"Who Would Live Happily In The Country..."

"Who would live happily in the country must be wisely prepared to take great pleasure in little things.

Country living is a pageant of Nature and the year; it can no more stay fixed than a movement in music, and as the seasons pass, they enrich life far more with little things than with great, with remembered moments rather than the slower hours.

A gold and scarlet leaf floating solitary on the clear, black water of the morning rain barrel can catch the emotion of a whole season, and chimney smoke blowing across the winter moon can be a symbol of all that is mysterious in human life."

Henry Beston: "Northern Farm"

I may have posted the above quote previously.  It is a beloved expression by a favorite author.

I have lived most of my life in a rural setting. Recognition of the cycle of seasons, the changes of weather, an awareness of the birds, insects, animals and plants that shared my particular space came naturally.  My father and my maternal grandfather would have scoffed at labeling themselves "nature lovers."  They were simply men who noticed their natural surroundings, stored up country lore and passed it on in down-to-earth fashion.

As a young girl I tried to put into written words the beauty and intrigue of what I observed;  the birdsong of spring; the heat, sunshine and rain, the rush of growth that is summer; the colors and rich scents of autumn; the crisp, crackling cold and snow of New England winters.

It is good that none of those wordy, over-written pieces survive!

In my 20's I discovered the writings of Henry Beston, Edwin Way Teale, Hal Borland, writers who observed the patterns and quirks of nature and distilled them into elegant prose which  evoked the pictures I had no ability to paint.

In time I discovered that those authors who can take me on a tour of their particular corner of the world, drawing me into the scents, sounds and landscapes of their homeplaces are the ones I choose to read again and again over the years.

The person who delights in noticing what lives and grows around her/him need never be bored.

I wander the same territory noting and photographing the same garden, the same roadside, the familiar dooryard at every time of day, in every season.

Somehow it is important to me to record these marvels of nuance and to share them through this blog.

Last week the busy spider added another egg sack, attaching it to the topmost one she had previously anchored to the front porch post.

For several days afterward she appeared nearly lifeless, her body deflated, her web in tatters.

Having read that argiope aurantia produces one to four egg sacks and then expires, I wondered if her time had come.

On Thursday morning I found that she had wrapped up a butterfly who blundered into her web and was taking nourishment.  She revived and seemed to be mending her web.

The following day I sat with my mug of coffee, absorbing the feel of the early morning, when I noticed that the spider was busy in the center of her web.  As I watched, she bobbed up and down repeatedly, setting the web into rhythmic motion. Fascinated, I crouched on the edge of the porch for a closeup view. With each dip of her body, she dotted a clump of sticky "thread" onto the web, reinforcing its weave. [Rather like using the darning mechanisim on my sewing machine!]

I dashed inside for the camera.  When I returned she was putting the final zig-zag in place.

Here you can see the dense patch she has created in the center of her web.

Wild turkeys. 

Son-in-law M.G. informs me that several hens will band together to raise their clutch of young.

The pale heads denote immature birds.

This morning about 18 turkeys were parading along the edge of the woods.

I was headed toward the barn a few minutes after 7 a.m. when I noticed them.

There is no such thing as moving stealthily in rubber boots, but I clumped to the house for my camera, and tried to move quietly up the back pasture to a point where I could zoom in on the turkeys.

A number of them headed into the woods.

If you enlarge the photo you can spot them.  Look for their white heads.

I counted 13 of them bobbing along in single file below the ditch.  It was difficult to bring them into focus.

Two of the turkeys flew with clattering wings into this tree, probably taking a route through the branches and dropping into the dark woods beyond.

This is the larger view.  The turkeys were strolling along to the left of the old tobacco barn when I first spotted them.

Last week there were three bluebirds lined up on the electric wire in the back yard.

Several days later I found this blue feather lying in the driveway. I want to beleive that it belonged to a bluebird--not one of the bluejays that I have heard screeching from the hedgerow.

This delicate web was one of many stretched over the grass of the back pasture.

This pod on the trumpet vine has ripened to a rich golden brown, then split to spill its seeds.

The clove pinks were grown from seed sown directly into the edges of the short border, then thinned and transplanted.

