True Farmers

Ode to True Farmers

I was a fortunate young boy growing up. I came from solidly Scottish and Irish stock. My paternal great-grand father came to America from Ireland in the early 1900’s. The Armstrongs, my maternal lineage, came from Scotland to Virginia in 1690. The family that I knew well as a boy was settled in the counties of Shelby and Bullitt in Kentucky. Cheerful, hardworking folks all.

Many of my family were farmers of a sort when I was growing up. Farmers... not like today’s agri-giant mini-corporations, with tractors that look more suited for armored assaults on fortified enemy compounds than for living off the land. The tractors I was accustomed to had headlights and grilles that made them look almost friendly. The old Ford 8N with it’s brush guard exhibited a happy demeanor. Simply called the 8N, 9N, the H or D, the tractors of old were trusted helpers that were around for decades.

Some equipment had names like Sadie and Jack, they were the mules my great-grandpa Armstrong used until I was nearly a teenager. I remember planting potatoes with him as a toddler listening to “gee” and “haw, get up Jack…" The aroma of fresh turned soil wafted through the spring air as the powerful pair, one brown one white, pulled us along. With a snort and a shake of the head they grabbed the earth with their hooves and muscled their way across the field. My eyes welled with tears when old Sadie died. She was so much more than equipment. She was a part of the family. Her collar and hames hang on the wall of my den today as a reminder of farming long ago.

I grew up around back breaking, bone tired, year round, chickens in the yard, hams in the smoke house, hardscrabble farmers. My dads brothers were cattle or dairy farmers. I used to love to go to their dairy barns. I loved the smell of silage and hay. The sounds of the gentle mooing of the cattle as my uncles and cousins would call them by name and place them in their designated spots for milking. Milk never tasted better than when it came straight out of the cooler in the parlor. Rich, creamy and wholesome. It was work 24 hours a day 365 days a year.

My great-grandpa Willie Armstrong drove his cattle from Washington County to the present farms locations. Forty five miles of hills to climb, creeks to ford, dirt roads , and sweat. I would have given anything to have been on that drive (genetically I was on my way, I was just a few decades late). I remember the giant wood fired cook stove where a piece of sausage and a biscuit was waitin every time you passed by. The old house was originally a log cabin. The old logs remain under asphalt covering to this day. I have many old blacksmith tools, some I use often, some are for display. Farms distant from towns had to be prepared to fix any broken thing on their own... or wait for days to have it repaired. Every time I use the big giant black vise in the shop I feel the hands of my forefathers gripping the handle.

Sometimes there was more family than a farm could support and “side work” had to be done to help keep the farm in cash. Carpentry, saw milling, sewing or a factory job would help supplement. Now farming is more and more a rich mans game. According to the USDA , since 1900 the number of farms has fallen 63%, while the numbers of acreage per farm has increased by 67%. The big guys are swallowing the little guys. Sadly less than 2% of Americans live on farms today.

Yes, there are still small farms here and there. Self sustaining, full-menu producing farms with sheep, cattle, chickens, guineas and the like. The kind of farms that domesticated the west and made America, America. But they are fading away like frost before the sun, slowly and imperceptibly. I’m gonna miss them when they’re gone. We all will.

Granduer Lost

Grandeur Lost

As I made my way back to the Chicken Ranch recently I took a route that led me past a deserted, grand old farm and its mansion. I have watched this place since the late 1970’s The mansion has fascinated me for 30 years. Even in its frightful state, something about this farm site calls out to you.

When I first saw the place, it still bore some resemblance of it’s former glory. The porches were intact. Roofs on the mansion and out buildings had not yet fully succumbed to the neglect. The summer kitchen and ice house, with 10 foot deep cellar, were still in a stable state. But it was obvious no one had lived on this once glorious property for some time. The barns and sheds were all but gone. I pulled off the road and walked up to have a look around.

The place was vacant and deteriorating. I was impressed nevertheless by its spaciousness. Five bedrooms, parlor, great rooms and more. Three floors and approximately four thousand square feet of floor space. Beautiful ornate woodwork, rails and banisters. Incredible fireplace. It even boasted of a southern facing glass sun room. Outside there was one outbuilding that had clearly been a boiler room. This house had had radiant heat throughout! Someone very rich had lived here in the late 19^th century.

In the 1990’s when I saw it now and again, it was in such a state of deterioration that it was nearly time for the bulldozer. It always made me sad to see it. But now in 2012, as I stopped to look at the farm again, it seemed someone had made an effort to at least restore the house. New roof, new windows, (although the sun room is totally gone) and rebuilt back porches. Glorious, abandoned, dilapidated, semi-restored. Now today it had a for sale sign out front. What stories lay within these walls.? What elegance and grandeur had come and gone here? What terrible thing had befallen so magnificent a plantation ? I dialed the number on the realtors sign. Time to investigate.

I discovered that the original house, called Elmwood, was built in 1850 by one Johann H. Wernsing , a German immigrant from a Province of Hanover, Germany. In order to inherit a family estate he had been required to change his name to Marbold, John Marbold. At the behest of his American family members he immigrated to America and bought 200 acres of promising farm ground. He then began to build the estate he would call Elmwood.

John was an excellent business man and eventually built his estate to 4,000 acres of pristine farm ground. After he died, the farm continued to prosper and the family house was enlarged and upgraded in the 1880s by his son, H. H. Marbold. The house was one of the first have electric lighting. H.H. was quite successful, thanks to the profits from the Elmwood Farmstead, cattle trading and shrewd investments. But it seems the family good fortune ended, as did so many others, when the Great Depression hit the United States. .

The house was bought and sold and with each decade faded more. One person bought it, raising hopes of many of the farms admirers that this place would be saved. But the owner only raped it of its beautiful woodwork, fireplace, and more and left the remainder to ruin. A group was formed a few years ago to save what they call “The Marbold Mansion”. But, despite their valiant efforts, not enough money has been raised to fully restore Elmwood. It is for sale, the gutted house on ten acres, for 80,000 dollars. One can only hope that this is not the end of this farms story. Will someone finally invest in it’s restoration. Or is this the last prolonging of an inglorious end to a once glorious farm called Elmwood.

