannot see only death. I see what was, what is and what can be again. Maybe this is wrong, to resurrect inanimate objects to their animated glory, if only in my mind. What choice do I have? I cannot turn off the chatter of the past that envelopes my senses whenever I leave the safety of my house. How can I not see what was? This can certainly work to my detriment should I give in to the life that was and not the life that may be, yet, again.I must remain clear thinking about the future.  Certainly, nothing can be resurrected without scars of the demise that precluded its newness, born again. How can I paint something that is unsightly if I can only see the beauty of what was? God knows, I try and try again to stamp the reality of life or dissolution into my memory but it is always clouded with what I know can be.This is what has hold of me today.
When I traverse the lumpy, ankle breaking, caving vermin mines across the property, looking to the north, I see the destruction of the combine. Spindly stalks of hollow reeds, gray and brown, like a fortress of barrier spikes meant to keep all but the red winged black bird, roaming raccoon and loose formations of deer from entering. Rumor of men impaling themselves and leaving the world at the foot of these spikes is fairly common lure in this landscape. This is not what I chose to remember in my minds eye. It was a lush and fragrant field, hosting the tallest stalks of wide, deep green glistening leaves of corn stalks, that displayed the finest silks that the midwest had to offer. Each stalk, the home of a multitude of chemically nurtured, plump and perfect, all in their sameness, ears of corn. The best any livestock would wish for. How is this not seen when it was the view for the majority of the year? I clearly remember not letting my smallest children out to the north when the stalks became so dense that we could give them over to the field, never to be seen again. The alternate years afforded us with the luxury of a field of fire, bright emerald rose, turning to the richest yellows before becoming engulfed in a conflagration of the hottest orange, that painted  the walls of the house to an unrecognizable hue every sunset, whose color defied description. The dowsing of the flames yielded a small unassuming, brittle, drab bean stalk that was shaved to the ground and brought under control to the likes of ashes from a fire, erased of life and color. I know with certainty that that field will live again and again in lushness yet untold, every summer, leading into every fall.
How can I choose something unattractive, even when surrounded by those aesthetics. I am not qualified to critique the subjects for consideration. I cannot see what I need to see to follow my instruction.
When outing over the gravelled ribbons of asphalt that connect my home with the outside world of influence, I pass other homesteads of similar decay. Oh, I can see it there, without hope or love pooling into my eyes. That could be the solution, Paint the struggles of others. I do not know for sure if I could succeed. Certainly, I could get further into the canvas before losing the blurring of lines afforded before my spectacles are cleared. Before my heart could feel or the chatter started to tell me of the times that preceded my visit.

Chapter Two

Today is one of those days that is cold enough to form a thin layer of brittle ice on the divots that dot the sodden ground. Deer tracks we suppose. They run from the top of the fields to the north, through the woods and across the grassy areas to the entrance of the walnut trees that line the creek bed. A popular watering hole by the looks of things. As I make my way to the barn, I step gingerly to avoid snagging my jacket on the bedraggled fencing that held the horse in check. There were bits of hair stuck in the working of the top railing where the horse would push his weight against it to steal a tender leaf or fresh crisp green bean during the days of growing. The garden, minus a slight depression of a walkway, butted up against the fence. That first row of beans was planted with the horse in mind. There is no sweeter treat than one that is secreted away and we wanted to afford him that privilege. While weeding or harvesting, he would happen by, to supervise the operation, giving gentle direction mostly with his eyes,but now and then a slight shuffle of feet, about this weed or that, always  hoping for  the ultimate prize of golden sweet corn that walled off the bean field at our backs. He would consider a weed or two that we threw over the fence for his enjoyment, but he would keep his eye on the corn. He was always rewarded for his patience. I was sad when he died. It was a slow aging.It was actually remarkable that he lived as long as he did. His hips were going for a long time, made obvious by his rocking and swaying when trying to stand after a lie down. That January set records for cold and snow, as surely they all do. But one particularly frigid morning, he could not get up. He could not eat. He could not drink. Mostly, he could not keep warm. He did not understand why I did not help him get to his feet. I tried. He tried. Eventually, he died trying. He came to me in a dream shortly afterward. He was standing in the pasture, healthy and strong, the tall flowering grasses gently swayed to and fro in the breeze, a warm sun lighting the millions of specks of insects that hang in the air. He looked over his shoulder at me to tell me he was fine and happy and going to go on, to get a drink at the creek and beyond. He let me know he wouldn't be back and that he loved me. He knew I grieved his loss. I grieved my inability to help him and all the countless animals before him that have died at my hand. I loved him.