The Yellow Simplicity roses are out-doing themselves in the moderate warmth of late summer.

This morning as the sun climbed the sky and touched the flowers, their scent drifted lightly across the yard and hovered beneath the maple tree.

I caught a whiff as I came back from feeding the three barn kittens.

This Michaelmas Daisy is "Purple Dome."

I still haven't recalled the name of the paler variety behind it.

A "wooley worm" was bumping its way into the short grass by the front steps.

I don't like to think it may be the sort which lives by eating my garden.

The morning glories continue their ramble around the edge of the porch.

The nandina have thrived energetically since my violent pruning in May.

Cobweb gracing a clump of lemon thyme.

Delilah's Quilt

My Amish neighbor, Delilah Yoder, phoned last Friday to ask if I might be available to drive her to Wal Mart later in the afternoon. [The Amish who have phones build little wooden structures behind their barns or sheds to shelter the telephone which is considered too worldly and modern a devise to have in their homes.]

J. and I have on several occasions transported Joseph or Delilah to do their shopping.

I explained that I was busy painting woodwork.

Delilah assured me she could get one of the "regular drivers" for the shopping run, then added that one of her reasons for calling was to invite me to see the quilt she had finished.

On Monday, with one wall of the bedroom painted and in need of a break, I drove the mile and a half to Yoders.

I was amazed to learn that the quilt in question was the one for which Delilah had bought batting and "lining" on our recent expedition to Wal Mart--less than two weeks earlier. I wondered what could be the quality of hand quilting that had been accomplished in such a short time.

I am impressed.

The afternoon sun was hitting the view-finder of my camera, so I wasn't sure  until I loaded the photos whether I had done justice to her work.

This young woman has five children, the eldest is 8 years old.

She sees her husband off to work at the furniture factory at about 5 a.m.

Her day is interupted by whatever customers come into the little store which occupies one end of the building.

In accordance with Amish beliefs the home is without electricity; kerosene lamps provide the lighting after dark.

Needle work skills are handed down through the generations of Amish and Mennonite women.

I think those of you who quilt will agree that Delilah's work is very nice indeed.

I don't understand the reasoning that establishes some of the prohibitions of the Amish lifestyle, although

I am in harmony with simplicity, frugality, with the preservation of heritage skills.

Delilah buys the pieced quilt tops from other Amish women.  An "Englisher" friend lists the finished quilts for sale on E-bay.

Delilah's fine work should command a higher price than it does.

She can finish a bed-sized quilt in a week or 10 days, depending on the intricacy of the quilting design.

Delilah speaks yearningly of how more frequent quilt sales could augment their income.

She longs also to have a really bustling bulk foods store such as the one we patronize in Casey County.  But a well-stocked store requires a large initial outlay of funds and a steady clientele to support it.

Joseph tells us of his father's farm in Ontario.  He would like to be freed from the routine of the shop where he turns out the kind of furniture used in motels.

"How many acres would it take to have a good farm such as your father's?" I asked Joseph, as he and J. unloaded hay in our barn.

"A hundred acres of good land," replies Joseph.

Prompted by my gentle questions, he speaks with enthusiasm of horses, the relative merits of Percherons, Belgians, Suffolks.  He remembers crops of hay and barley and wheat.

It is nearly impossible, he tells us, for  a young Amishman to borrow money to buy such a farm.  Our modern and increasingly cautious banking world wants a history of checking accounts, credit card activity, a solid history of business experience.

Daily I see the young Amish men of our neighborhood being driven to and from work places by the retired men and women who use a station wagon or van as a local "taxi".  The Amish families hand over $10.00 to be driven to Wal Mart. The charge is $15.00 to be taken all the way into Columbia to the bank or to any of the shops there.

A trip to the Mennonite bakery and bulk foods store with the produce market and greenhouse nearby has a traveling fee of $40.00!

J. and I wonder how long our neighbors can sustain a traditional lifestyle which is being under-mined by 21st century ways.

When the photo session with the quilt is finished, Delilah pulls two battered dinette chairs into place under the second story overhang of the house.

"Can you stay for a visit?" she asks.

I sit, feet stretched to the sunshine, flexing my paint-daubed hands.