Spring Teaser

Spring Teaser

Ah, March. The great teaser.

We all look to the end of winter here at the Chicken Ranch. As February draws to a close I prepare for March the month I have trusted the least over the years. I mean, here comes this month with warmer winds, sunnier skies and even the occasional early blooms. I am wanting to believe that Spring is here, and March suckers me right in… every year. You’d think I’d catch on. That, just when I break out the grill, bring up a couple of lawn chairs from the basement, or get half way through a garden seed catalog….BAM.. I get hit with a snowball. Old Man Winter again, still pickin a fight.

March, we’re told, was named for Mars, the god of war. I suppose that whole north wind battling the south wind thing, and the ensuing storms, brought that about. Spring does seem to be fighting for a foothold here while winter plays tug-o-war. The days are cold and damp, then sunny and warm. Clear and bright, then overcast and dull. Who knows what each new morn will bring? I’ve been leery of, and a bit put out at times by March and it‘s fickle weather. But I have softened my stance this year. I think maybe I have been a bit harsh in my judgment, when I consider all that this month has to offer.

The skies of March appear a bit clearer. The solid grey flannel of clouds that hang like a blanket over winter days loosens, and brighter, friendlier clouds begin to show themselves. The blue of the canopy overhead is a little richer tone, more alive in color. The ice on ponds and birdbaths leaves by noon more often than not. The sun after all, is a bit more social, showing up earlier and hanging around longer. The breeze births from the south more often, with just a hint of a warmer climate promised soon. And then there are the birds and blooms of March.

Here at the Chicken Ranch tiny crocuses have sprung up in sunnier parts of the lawn and gardens. These little fairies of the flower world seem to be itching for just the slightest invitation from Old Sol, to dance to the surface and get the party started. The many colored tops shame the faded and withered grasses around them. The whites, lavenders, purples, and oranges of the petals shout the coming of a more vibrant season. “Let it all begin“ they seem to say. And, these little flowers are not alone in their impatience.

Honey bees are buzzing and winging on nearly every crocus bloom. They are not frantic today in their business, but seem rather to be relishing this early moment. Doing their duty at a steady pace, but getting the most from every second of it. Some hollow tree is alive with activity as these nectar gatherers are getting a head start on spring. Around the corner two Robins have returned to us. They hop along in a staccato cadence twisting their heads in order to find a worm who has come close to the sunny surface. The red-breasted chirpers may get caught in a snowstorm later but they seem willing to take their chances. It appears that March is calling in the new guard, and the band is warming up.

No, I don’t see March hiding the fact that winter is not quite done with us. And even though more snow may come and cold has still a firm grip. And though there is sure to be further cloudy days. March has kindly brought in the advance team. Previews of attractions to come. Yes, I’m liking March better this year. I like it because it says to all of us “Stay tuned for what’s coming folks, you’re not gonna want to miss this”.

Anniversary Poem

I have not forgotten, the first time I saw you

As you glided into your chair

How your smile overtook the lighted room

And your eyes seized all the air

I have not forgotten, when I held your hand

And felt the spark of your fingertips

Or the dizzying taste of sparkling wine

In the kiss that fell from your lips

I have not forgotten, how you looked

When day gave in to night

And the moon lay soft upon your skin

While your eyes reflected its light

I have not forgotten, promises we made

Or the tests we faced time and again

When storms, we oft brought on ourselves

Sought fiercely to bring us to an end

I have not forgotten, the love that bound

While other ties were broken

When the words “I’m sorry, and I love you still”

Were real when they were spoken

I have not forgotten, how you stood

For all you believed was right

Or the comforting touch of your gentle hand

On mine, through life’s uncertain night

No, I have not forgotten, I should not forget

And certain sure, I never will                                                                          

For all that caused me to love you then

Does cause me to love you still

Happy Anniversary, Patty Gooding .


I love you Babe, Kevin Mar 29 2012

Lively Morning

Cowboy hat etiquette states that you don’t switch from felt to straw hats until after Memorial Day. But with our temps reaching 90 degrees here at the Chicken Ranch, I’m in a straw hat as I prepare to head out this particular morning. My coffee mug in my good hand is steaming as I make my way through the door. I’m greeted with warm spring air this morning as I step out on the south porch. Often the first sound I hear when I walk outside is from the hens quarreling over a scrap or bug, or the rooster proclaiming his superiority. But today it is the voices of songbirds singing their praises for this new and beautiful morn that reaches my ears first. The cheerful voices that greet us from the yard and gardens change daily as new birds arrive for the season. Each feathered creature adds its own distinctive sound, and then together they blend into a gentle, uplifting chorus. My peripheral eye catches a vivid blue among the crabapple pedals that have fallen near, and into, the waterfall. I turn to see a new pretty feathered arrival.

The Jays and Indigos have come to liven up the landscape with their impressive azure feathers. The Indigo Bluebird tweets politely as he springs from twig to twig. The Blue Jays on the other hand, like to complain a lot. But I think they actually enjoy themselves more than they let on. Our red Cardinals have wintered over, taking advantage of Patty’s generous provision of food in the bird feeder outside the kitchen window. Newly returned bright yellow finches light on the branches near the feeder.

The feeder is a replica I built of Xavier Onces Tavern from the movie Lonesome Dove. I got the idea after a cat killed one of a pair of doves that lived here a few years ago. The male mourned his loss and remained alone here for two years. I built the wooden structure and placed the Lonesome Dove sign on the front. Our dove would come to the food source and sit on top of the roof making his lonesome mournful call. And then one day I found him beneath a pine tree. I never knew if he died of old age or a broken heart. I buried him under the pine. It just seemed like the right thing to do.