There were goats. Mohair goats. Great and gentle creatures. Curious and friendly creatures. They are fragile when it comes to weather. The part of hair on their spine, separating their locks of Santa beard fleeces, makes them susceptible to cold and rain. We answered the call to house and rescue some foster goats one year. Their owner was a young man. He committed suicide, rumor has it. His parents could not manage their care.Ten goats to add to our two. Adult goats. One was a majestic ram with horns that curled around three or four times. He was a mighty man and took his position seriously. All the females goats said so.Should you not keep in mind his position, and give folly to his post, he would be sure to let you know who's horns were whose and what they were capable of. My sweet daughter was trapped by those great curled horns, against the barn wall for patting the head of the king.That was a day we will never forget, as is the case when you have an audience with royalty.  Four of the goats died, in fairly quick succession that spring, mostly because of my ignorance in how to help them. One of them gave birth and did not care for her  kid. I tried to bottle feed it but it did not get a life saving dose of a warm  milk, before getting chilled in the horrible cold weather.It never recovered. It died after it, and I, cried all night, from hunger or pain I am not sure, but I imagined both. I wanted to hold it like one of my own babies, when they were sick. Another kid was found under its ignorant mother who didn't have the sense to not sit on it. It was smothered  to death. This is what it is like to live on a farm. This is what nature is like. Who would chose it? Not someone who knows better. Not someone who is not made of stone. The struggle is too great. The language is not there to help these animals. Its all on you to make a go of it for them. Dare that you feel for them more than you would a weed or some other such living thing in your care. Not allowed!
As I  ventured out to find something to inspire me, as always, the trove of experiences from this farm would not let me be. Every blade of grass is talking, and all at the same time. Save for the ones, the blades, who died at the feet of the masses. Every spring and summer we seemed to have occasion after occasion to celebrate one thing or another. There were graduations, birthdays, engagements, weddings, Sometimes there was just the celebration of dead wood that incited large fires and food and too much drinking. There were tents erected. Coolers filled. Music piped from the distant house. Great gatherings of youth and blare. Usually, there was, when the nets and strings survived the last brawling competition,or a search to purchase birdies, en mass, was successful, a much anticipated and highly wagered match of badminton invoked. These were not the lawn games of the gentile.The net, and the game, was always placed under a stand of tall thin trees that afforded shade for most of the day. This vegetation was allowed to be pampered, tender in it's protection from the sun. Certainly this plot, a gift from God himself, for the sole purpose of the game never went unappreciated.The run-off from the high fields deposited the finest soil and the occasional corn stalk on this flat oasis, making this the premier spot to have a drunken game. Because of this hallowed space, where there was much flailing, tripping, soaring and drunken buffoonery performed, now best, without the use of shoes. By the time the equipment was razed, the lush and velvety grass was no longer distinguishable from the wet earth that was its foundation and the sun was falling too far to see much for the swatting. Feet were wrinkled and stuccoed with water and mud and sweat. How fun. How exhausting and wonderfully fun.
Thankfully we would have to wait for the lawn to revive before another match, much to the benefit of all. I imagine that this is one of the reasons the grass would not be quiet. It either missed the commotion or could not stop referring to it, wondering where the heck everyone was. Everyone involved, spectator and competitor alike, suffers from the same inclination to go on an on about those matches.