Our conversation is easy--of gardens, of baking; we talk of the demands of caring for a family--small children, a husband.

I am aware of difference: my T-shirt and bare arms, my ragged jeans with the torn knees and the smears of paint.  Delilah's dark blue dress falls nearly to her ankles and is pinned to the neck. An underarm seam has split and not been mended.  Her dark hair is pulled firmly back from her high forehead and covered with a dark kerchief.

The older children, the two girls, are away during the day, attending the local Amish school.

The three small boys moil about the side yard, bouncing on an old trampoline, dashing in and out of the porch. From time to time Delilah swtiches to the household German to give a quick command.  The smallest child, grubby-faced, yanks at the folds of her skirt and whines.

"Shut up," says Delilah, in English, mildly, but then relents and scoops the little boy into her large lap, tucking him up for a cuddle.

The sunlight is warm, but not fierce. I am too comfortable, and I remember the painting, the work that surely is waiting for Delilah.

We admire the herbs and the roses sprawling in her garden patch that softens the front of the wooden building.

"Come and visit again," says Delilah.

I have enjoyed the hour in her company and I tell her that, wanting her to know that I am honored by the invitation to sit for awhile and talk.

I promise that I will edit and print the photos of the quilt, that I will be happy to photograph others if she would like them to pin up in the store as examples of her work.

I have told her about my quilts--finished by the long-arm machine quilters in the shop where I worked in Wyoming.

"I will bring one of my quilts for you to see," I promise her.

She and the boys walk me to my car.  She turns back to the house, to the supper that must be made for Joseph and five children, to another quilt stretched on the wooden frame waiting for the moments when she can light her kerosene lamp and place her dainty stitches.

While J. Is Away

I have been on my own for a week and a day while J. is in Wyoming dealing with some business issues that had not been resolved prior to our move. With a successful conclusion to those matters he can now enjoy a few days with our family there.

I am not one to go to pieces at the prospect of time on my own, and I worked up quite a mental list of

Things to Do during this week or more.

When one wants to tackle hefty projects it can be easier without the Man of the House to feed and care for.

As one friend put it when I told her of my projects, "You can eat crackers and cheese and get on with what you're doing!"

The most ambitious of my projects was to paint our bedroom.

When we bought the little house all the walls had been painted recently in a clean but uninteresting flat white.  The woodwork is gloss white.

Back in May I had the notion that covering the bedroom woodwork with a color called "Cinnamon Swirl" would be a lovely way to add warmth and interest.

Within a few brush strokes I knew this ranked as a decorating nightmare.

Still, I had purchased the paint, from a line that was not cheap!

Each morning there-after I opened my eyes cautiously, hoping that the glowing peach of the closet doors was not really as blinding as yesterday.  Of course, it was.

Several weeks ago my neighbor Gracie stopped by and we spoke of our mutual adventures in revamping a small local house. Gracie looked at the offending Cinnamon Swirl paint and suggested that returning the doors in the bedroom to white would greatly reduce the impact of the bright peachy color.

The cats and I decided to tackle this project.

In the above photo you see that masking paper spread on the floor makes a delightfully crinkly noise and can be used for games of hide and seek.

What you don't see is cats whizzing past my step-stool and around my gallon of paint at full speed.

With the doors restored to gleaming white, the Cinnamon Swirl" on the trim has been greatly subdued.

I have most laboriously covered the walls in a very soft sandy peach which has just the effect for which I hoped.

I cannot move the behemoth lodgepole bed to finish that last wall.

A friend, of even tinier frame than I, offered to come with her husband and move the bed!

My Amish neighbor, Delilah, suggested that her husband, Joseph, could likely shift the bed with no help at all!

Common sense prevailed, even as I ran out of paint after rounding the corner onto the 4th wall.

When J. returns he can shove the bed out of the way, I'll finish painting and when the wall is dry, he can reposition the bed.

[He does not, by the way, know that this project is underway.]

I once thought I was a tidy and efficient painter.

I'm pleased with the result of my work, but it has taken much longer than such an effort would have done a few years back.

I have been out of bed between 5 and 6 most mornings this week, to tend the horse and the barn kittens,

minister to the throng of pampered house cats and take advantage of the morning light for painting.