This day there are a pair of doves, one nearly white, cooing to one another while feasting on the sunflower seeds provided. All the birds are on their best behavior this time of year as they search for a mate . The songs are never fuller nor the wingspreads wider than in the spring mating season. Procreation instincts cause the various dance styles and puffed chests, and the rebirth of greenery signals in them the need for timely new births in the bird kingdom.

As I make my way down the highway this morning the mists hover like soft down blankets over the fields, just a few feet above the ground. The sun is a glowing half ball of orange as it peeks above the moisture and bears the promise of a bright and cheerful day. Through the mist I make out several dark objects moving in slow motion. As get closer I realize that its wild turkeys I see. Toms trying to impress the hens by spreading bronze, black and white tail feathers in full strut. Their blue and red heads are bobbing slightly as they walk. Slowly, with puffed out chests and beards dancing, the birds circle the hens in hope of being selected by one of them as King For A Day. They look like portly politicians seeking votes in an election year.

Cattle are up and grazing. Mothers try to eat while spindly-legged spring calves follow along, noses tucked under Momma, drinking their breakfast. The calves noses and mouths are as frothy white as shaving cream from the warm sustaining milk they take in. A couple of little steers have finished their meal and are busy butting heads playfully while the cows that mothered them rip the green grass from the pasture with a shake of the head. The cows will load up, then take a much needed break and chew the cud while the calves nap beside them. I enjoy the experience of the natural world awakening around me today.

Spring has breathed new life, in color and in sound, into plant and bird, into every animal and man. Every new day is a blessing. And new spring days are almost spiritual. Any new day when you find yourself living, and not just being alive, is a wonderful gift from God. I’m grateful, as I take in all of these morning initiations around me, that I am able to see, hear, and smell all this Spring morn has to offer.

This surely will be a good day. It has, after all, gotten off to a beautiful start.

　

Sunny Sunday

The sun shines bright on my old….“ well, Chicken Ranch today. I’m on the back porch with Georgie the cat, drinkin my morning coffee. I’ve got on my “Sunday, go to meetin” hat and boots on because… it’s Sunday and I’m going to meetin’ soon. Meanwhile, Georgie and I are just soakin up the spring weather like a Brawny paper towel.

The trees are all dressed up like girls going to the Prom. Every shade of bloom is visible. Pink, white, dusty rose, lilac, a whole catalog of colors. We have planted Dogwood, Flowering Crab, Cherry and many others over the years just for this time of year, when an explosion of color fills the lawn to the south. And I can just sit in this chair and drink it in.

The ground too is full of bloom, and green shoots that promise blooms of their own later. The birds are looking for mates. Strutting, courting and singing . You’d think a panel of judges was watching, the way they dance and fly about. Honey bees are buzzing around the blooms , one after another, then sipping on the golden nectar.

Even the chickens are clucking and crooning as they scratch about in search of a snack. The warm temps and additional light has encouraged a boost in their egg production. The refrigerators are filling once again with dozens of large brown eggs.

Yep it’s spring alright, all the sights and sounds are here to verify it. And we’re all glad. Its been long awaited here at the Chicken Ranch.

Fishing

We set at the table this morning feeding on our favorite breakfast food. Eggs, sausage, home made biscuits and gravy. Apple butter sweetens things up a bit. Great food, compliments of Grandmom Patty. She accepts the compliments from my grandsons Kirkland and Kameron, and a peck on the cheek from me. She tells us to leave our dishes this time, she’ll get them. She knows we’re anxious to get to the lake and wet a line.

We thank her as we dismount the table. I gulp down one last swallow of coffee and set the leftover biscuits on the stove. With the creak of the storm door we’re gone.

We have our gear ready to go, so loading is quick. I won’t be fishing today because of my recent shoulder surgery, so we just load the boys favorite poles and tackle boxes. Soon we are on the narrow ribbon of blacktop that leads us to Jim Edgar State Park. The park is 15,000 acres of wildlife, trails and lakes. It’s borders are just over five minutes from the Chicken Ranch. I hunted and fished this area long before it was bought by the state and turned into a park. The land is a mixture prairie grass fields, creek bottoms, and heavily wooded knobs. Some creeks and lowland areas were dammed to create three lakes in addition to the farm ponds already in existence.

It is foggy this morning as we wind along the country road. Deer are in the fields. Their winter coats camouflage them as they scratch out a meal of left behind corn. Crows pepper the sky, flying noisily from tree to tree, as the sun tries to burn away the misty gray. We arrive at a lake we visit often and remark how low the water is. “We’ll be able to bank fish where you used to need a boat to reach” exclaims one of the boys. These youngsters know how to fish. They have fished since they were old enough to hold a pole in their hands and they have won fishing tournament prizes through the years. I help them unload and they go their separate ways. I sit on a shoreline bench where I can see them both, and take in the sights and sounds of the lake.

The fog is lifting slowly as it now hangs 20 feet over the water. The air is fresh and clean with just a hint of dampness and the smell of the lake. Geese are on the east end of this small lake and a couple of them fly overhead honking like impatient drivers in city traffic. The water is still and is reflects the naked trees in the shallows. The glassy surface is disturbed only by the casting from my grandsons fishing poles. Small ripples move like baby tsunamis as the cork and bait displaces the water. In the grassy field on the opposite side of the lake, a pheasant makes its hoarse whistling call over and over again. Off in the distance hounds can be heard howling on the chase. Horses and dogs are participating in running trials not so far from here today. A breeze begins to gently blow and the fog clears a little more.

It occurs to me that all the sounds of nature do not add up to a trifle when compared to noise of populated places. The natural resonance of wind and birds, streams and animal calls, all blend in a accepted chorus. It is the human voice, or the plane or automobile that interrupts. The Earth has created an orchestra of innate music that, when left untouched, is as beautiful as any written by man. God, it seems, is quite the composer. I drink in the sounds while I watch the boys work their fishing gear. They are quiet and methodical.