Rounding the hallowed court, I try to manage a straight path to the barn through the overgrown garden. It seems like an unwise decision. One side has a barrier of lace,armored with tangled fronds of overgrown asparagus, no less formidable than barbed wire might be, joining forces to protect the pitiable contents of it's recent memory. From the adjacent corner I can see places to land a foot here and there, but, not without trampling the ramps of a super highway of vines and stems, causing great cracking noises from their brittle pavement, when made to collapse. Tomatoes, that ripened on the vine, holding on for all eternity, peeling off their outer coats to reveal a million seeds for volunteering, witnessed my quandary, but remained silent. Thick, ropy stems from pumpkins and watermelons, left without a reason to exist, were the main thoroughfares that surely guided the mice and rabbits along their way to den and lair. From above, this could be no less significant a road map for bees and birds than any you could buy for your own travel guide. I would have to find another way.
 Around seemed the only solution.

Chapter One

Looking out over the railing of the deck you could see the rolling landscape. It was March and it was typical schizophrenic weather, even in the same hour. Winds switching, gale to calm, brilliant sun to clouds. The decay may not have been obvious to anyone who was not in the circle of the knowing, but to me, certainly,and to all the others close enough to know, it was blatant. To the outsiders, I would imagine, it was a situation you could guess at with some accuracy. A sense of neglect. The ground had a look of undulation confirmed when you strolled across its length, revealing depressions that held pooled water, muddied with the fallen earth of mole constructions. Large holes, carpeted with weedy grass gave no clue to a passerby that danger was at hand. Water whirlpools were their architects during the rainy season when the swollen creek rose and receded, above and below ground. The outbuilding had lost its roof. Blown right off and left to stand in the woods to the north. Nothing was ever done to correct the situation. A lone corrugated pylon buttressed with splintered beams too old to hold their station. Together, standing in a wood, shamed, for what seems an eternity. The post left behind only adds to the shame by displaying the tops of gargantuan flora teased by the sun, feeding and taunting them, without a roof to secret their seeds in the dark cool of the barn. Anyone passing by on the distant road could see this debacle. No sensing here required. The old tractor was pretty well hidden now from roving eyes, by the weeds and trees and mulitflora rose. Tentacles, so barbed and painful when met, no one would resurrect that tractor now without the most modern of weapons. Garbage had been collected at the back of the barn as well as inside. Things that were once valuable were now residents of rust and ruin. The petrified waste of horses, goats,sheep, pigs and chickens made for a aromatic potpourri that permeated the air and mixed with the fresh and wholesome scents of hay and grass and wild raspberry flowers. There were beehives that once were paragons of industry, producing heretofore, buckets of honey every season. Now these are dandy hotels for the field mice and an occasional stag beetle. Although the honey is now long gone, there is, no doubt, a lingering cast of sweeter times past. This all makes for a very lovely home for whoever chooses. The surrounding woods, where the pylon lives to the east, are littered with the bones of its natural habitat. Rabbits, skunks, groundhogs, fox and deer. Life played out and left to bleach under the leaves of the years gone before. Once, I picked up a piece of plywood to find a writhing nest of garden snakes, surprised at my audacity to spy on them. I did not want to see them then and wish I could stop seeing it still. There was a time when I went out to collect the eggs from the chicken house that was attached to the back of the barn. It had its own entrance on the side and the back, closest to the wooded area just mentioned. I know now, since educated, is the worst place to house your chickens, in close proximity to the wilder life forms.
I opened the door to find all of the chickens decapitated. The ones that were left anyway. It was obvious that some were dragged into the woods by the blood and feather trail. How horrible is nature ! Tell me what does everyone see in it? Sure, there was a fox and her family being well fed somewhere on the periphery, but, at the cost of my fragile circumstances. Eggs were now a commodity from my past but my nightmares were fed and lolling, waiting to moan again.
I feed the countless birds that hear-tell of my feeders. They come from far and wide and they return year after year. I don't know how I know this but I do. I wonder at my motives here as well, since I have found myself purchasing feed for them at the same moment I was purchasing food for the feline population I have in my care. Am I setting up these flights of fancy for my cats? I say no. It all adds to my worry trying to control the situation outside the doors of my home.