Friends and neighbors have been wonderful to drop by and make sure that I haven't toppled from a step ladder or languished in lonliness.

Next on my list is to "spackle" the bathroom walls which were left in such scabby condition when I tore off the wallpaper.

J. pronounced that it was beyond my skill level and I should wait for him to do it rather than "make a mess."

We shall see!

Perhaps I will have to admit that I can't accomplish that, but just perhaps I can!

September Morning Photos

I can't recall the name of this dainty aster [Michaelmas Daisy sounds far more appealing]

The plant label is buried in exuberant growth.

The felted leaves of sage wearing silver dew.

Yellow Simplicity Rose coated in dew.

Monarda, beloved by butterflies and bees.

A favorite rugosa from my New England years, Blanc Double de Coubert.

Even the broccoli is dressed in diamonds.

I don't know the name of this grass, but loved the pinky glow of it in the upper pasture.

This photo doesn't do justice to the cool sparkle of dew that bathed the entire meadow.

One of the purple asters by the clothesline.

Spider webs stretched over the grass, cloudy with moisture.

Red Clover.

The shimmer of rising sun slanting through the wooded ridges to the east.

Maple leaf.

J. whacked down the exuberant growth of weed and morning glory behind the garage--it has revived.

The two clumps of zinnias are finally looking shabby, yet there are some still lovely blooms.

Worms and decay?

Apple mint in early morning shade.

Basil in sunshine.

Morning glories clambering about the front porch.

Cones on the magnolia tree.

"All Is Safely Gathered In"

J. hooks up to the trailer, ready to pick up the baled hay.

J. has been considering that a bale wagon with a loading chute and stacking mechanism would be a good option for our small hay operation. Ideally it would work as a "one-man" system.

In the time-honored way of the male local "grapevine" he learned that a farmer on the next crossroad had one he would like to sell.

We drove over on Labor Day with the old Dodge, Snort'n Nort'n.  I was prepared with a book to read while the men discussed the possibililties.

The owner was quite willing that J. "try out" the machine and if he liked it then the money could change hands.

All afternoon J. cleaned, greased, tinkered the thing.

Later he hitched to it and began the round of the nearer field.  I noticed frequent stops, bales repositioned, more tinkering.

Eventually the machine was parked and J. came in to announce that some of the mechanisms were not operating smoothly and he suspected that also it was designed to work best with heavier, larger bales than he is producing.

Tuesday was another hot clear day once the morning dew had burned off.

J. with an eye on the extended weather forecast, mowed the front field and was able to have Joseph Yoder's help in the late afternoon to bring in two loads of hay and stack them in the upper barn.

My contribution at such times is to drive the tractor slowly around the field, threading between the rows of bales. When J. and I work alone, I keep watch both sides behind me as J. lopes from one side of the trailer to the other, heaving bales aboard and then climbing up to stack them--a craft in itself, of wedging crosswise and length-wise so that the bales don't topple as the load grows.

When we have Joe to help, one man works each side of the trailer. Without discussion, they spell each other as the stack of bales grows higher--changing off the tasks of one heaving the bales higher with each tier, the other clambering to the top of the load to stack.

As a girl, trailing my grandfather and the neighbor men to the hay field, and again during the years that we ran the dairy farm, I marveled at this unspoken synchronicity--an age-old pattern of harvest where each worker has known since boyhood just where his strength is needed.

J.M . Shelley had this bit of the land bulldozed shortly after he acquired the place at auction last September.  I gather there was a substantial hedgerow of trees and shrubbery.  Whatever the intention, the work was left unfinished when winter froze the ground. This stand of yellow daisy-like flowers has taken over the area. I have not been able to positively identify them from my wildflower book--perhaps coreopsis [tickseed?] 

Chugging along on the tractor I became so caught up in the look of the late sun shining onto the golden flowers, I missesd my cue to halt the tractor while J. and Joseph tended to a cluster of hay bales.

I suspect that Joseph's Amish mind-set may ponder the unsuitability of an aging woman who presumes to drive a tractor.

I do not preseume to bring the tractor and the heavily loaded trailer across the wide drainage ditch and up the slope to the barn!