My symphonic thoughts are broken as my oldest grandson Kirkland catches a nice sized fish and calls to me across the lake. He reels it in while the fish slaps the water with his tail and then dances onto shore. “Nice one!” I say and wave back. I’m talking about the catfish of course, but it could have just as easily been about this wonderful morning.

The sun breaks through the fog in flashlight streams. First one, then two, then more, until a kaleidoscope of sunrays are cheering up the waters. Then the pair of geese returns and glides down from the dissipating mist, splashing upon the lake. I watch them stream across the surface just as a ray of sunlight shines down upon them. It’s as if a stage hand followed cue and put them in the spot light. The waters sparkles as the elegant birds meet up with the gaggle.

“Yes,” I think, turning to the reflections of the boys on the lake, “It is a nice one indeed.”.

　

Final Year

Once you so proudly stood

Branches reaching high

One hundred years of growing Good

‘What I have witnessed” you sigh

Bronze leaves would adorn you well

Through winters sunless days

And green the leaves in summers spell

As limbs spread every way

Strong you grew and mighty then

As decades rolled away

Withstanding every stormy wind

In every bend and sway

The world would change, and change again

But resolute you’d stand

Solid, dependable in thick or then

So noble and so grand

Now, time for you my old Oak friend

Has emptied in the glass

You give a mighty sigh and thin

Return to the soil at last.



K L Dennie March 2012

The Migration

I was out and about today and took note of a dark shadow bouncing along the skyline. It was geese and ducks. Literally hundreds of thousands of them.They got closer and closer until the sky darkened, as if a thunder cloud had swept suddenly in. The sky was peppered and stitched with birds at varying levels of flight. As far as the eye could see. From horizon to horizon this great mass of feathered fowl carried themselves instinctively north. A flock of Snow Geese landed just off the road and I got as close as I could without disturbing them. The noise from their calling was like rush hour traffic in Tokyo. Their honking and squeaking was not unlike a giant elementary school woodwind section warming up before a concert.
The flight above me lasted a full ten minutes before the sky began to clear. Many of the Snow Geese landed in a corn field while others circled in a tornado of alternating white and gray, as their mighty wings pushed them up, up, then in a graceful gliding circle down again. It was a magnificent choreography of wings. A white and brown Snow Goose version of performance art.
We live in a major flyway for migrating waterfowl, so this is not the first time I have witnessed this. Twice a year the winged creatures make their way through, from north to south and then back north again. And twice a year I am in awe of their beauty, determination and elegance. It is truly a gift every time I am allowed the experience... this demonstration of nature doing her perfect work. Feb 2012

Winter Drizzle

It’s cold and wet at the Chicken Ranch. Most of the day has been a merge of rain, mist and fog. The temperature has hovered in the refrigerator range ,but now heads toward freezing. The winter sky, when visible at all, has been gray and disparaging . The wind has blown the misty rain past the windows like a lace curtain. It obscures the view of the barren fields and then disseminates the moisture among the trees and hedge. Tiny birds duck heads deeper into their breasts as each gust pushes past their roosts. I do a check on the animals then head west to the shed. It is a bitter rain that sends a shiver across my shoulders, while I gather wood for the fire. In the chilly mist the occasional smell of wood smoke tells me the fireplace burns well, and I look forward to soon experiencing it’s drying comfort.
It is an inky black night, devoid of stars and moon. The wind has shifted from the west and is hard from the north. My dripping hat sits tight on my head and my collar wraps my neck as I make my way from the woodshed to the house. The house window illuminates the blowing mist and it produces a ghostly, dancing yellow/grey apparition in the darkness of the yard. The fog of my breath is quickly lost in the drizzle.
The roof over the porch drums a ‘rat-a-tat-tat’ as water is loosed from the tree limbs and lands upon the metal. The flag on the pole flops and pops a little in the wind. Everywhere else it is quiet. Only an occasional half-hearted honk of the geese who overnighted in the corn field breaks the silence. Even the coyotes are too miserable to sing tonight. They will hunker down and wait to hunt tomorrow.
I stack the wood with a clunk on the stone hearth and then return to the back door to hang my dampened coat and hat. Back at the fireplace, I place a new log on the fire then stand with my back to the dancing flames. I’m going to warm a little here, then a cup of hot chocolate is in order. It's time to warm the inside… while I dry the outside on this soggy winters eve. Feb 2012

A Cold Gold Walk

  

It’s a cold winters day here at the Chicken Ranch. Wind chill in the single digits when I awoke. The kind of cold that makes your toes want to hide a little deeper in the warmth of your boots. The songbirds are crowded up in the bird feeder like shoppers in a store aisle on Black Friday. I know they’re just lookin for nourishment but I’d swear that they enjoy each others company as well. Jumpin in and out peeping and pecking.

I take a drive around the fields and woods to the northeast and appreciate the varying shades of golden brown in the winter scene. Here and there hardy winter ground covers flaunt their little patch of greenness and look somewhat out of place amid the dominant gold and rust of the meadow. Intermittent clumps of bushes display deep maroon berries on naked limbs. I think they look like lonely left-behind Christmas ornaments. The bronze of the oak tree leaves and olive drab of the cedars append some offering of color in a valiant effort to break up the landscape. As I get out of the truck and stand on a knob the ribbon of road lights up with powdery snow as it cuts through the acreage below me.

The trees in winter look for the most part like they are upside down. As if the roots are upright and the foliage has buried itself in the ground like an ostrichs’ head, hoping to find relief from the cold. But some sway a little here and there in the frigid draft, as if to signal that they are yet alive and well. They remind me that they will themselves full with color again in the coming spring. “Patience” they seem to plead to the misty gray sky.

I am surrounded by waving shades of yellow, brown and gold as I walk through a deteriorating wooden gate and into the waist high prairie grasses. Some of the grass has a piping of roasted umber. I see a patch of parched earth where controlled fires washed across earlier this year.

As I head back to my truck, I push my big-hat down a little tighter on my ears and throw up my collar. A rabbit leaps from his hiding place. A gray spot with a flash of white tail bouncing up and down across the edge of the field. I take in another look and marvel again at how colorful winter can be in a sepia-tone sort of way. So many shades of gold on a golden mornings walk.

