Chapter Six

The spring is alternately pleasant and painful in its assertions. Much anticipated warmth and sweet zephyrs flowing over fragrant blades of the most tender grasses.Waving in the newness of their untamed state of unbridled growth, bowing to the threats of storms,violent, twisting monsters that scourge miles of hopefulness and life with fear, humility and utter devastation, managing to be, singularly. unscathed in their place atop the soil. So green and pure is the color it takes ones breath away and cleanses the senses of all that has past, in blue and white, and death and cold. We barely remember what was called winter. It is like having dived into a water so deep, that to surface now, in the spring, is likened to breathing again, after certain suffocation at the bottom of the pool. Surely, God intended this extreme shock of life and it's color, or we would never manage to go on year after year. Only after gasping in the fresh clean air can we enjoy it so completely.

Singing. Loud nonsensical trilling and chirping. What are they going on about? I know. Yes, we all know. The leaves are making an appearance now. Some sooner than others, but they do it  just the same. While watching one particular tree make it progress, another is making it's own. We only notice when we stop watching the one or the others. That is how it is. The music of the wind changes, from the hollow refrain of a dirge, to the crescendo of the chorus of the leaves, loud and wrinkled, not unpleasant, but not altogether lovely either. Much like youth living on their own, in need of ironing. Sleep now will be bothered by this opera, but only because we will have the highest luxury of sleeping under open windows.
The air, that brushes so lightly over our faces, has a hint of green and the lightest purple and purest white on its tendrils, dusted with the tiniest blossoms of lilac, cherry and locust. It's intoxicating to the senses, lulling us into a sleep so sweet it is hardly believed anything could ever be bad again. Days are beginning to transform at a marked pace. Sun and warmth encourage the growth of all manner of life. Dandelions and grass cannot be contained as well as our anticipation of a more gentile existence  within the confines of this world. Easier, slower. Opportunities for lolling and sloth always to end your day, or engage in , mid afternoon in the shade of a large umbrella-like tree.
So many people, lured by the displays of colorful pots of hope and joy, called flowers, erected in great pyramids in front of the stores, are busy going to and fro, deciding which plant or pot to purchase. All in their excitement of spring and newness. Accumulated wealth in the form of moss and fertilizers, trays and bulbs, wheeled to the hatches of cars and trucks. "Come on, let's get going." We have waited all winter for the opportunity to control our place in the world, and we must make haste while the sun is shining. Even the masses that don't live in the country set out to plant around their homes, the loveliest of flowering bulbs and dress their concrete animals in their seasons finest. These are the people who have their heads on straight. Bulbs don't die, Concrete doesn't die. Life is only interrupted while contemplating which outfit to dress your goose. What are they doing in those houses? What are they planning?
We have a neighbor. Her property is across the street from ours. One section of it has a fairly steep incline, so years ago she decided to make this a flower garden of gargantuan proportions. How lovely for us! Now facing our home is a bulb spectacular that practically cripples her in her attempts to have life there appear in all its perfection, always. Cars come from near and far to view this garden. It is magnificent. My cats especially love it. We are grateful for her garden even though it causes our lack of attempts, in our flower gardens, to be magnified. Now we do not even attempt to grow flowers. Why should we? Even we do not look over here. A great man once said, "It is better to live across the street from the wonder, so as to have the better view." Truer words were never spoken.