When J. signals that the load is high enough, I set the hand brake, clamber down and trudge up to the house to fetch a pitcher of ice water or lemonade for the sweating men.

A closer look at the plant in question.

J. and I worked together to get the last of this "second cutting" into the barn on Wednesday.

A run up to the Yoder place at the end of the road saw J. back without Joseph, who according to his wife, had accepted a "landscaping job" for the afternoon [this after his 7 or 8 hour day at a local furniture factory.]

The sky was murky with gathering clouds and a nervous wind aggitated the leaves of the trees.  A strange musty, dank, dead smell hung in the air.

I steered the tractor in slow ponderous rounds, standing to put my full weight against the clutch and brake pedals, halting so that J, could load from both sides of the trailer.

The fidgety hot breeze twitched strands of my hair loose from its clasps and fanned them irritatingly into my face.  Several times we felt drops of rain on our bare arms, but as the last load was trundled slowly to the upper barn, still the storm held off.

On Friday morning, with J. packed and ready to leave on a necessary trip back to Wyoming, the rain began.

It pattered softly in the dooryard trees as he carried belongings to the truck, gave Pebbles her morning grain, gave me last minute cautions and instructions. 

I plodded up to the barn again after he drove out, taking fresh water to fill the kittens' bowls.

Moments later I stood at the edge of the carport, looking up at the orange leaves on the maple, watching them flutter down to rest on the thirsty ground.

There will be warm days, blue-sky afternoons of hot sunshine, but the long sweltering summer is over.

Excerpts from Henry Beston's "Northern Farm."

"It is summer, the season of leaves and grass and the ever-changing fancies of the flowing winds, and all day long there seem a thousand things to do.  Weeds and pests are to be fought, and the hay mows filled against the winter: the bright sunshine and the warmth must be made every use of while they last.  The scissor-clatter sound of mowing machines begins the working day; and the afternoon sun beats down on bare backs, the steely gleam of hay fork tines, and the lifted bundles of hay falling into the old hayracks swaying and rolling over these hillside fields.  Thirsty afternoons, and worthy of the pause by the deep well or the battered enamel cup standing by the spring."

" The week began with two hot and 'muggy' days.  So lifeless was the hazy air that there was scarce enough higher wind to float the woolpack clouds through the dulled heavens, and such a breeze as moved low upon the earth stirred no curtains at the open windows of the farm. A third day began with grey cloud and the same passive air lying almost stagnant upon the heated land, but at noon came a change of the wind, a darkening overhead, and the first small, scattering drops of rain.

Oh blessedness and wonder of the rain!  Not for weeks had we seen such drops, and with their appearance the long tension of a dry spell broke like a thin globe of imaginary glass.  Calling and replying to each other across the rain-pitted water, loons began their quaverings and trills: they always have something to say when rain begins. Then to the senses came that first country smell of wet earth and rain, and this was presently followed by a cool breath of air moving with the rain along the fields and fragrant with a faint, cool smell of grass.  A moment later a neighbor's cat slunk past me in the garden, and took shelter under the barn."



The Third Barn Kitten

J. rode the 4-wheeler down to the end of the neadow to check on the hay late this afternoon.

Neighbor Dale was outside so of course they caught up on man-talk.

A stringy striped kitten was lurking hopefully, and when J. remarked on it, Dale said that it had been "dropped off" several days ago.

I was a bit astonished to see J. drive in with a small cat in his lap.  The catlet was cool as a cucmber, as if he rode noisey motorized steeds every day.

We agreed that we don't need another cat. We didn't even have to discuss that it will be staying and we'll be feeding and caring for him.

His name, by the way, seems to be "Willis."

He is only slightly larger than Sadie and Sally and there is a strong resemblance in the pointy face and big ears.

Either he is from the same litter or there is a roving Tom with very distinctive genes.

There are two cleanly healed small wounds on his head, almost as though he had been pecked by a chicken sort of creature.

He has been fed, watered, petted and accomodated for the night in a cage which matches that of the girl kittens.

I hope we don't have to brace ourselves for an onslaught of abandoned or straying cats.

Enough!

This is not meant to be a blog of cat tales--normal subject matter may resume.