The Rise and Demise

I went home to the bluegrass state recently. As always, I am pleased by its natural beauty. The Kentucky hills reaching to the sky with lush pastures and creeks at their bases. Rock outcroppings that weep with little streams of water that begin their journey somewhere in the peaks. The pastures are often a quilted pattern of cattle and horses grazing happily on the blue grass. From crossbred to pure bred, painted horses and Thoroughbreds, it is mostly a picture of agricultural bounty wrapped in wooden fences and dotted with magnificent barns.

As we made our way through old familiar roads however, I was surprised, and a bit dismayed, to find half million dollar houses on land that was not so long ago occupied by rusty-roofed wooden sheds and contented livestock. Where twenty acre pastures fed family herds, now five houses of masonry splendor and four car garages have cut black ribbon paths across creek and grass to scar the quarter. Progress, or some product of it, has come to disquiet this lovely place. The city has metastasized and is reaching the heart of this particular rural community. Its encroachment is evident by the abandoned farms.

Together houses, sheds and barns that once were full of families and their living, now stand graying and folding with neglect. The metal gone from barn and shed roofs exposes ancient wooden shingles, and where those are missing, solid old beams painstakingly axed and placed by able hands, are now naked to the elements and left to perish. Doors are hanging by a single hinge waiting for one more storm to lay them to rest.

The houses that experienced the laughter, the joys of birth, the pain of death with in their humble walls now set cold, silent and empty. Houses are just structures until they are occupied, its then that they become homes. You can have a fine house with bricks and wood alone, but it takes good people to make a fine home. These were once good farms but now it is only the wind that makes the wooden screen doors slam.

Generations of folks for 180 years or more lived and died on these grounds. Children were raised. Some went off to school, some went to war. Some returned, some never did. There was life here. A farm is a living thing after all. Its’ a cycle of the earth producing sustenance to families, and the giving back in sweat and toil the energy received from the soil, that completes a manner of simple livelihood as old as the human race itself. But at some of the farms I saw before me, only memories remain of the vitality that once was.

I am not against prosperity nor am I un-accepting of change when change is necessary and good. Yet, as our nation becomes more and more crowded, our dependency grows increasingly on fragile things. Farming corporations are becoming the rule in agriculture. Big box store shelves are the main source of food. We place our sedentary lives in the hands of technology and pharmaceuticals in the hopes of staying healthy. Media is the main source of cerebral stimulation. Used to be that days working on the farm kept many folks “healthy wealthy and wise.” For most of America that hasn’t been the case for some time now.

As I watch the life drain from parts of rural America I feel some trepidation and a great sense of loss. The “good old days”, I fully realize, were often hard old days. But they were simple days. Days that built strong people. Strong principles. Strong nations. Strength was gained from the land . Strength which, I am afraid, like the once sturdy buildings and fertile fields I beheld in parts of my beloved home state, is slowly decaying away.

Moonlight

The moon is magnificent tonight. It is entangled in the branches of the elm tree outside my bedroom window. It’s shining through the window panes drapes opaque light across the quilt that adorns our bed. The colors of the stitched patchwork illumine and subside with each passing of a cloud before its shining. The branches seem to be preening its yellow/white surface as the wind raises and lowers each limb gently.

As the limbs move with the breeze, little clumps of snow loosen and make their way down to be absorbed by the larger body below. The falling makes it look as if the moon is raining bits of soft silvery light to Earths frozen surface.

All this is silently happening before me as I lay with my hands behind my head, sinking into the soft warmth of my pillow. My eyes grow heavy after a while and I think “ No sheep counting will be necessary this night”. Natures act outside my window quietly continues and sometime, I can’t say just when, the curtain comes slowly, gently down. And leaves me satisfied with the performance…and the peace of a long winters nap.

The Hawk

Many years ago, when there was a much younger man under my hat, I shot a hawk. Now before you call the Conservation Police or PETA, let me explain. It was an accident. I was squirrel hunting, a squirrel ran out of a creek bed and up a tree. The sun was directly behind the tree. The fox tail ran across a limb and I fired at the shadow up in the tree. And out of the tree came a fluttering, fumbling and wounded hawk. I was as shocked as the hawk was and a little mad at myself for taking a shot into the sun that way. I knew better. It was young mans mistake that I never made again.

The great bird just sat there stunned, luckily only a few shot had hit him, but he could not fly. His wing took the greatest impact. Standing there looking at this beautiful bird, with it’s multi-layered browns, white accents and of course the reddish brown tail where it get its name, made me realize that I had to somehow right this wrong. I took off my coat, wrapped him up and headed for home. I had to heal this bird if I could.

I placed the predator fowl in my garage. I covered his head, bound the legs, and then set about removing shot. I applied ointment, a popsicle stick for a splint (that I wired on so he couldn’t pull it apart with his beak) and cleaned and taped his lacerated leg. I worked ever so carefully for a long time. I built a nest using straw and a branch from a tree in the yard. We named him Harry. Patty brought water and liver loaf for food and drink. What to feed a hawk? .

Long before the internet, I had to search encyclopedias to find the proper diet for this handsome bird. I finally discovered just how much hair that a bird of prey requires in its diet. I then fed mice, and rabbit parts from my hunts to him for the many weeks that I nurtured him.

After a while I removed the tape from the leg and he began to walk. I would lift him up with gloved hands and he began to sit on my arm like a falcon rests on his master. One day, out of the blue, Harry crawled up on my shoulder and that became his favorite place to sit. We became good friends. After a few hooded inspections of the wing, the day came when I felt it was time to remove the splint. As soon as I removed it the hawk spread his wing, slowly, stiffly and back again . He did this exercise for a few days. And then he flew.

As I entered the garage to feed him one day, the bird for the first time FLEW up to my shoulder. I fed him a piece of rabbit meat and knew it was nearly time to take Harry home.