Chapter Five

Timing is everything in farm life. I should say waiting is everything in farm life. We wait for the snow to melt then the ground to dry just enough, to dig the dirt, to plant. Then we wait for the rain to start, then the rain to stop. We wait for the plants to sprout and the weeds to not sprout. We wait for the grass to turn green and we hope for it to stop growing so fast. We wait for warmth and we wait for coolness. We wait for day to break and dusk to fall. We wait to shear, to birth, to cull, to butcher. We wait to harvest, to preserve to order seeds and to start again. Who would choose this? I have determined it is a life that is never satisfied. We are always waiting for some other thing to happen.
Some have a more chaotic routine that I can witness from my vantage point when resting in the shade of my porch. The dairy farmers, a breed all their own, move to and fro from hours before dawn to the absolute last of the light. I suppose even beyond that. I lay in bed and hear them driving up the road at four in the morning to start the milking. It was not uncommon to have our path blocked by a mammouth milk truck when trying to drive by their farm at seven in the morning. They plant corn for food and silage for the animals so they spend all their animal free time tending to that. Fertilizing, discing, spraying, harvesting, drying, et al.
One summer day, we came home from a longer service at church, to find a dozen cows on our front lawn, all wondering at the audacity of our interruption of their Sunday brunch. When exiting the car, we threw our hands up in the air and hee-yawed them back up the hill, from whence they came. Cows never do what you expect of them and this was no exception. They all turned at once and travelled across the road in the exact opposite direction of their home. Oh well, we tried. Someone would notice eventually. Many of these cows were familiar since we had encountered them frequently while taking a walk past their pasture. Cows hardly move when you are watching them, but don't look away without expecting them to be somewhere else when spied again. One of my daughters will tell you that they will charge in your direction, as happened to her, but I have never seen this happen. Cows are definitely sneaky for so large a creature.
It is a cruel, and uneducated picture that rocks reality a hard blow, to see the rows of plastic igloos that house the newborn calves that line the road to the north. How long we avoid that route every spring is not an absolute. We just wait until we can guarantee not to witness the babies behind bars.
One year we asked to buy a calf to raise for food. These guys would not sell us one. "We don't do that," they said. "You guys don't know anything about raising beef." Of course they were right and right to say so, even though we did not appreciate the truth at the time. I have come to see the wisdom in not raising an animal that is bigger than myself.
The pigs certainly were a challenge and they outweighed me four times over. The horse is certainly larger and had its challenges but mostly wanted to be where he was, most times. There were countless episodes of retrieving him from the green green grass over there and there and there. But he was a docile prisoner when retrieved.
One other fine spring day we had a lone visitor from another species. I was working around the kitchen when I looked out toward the road that runs by the front of the house. I could see a little ways towards the corner, to the south. Straight down the middle of the road came trotting a pig. It was like he had a purpose and knew where he was going by his countenance. He didn't look to and fro, he just went straight ahead, until that is, he reached our drive where he made an immediate left. Down the drive he came, parking next to the cars in the drive. After exclaiming to all in the house that we had a pig over for company, everyone ran to the deck balcony to see who this was. Noone knew the pig personally or otherwise and we were not sure how to entertain it. I grabbed some apples from the fridge and threw one down to the drive. She was, as we later discovered, a lover of apples, carrots and pretty much anything we threw her way. One of the kids decided he would go down for a closer inspection. When he reached the drive the pig began to run after him. As all kids are want to do, he ran away from her and the chase ensued. Round and round the vehicles they ran until, and this was the part of the story that we still like to share with others, the pig outsmarted the boy by back turning towards him and catching up to him. Uproarious laughter from the deck could hardly be contained while I tried to ascertain the pigs future with multiple phone calls.
The first call I made was to a local pig farmer, thinking that she must belong to them. I was able to talk the wife into coming by to see for herself, since asking me if it had big ears or small ears was a subjective bit of information that did not lead to a satisfactory conclusion. When the woman got here and out of her car, the pig ran to her, she screamed, jumped back in her car and drove away. Now, I ask you, "Is that the reaction you would expect from a pig farmers wife?" After all, this pig was still playing with the children in the drive. How dangerous could it be? The pig farmers wife, after driving home, called me to say it was not hers but she would ask the nosiest neighbor she could think of what her thoughts were on the matter. In a very short time the phone rang and information imparted as to the owners. Knowing now where they lived, we decided to lasso the pig with a dog lead. We had very little knowledge of pigs at this time, as a side note.
The pig did not take well to this, so when the lasso made its mark, she squealed loudly and furiously at the insult, to the point where we let her loose. She was afraid, I assume, that we would do it again and, in a huff, retreated back towards where she came. Going out in front of her, we called her to us, as we led the way to her home, approximately a mile away, waving apples and carrots to entice her. When she got too enthusiastically close we would banish the dog lead and she would abate. We were within fifty yards of her home when she was done for. The visit, the playing with the children, the lasso experiment, the feast of fruit and vegetables,and the journey home was too much for her at this point and the nearest roadside puddle of water was as far as she was going.
Well, while we were traversing, in fear and bravery and bribery, the long trip to her home, the nosiest neighbor to be found, had called the owners to alert them to our arrival. Coming out to greet us, they all, with the greatest excitement at seeing their beloved pig, called to her by name, HOLLY!
This was met with guffaws of laughter that are only surpassed by the ones of the pig outsmarting the boy, since this is the name I am called as well. Indignities are never short in living in the country.
Sometimes living out in the country can bring some smiles but usually not without putting someone in their place.
Holly the pig turned out to be a pot-bellied pig that was a pet and she lived in the house with her owners. We think she was looking for love in all the wrong places, most certainly.