June 30, 2009

• I think I’ve done pretty well, on the whole, in adjusting to farm life.

                      

                                       (Sunrise over silo this morning)

  After almost 40 years, you’d think I would have accepted all the things with which farm wives must come to terms. For example, I learned, long ago, that farmers work all the time, not 8 to 5. And when farmers aren’t actually working, they are thinking about work. Just because a farmer appears to be watching a television show does not mean he’s really listening to it. And just because he looks at me when I ask him something does not mean he really heard my question. Me: “Honey, I was wondering if we might talk about this carpet. Don’t you think it’s time we replaced it? Just look at all the stains! Honey?” Him, after several seconds of silence and looking blankly at me: “You know, that 4450 is giving me fits. I think we’re going to have to trade it pretty soon. I’m wondering if a Kubota might not be just as good as a John Deere, for what we use it for. Do you think you could look on your computer and see if you could find a good used one?”

                            

                               (Stormy western sky…bumpy backbone of GladeTop in distance)

  I learned, early in wedded life, that farms are dirty places to live. There is mud, dust, and yuck…lots of yuck! And most of it comes home with him. He wears it like garments, on his skin, his clothing and especially his boots. If a farm wife wants to be picky about her housekeeping, she’ll be a frustrated farm wife. I’ve often been frustrated but I’ve learned to get over it.

                         

                                (Rainbow…the reward of weathering a storm)

  I learned, from the start, that weather is a vital force in a farmer’s life. It’s how we begin our day, watching the news and mostly the weather, and it’s how we end it. I’ve stood outside, beside my farmer, watching the southwestern sky, praying for rain, for a drenching on parched crops. And I’ve stood beside him, facing the same direction, praying for the rain to go somewhere else, to give him a little more time to get up the much-needed hay. Extreme heat requires extra caution for livestock and for humans, as does extreme cold. Wind can blow away, in the span of a few seconds, the result of years of hard labor and can require much more hard work to clean up its mess. I’ve watched baby calves, nearly dead after being born in a freezing rain, brought back to life by almost super-human efforts of a farmer. And I’ve sat beside him, white-knuckled and tense, as we drove over the iciest, most dangerous roads imaginable, barely managing to stay out of the ditch, to get to the home of an employee who didn’t have the nerve to drive, because the cows must be milked, horrendous weather or not.

                   

                 (Mr. Mockingbird did his best to fool me with a rendition of Mr. Bob-White’s call.)

  The phrase, “fast food,” has its place on the farm, but not as you might expect. No, it doesn’t mean driving through McDonald’s down on the corner. I’ve learned it means rushing into the kitchen to throw together sandwiches and fixing a quart jar of iced tea to send to the hay field because suddenly there’s a big rush to finish before that rain gets here. Or it means dashing in, sitting down at the table to my lovingly prepared meal of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, then wolfing it down in minutes without even tasting it, because the load of corn that was supposed to come at 9 showed up at noon and the driver is impatiently waiting. I’ve learned to always have some basic things on hand, the makings for a fast, good meal, for the inevitable, “That cattle buyer is still here from Iowa, so I’ve asked him to stay for lunch.” And I know better than to fix anything that won’t keep for a little while; when I have supper ready at 6, it’s likely to be 7 or 8 before it gets touched.

           

  (Peppy and Bandit were sad to be left behind this morning…tomorrow is THEIR day)

  The long, seven-day work weeks, cancelled social plans, arriving late to church or school events…I’ve gotten used to them. They are part of our lives, and I try to go with the flow, whichever way it carries me. But there is one thing about farm life that this farm wife has not adjusted to….I still hate the early mornings. By nature, I just am not an early riser. Everyone has a personal, built-in alarm clock, and mine is NOT set for 4:30 a.m. Now, I don’t care anything about sleeping late; I’d have trouble, if I ever got the chance, with lying in bed until 8 a.m. But how about 6:30? Or 7? That is about right for this farm wife who has a lot of difficulty falling asleep at night.

                     

                           (I finally got the weeds out of the garden so I can show it to you!)

  The problem arises every summer, when the days are longer and first light starts creeping into the eastern sky at around 5:00 a.m. The farmer in the family thinks along the same lines as the rooster down in the henhouse….it must be time to rise and shine! He hops out of bed, cheerful and ready to visit. Coffee cup in hand, he likes for us to sit outside on the screen porch, listening to the sounds of nature as it awakens, not noticing that I have yet to awaken. Then, we move to the living room where the morning news requires much conversation. “What do you think about that Madoff? Do you think the judge will give him what he deserves?” “If the price of oil keeps going up, I wonder if we shouldn’t trade that truck for a diesel. Do you think it would pay to do that?” “If the weatherman says a fifty-percent chance of rain, should I go on and cut that field or wait till tomorrow? Do you suppose it’s going to rain today?” I sit in mostly silence, trying to keep my eyelids open, occasionally managing a monosyllabic reply….it’s just too early for sentences.

                                       

                                      (Dew on raspberries)

  This week it’s time to work cattle, and early morning is decidedly the best time for this hard, hot work, so we roll out at 4:30 and the day begins. There is a box lunch to be fixed, water jugs to be filled, supplies to be gathered, horses to be caught and saddled, and last-minute directions given. And after the hustle and bustle and the trucks pull out, headed for a hard day’s work, there is a sweet reward for this early riser. As quiet once again descends on our valley, I notice the mist rising over the alfalfa field. The scent of honeysuckle sweetens the morning air. I walk to the garden and, as the sun peeks over the horizon, see the dew glisten on the ripening raspberries. The owl across the creek is calling a last “hoo-hoo-a-hoo,” as he prepares to rest throughout the day. The bob-whites talk sweetly to each other, and a pair of cardinals come out of the thicket in the ditch and check to see if the chickens missed any grains of cracked corn yesterday. The beauty of it all seeps gently into my soul.

                   

  (See the Diamond T brand on his left hip? Stan chose this as the ranch brand when he was 15.)

  As the mama bluebird, three perfect warmed eggs tucked into her nest, flutters out of their little house beside the garage and begins her daily routine, I head back up the hill to begin mine, and I think to myself, “Maybe I could get used to this getting up early. It’s really not so bad, once I’m up…” After 40 years, I might be getting used to this.

  • 6:02 pm
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