One bright fall day I hooded Harry and drove back to the exact spot of the accident. I removed the hood and stepped aside. He looked around, then at me and flew up to a branch. He sat for a second and then flew back to the ground beside me. “Harry, your home now” I said. I picked him up and walked to the edge of the woods and with an underhanded thrust I launched him into the air. He spread his wings and flew into the bright blue sky, circling higher and higher in the updraft. I smiled and felt relieved when I heard Harry give his piercing hunters cry from high in the air. It was wonderful.

A few weeks later I was finishing a hunt when a Red Tail flew from a distant tree across the pasture to a branch just two feet above my head. It was Harry. I held out my arm but this time he just looked at me with his head cocked a little to the side. Nature had reclaimed him. I was glad. “Good to see you Harry, old buddy,” I said, “how‘ve you been?” He sat and looked at me for a few seconds longer then showed the white underside of his wings, sprang from the limb and lifted himself up, up into the grey autumn sky. “Take care of yourself Harry,” I said aloud, “thanks for forgiving me”.

Spring Hints

A beautiful day here at the Chicken Ranch. Clear blue sky with only a wisp of fair weather clouds sailing slowly across it. The sun is bright and warm. The feathery branches of the scotch pine tree bounce up and down with the gentle southern breeze, as if they are intent on capturing the warmth from each airy pass. Even a crocus on the south side of the house is fooled into spring time bloom. Its purple and yellow petals a wonderful contrast to the brown and golden grass and leaves surrounding it.

Georgie the cat and I sit on the back porch soakin up the this bit of winter respite as the sun pours warmth over us like a thermal blanket. I made a pitcher of southern sweet tea and I sip slowly to appreciate its compliment to this striking day. My Yankee friends ask sometimes how to make good sweet tea. I tell them that it has to be strong enough to put your heart into atrial fibrillation and sweet enough make you a borderline diabetic. Six to eight tea bags and a heap of sugar per gallon. If you make tea and you can see clearly through the glass ..well your tea is in the junior leagues.

The chickens are stretchin their wings out like solar panels catching the rays, and clucking contentedly. Two red fox squirrels are laying on limbs high in the maple trees, their tails blowing like airport windsocks indicating the direction of the breeze.

Except for that little crocus flower, none of us are fooled into thinkin this weather will be around long. But every last one of us is glad that we’ve been given this day in all its glory. Now I’ll ask ya’ll to excuse me, my tea glass is empty and heart rate is slowin to normal. Hope its as beautiful where you are. If your ever around the Chicken Ranch ,drop in. There’s always extra chairs on the porch for polite company.

The Window (Jan 2012, first published April 2012)

I ran into an old friend the other day. Hadn’t seen “Shorty” long enough for us to jaw at each other for years. When I sold cattle minerals years ago he was a good customer. Shorty is six foot three inches of tough sinew with a mustache that looks like a fox pelt under his nose. A cattleman all his life. We kidded one another about how old we looked and joked that bronc’ breakin was a spectator sport for us now for sure. Neither one of us has ever broke a wild horse and it was certain that as long in the tooth as we are getting, it sure wasn’t going to happen now. We exchanged information about each other ,and then I asked about Bob, his dad.

Shorty leaned his elbow over the hood of his truck and crossed his long legs. He pulled off his leather gloves and stared at the pavement for a second, then under the brim of his hat he said “ we had to put him in a nursing home Kev‘. I hate the place. Dad and I have always felt that nursing homes are just a cattle shute to the graveyard… but he has Alzheimer’s. We kept him on the farm as long as Linda and I could. Some days I think he knows me but, it’s probably wishful thinkin’. He just stares out the window a lot. Truth is, he gets excellent care and we worry less about him wanderin’ off or hurting himself.” Then he abruptly asked “ What do you want out of 2012?”

I told him health and contentment for me and mine I guessed. Shorty two fingered his hat up on his forehead a bit “ You know what I want? I want twelve months of livin.” He went on, “ I don’t just mean like you always put it ‘ vertical and ventilatin’, I mean really livin‘. Dads illness has made me realize that everyday things are what life is really about. A morning sunrise, a newborn calf stumbling to find milk from Momma, the smell of my wife when she crawls into bed at night. I’ve been takin small things for granted as much as breathin in and out. I want to fill my mind with the pictures and sounds of every minute of this life while I can . I know there’ll be good days and bad wired up in the same basket, but I just want to be glad to experience it all.”

I offered that there are two things in life that always demand our attention, problems and realities. Problems are things we may be able to solve, to correct. Realities are things that we can do nothing about. All we can do with reality is adjust how we are going to deal with it; what our attitude will be about it is up to us. “Like the situation with Dad” Shorty said as he turned and looked toward the western sky, “ a reality”.

I told Shorty that his Dad had been a wise man and that I’d bet he had taken in all those pictures and sounds so important to Shorty while his mind was good. And that maybe when he seemed to be just staring off into space, that it was that March calf, getting to his feet for the first time and looking for milk, that he was seeing. Maybe the smell of a branding iron over a bed of coals or the aroma of Linda’s peach pie was lingering with him. Perhaps it was Pearl, Bobs wife, he was seeing young and pretty again, like when they first met. Maybe, if he wasn’t here, it was there with those past joys that he was living now. Maybe it was not an empty stare but the movie of his life, that was before his eyes sometimes..

Shorty looked down, then smiled and winked “ I reckon that’s how I’ll try to see it from now on.” We shook hands. Shorty drove off. I continued on in to the feed store.

Both of us with “things to do, places to go, people to see“. Both bowed and determined to spend the rest of this day …living.    

Stars At Night

 







It’s very quiet at the Chicken Ranch tonight. There’s only a chilly, gentle breeze that urges a whisper from the cedars. A small string of lights on a young tree by the gazebo flickers in the wind and cast tiny dancing shadows over grass and stones. The recent rains have subsided and the darkened sky is resplendent, as occasional steam kettle clouds caress the faces of the stars and glide silently by. Off in the distant fields, Coyotes are singing a Christmas song in a not so harmonious and yet somehow pleasant chorus. It fades away as the coy dogs continue north on their hunt. I love standing here on my back porch, while the cacophony of daily bustle is absent, just taking in the evening.

