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.