Here, on this evening as Christmas approaches, I pull my big-hat a little tighter to my head and turn my coat collar up so its fleece can oppose the cold. Our Chocolate Labrador, Hershey, clears his throat with a stifled bark to ask me if everything is okay. And then, satisfied, returns to his straw bed and wraps himself in the warmth and smell of wheat stubble. Leaning on the porch rail I drink in a deep breath and enjoy the clean oxygenated freshness of the night.

Only a few night birds in the woods now interrupt the silence. There’s no sign of the raccoons that have used the yard as a nightly playground recently or the owl that sits and warms in the ancient maple tree near the fireplace chimney. They’ll be along before the night is over, but I’ll miss their visit. I’m soon heading back to my fireside chair. I’ll stop first in the kitchen to make a couple of mugs of hot chocolate for me and my bride. The sweet warmness of the drink, topped off with marshmallow cream, is a pleasure we enjoy oft on winter evenings.

I take one more look at the winter sky and am appreciative of its constancy. Few things there are in this life that you can count on to be with you always. The moon and stars drifting in their place every night are a real and solid comfort. As I head in, I do feel comfort on this crisp winter eve, here on my back porch. It’s a comfort to know that natures’ nightlights will be present in the heavens tomorrow evening when I come to call….and every evening for as long as God needs them. And there is no comfort after all that can match the comfort that is of Heaven.

I well know that it is not the same all over the world, but I think to myself, “for this night of the Christmas season, here at the Chicken Ranch, there is Peace on Earth”. The storm door hinge complains a little as I enter the house. I fasten the latch, and while I hang up my hat on the peg, I whisper a barely audible “ and for this winters night I thank you Lord”. Dec 2011

Pure Water

I am not given to stump speeches. A man who stands on a stump just makes himself a target for whatever anyone wants to toss at him. I realize that my opinions are just that, and that opinions are like bad colds. Everyone has their own from time to time and no one wants yours. But… my friend Connie Perry got me thinking. And now I have said all that to say this… we are ruining our planet. I think I am safe in saying that this is not an opinion but a sad and unfortunate scientific fact.

I have told my boys (grandsons) about the days when a man could stop at a bubbling stream, cup his hand and slake his thirst with the cool clear water provided from the rock beds in the hills. I’ve told how wells provided some of the best drinking water for man and beast. How you could eat all the fish you wanted from rivers, streams and farm ponds. I used to go down to the creek and carry buckets of sweet tasting water to my grandparents before indoor plumbing was available there. Acid and rain were never in the same sentence unless it was in a rock song. When I hunted as a boy I never took water for me or a horse. There were plenty of pure places to hydrate. Today, however, in much of America those days are gone.

Run-off chemicals from agribusiness and industry have so polluted our water sources that in our area drinking from a well or creek is dangerous. The Department of Natural Resources tell us to not eat fish from the rivers more than once a week because of hazardous chemical levels. Our polluted land is in trouble. We need help… and I know just who can save us.

We have some of the most educated and talented youth in this country ever to march the halls of higher education. Full of energy and enthusiasm. If educators can help today's’ students understand the desperate need for environmental specialists, folks who can put agri-science to work for us without it working against us, if land and stream becomes more important to them than dollars and cents, if a cup of cold mountain water taste better than champagne to some of them, then, and perhaps only then, will Earth regain its purity.

If we can tell our kids and grandkids how it used to be, how it ought to be, maybe a few of them will grab that steer by the horns someday and rope the problem into submission. Every generation brings change. Maybe a new group of young folks will bring health back to our soil and streams. I believe Mother Earth is counting on them. I know I am.

If this came out soundin’ like a stump speech I apologize. Won’t let it happen again. And now if you’ll excuse me, I need a drink of water. From a bottle no less. Who would have ever thought it.

The Eagle

“Grandad ..are you awake”? The clock read 5:23 am as I was pulling on my long johns, trying to be quiet so Patty could sleep awhile longer. ‘Yeah buddy your gear is in the den’

I whisper ‘ be right there’. Another Saturday hunt for deer is about to begin. My oldest grandson Kirkland and I are heading to Panther Creek in hopes of filling his last tag.

I look out the window at the twinkling darkness and see the icy glaze of frost. Thirty degrees, not a bad temp for a morning traverse through the woods and fields. I turn on the coffee pot then meet Kirkland in the den, barely containing his excitement as he layers up in camo. It’s never too cold, never too rainy, never a bad day to hunt at his age. I smile at him and remember that I wasn’t always the fair-weather outdoorsman that I am becoming with age.

The deer are MIA this morning. After a while we stalk some usually productive areas and finally call it a day. Kirkland is disappointed but not overly so. Already he has come to appreciate the experience nearly as much as the harvest. I love that in him. The fog of our breath looks like chimney smoke as we talk . ‘How about a drive through the eastern 10,000’, I ask ‘just to enjoy the scenery?’ “Sure Grandad.” We turn the truck down the gravel road and wonder aloud as we ride where the deer have gone.

As we round a knob Kirkland spots a large shadow in a tree up ahead. Probably a hawk I think, maybe a barn owl . “ Grandad it’s an eagle! I have never seen a bald eagle in the wild!” I stop the truck hand him my binoculars. He focuses the glass and talks in excited tones of admiration for this nations bird. It’s white head and tail, golden beak; all of it is beautiful and inspiring.

“I wish he would fly “ he says. I give the horn a short bump and the massive beauty spreads it wings and glides off his perch. Its large span casts a shadow over grass and limb as he finds an upward breeze and climbs away toward the clouds of the blue and lavender sky.

“This was worth the trip alone!” Kirkland says. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

I take my eyes from the sky and look at my grandson, my daughters child, still gazing with wonder at the beauty of God’s nature. ‘I have’ I think to myself, but I have never appreciated it more than just now. Dec 2011

Furnishings

Dec 2011

Our house here at the Chicken Ranch is furnished in what some would call an “eclectic” fashion. Others might gasp at our lack of interior design savoir-faire. We don’t have matching seven piece sets or a theme. There is no Feng shui ( always sounded like a terminal disease to me). What we do have is a powerful lot of memories in the form of wood and glass.
Our bedroom for instance contains a chest of drawers and dresser brought from Ireland by my ancestors. All oak, dove-tailed and solid. You may find the bed covered in a quilt that was made by my grandma Dennie , my father-in law or someone else special to us. The bathroom contains another dresser that belonged to a great-great grandmother. Dining room furniture consist of hutches and items from Patty’s grandma and a dining room table I built a few years ago that really looks more like a gussied up work bench. Patty graciously covers it in a lace table cloth from Mexico.
My den is a collection of articles from my great-grandpa Armstrongs’ barn. Two large wooden flour barrels from early 1900 era act as end tables. Old metal store signs , deer antlers, hides and a mule collar adorn the walls. The mule collar belonged to old Sadie or Jack, mules that worked the ground on the Armstrong farm before the old 8n Ford tractor did the work, but that’s a story for another time.
So while Martha Stewart might frown at our lack of taste, I think even she would appreciate the history behind all we have. Like the oak rocking chair we have that my great-great aunt was sitting in when her son ( others suspicion her daughter in law) shot through the window to kill her. The bible she was holding deflected the bullet and killed my great-great uncle instead. Memories, joy and sorrow interwoven.
So you see, our interior items are more to us than pieces to use and then discard later on for something new. Our fixtures are, well, a lot more like family. Dec 2011

Grandad

I wasn’t as fortunate as my Shelby County, Kentucky cousins. I never got to know him as well as I would have loved to. He lost his life to illness when I was ten. My fathers father, “Papaw “ Dennie. But I remember his kindness, his smile. Kind hands that seemed so large to me as a little boy.

There was an interesting study done at UCLA many years ago. The summary was that communication between two people is really more of what we feel from the person we’re conversing with, and less about what is actually said. In my Kentuckian lingo that means communication is really “ more felt than telt”. I always felt care and kindness around my grandpa Dennie.

I remember once, as a wee lad, helping Papaw and my dad set tobacco. Old equipment, rusty and worn, but working as smooth as a sewing machine that day. Clanking and wheeling. The smell of the dirt and the gritty feel of the dust on my teeth are still with me. But more than that, though I can’t recall a word, the conversation between the two men stands out to me. My dad ( the greatest man I know) and his dad just talking together as we worked. A father and his son, discussing events past, present and future. Sober and serious and then chuckling and grinning. Making a good time out of hard work.

I remember most the feeling of that day. Like I was in the presence of goodness itself. I felt safe in a sheltered sort of way. A child can understand no better contentment than to feel protected. To me that day, these two men could’ve ruled the world. Years later Papaw was diagnosed with lung cancer.

One of the last times I saw my grandpa was at my uncle Pete’s farm. I knew he was sick at this time. Real sick. My brother and I had a great time with my cousins Dave Dennie and Kenny Dennie and we were chattering about it on the way home. But Dad was quieter than usual. One hand on the wheel, he looked out through the windshield of our 56 Olds. His eyes were a thousand miles down the road. I felt his sadness. When he died later on it was the first time I knew my dad to cry.

I want to always keep in mind that much of what my own grandsons will remember of me is what they feel from me. I am an imperfect man in ways too numerous to mention. But I hope that my boys can feel this, that I love them more than life itself . I thank God for them everyday. When its time to give this body up and memories is all that’s left of me, I hope that much of what I’ve said and done will be forgotten. But the love and appreciation I feel for those close to me, well I hope that last forever. Just like the memory of the man we called Papaw.

Simple Pleasures

Snow mixed with rain on the Chicken Ranch today. A kind of dampness that settles in middle aged joints and makes a hot bath feel more like therapy than necessity. I broke out the oil skin duster to work and feed today. The snow and rain bead up on me like dew on a pumpkin leaf. Thank goodness for big hats, “head umbrellas“, that keeps most of the cold wetness off my head and beard.

Snow is falling fast and hard one minute and then floating like cotton balls the next. Winter is doing a practice run. After the blizzard last year we all kind of cast a wary eye at those blue-gray clouds. Big weather is not likely to come for a while, but sheds are buttoned, animals strawed, and wood piled long and high. Just in case Momma Nature decides on a preemptive strike.

We have come a long way since pioneer days but a hard winter will still test the mettle of man and beast. Being out long in a cold wind can burn a mans candle to the wick and make some animals plumb ornery; some people too for that matter.

Looks like a good night for a bowl of chili and later a drink by the fire. Warm, dry and fed is what comfort is all about. Simple pleasures, but then I am a simple man. Dec 2011

Winter Wind

I was wakened by the knocking on my window sill this morning. Followed by a whistle and lonesome howl. The winter wind had come to call. And at such an early hour. It had traveled from the north and was persistent in its intent to be heard.

From whence comes this stealthy traveler who is to be heard and not seen? Canada? The Artic? Was it born on the Greenland Sea ? The Baffin Bay and Hudson would have pushed it and replenished it as it brought it’s chilly nature south. To Illinois. To my window, begging to come in.

I rose to the window to see it’s affect on the trees and shrubs along the garden path. I watched as they bowed and stood in obeisance and recognition of this winds long journey. The plants shivered and shook before it. After a moment or two, with a final low moan, the force of air was gone. Miffed at my reluctance to invite it in perhaps, and impatient to move on .

There are many places to see when you are as free as the wind is, more leaves to disturb from resting. More windows to chasten and slumberous folks to raise.

 Dec 2011

Conversation

The evening air was cold but in a refreshing sort of way. The kind of cold that requires a flannel coat and big hat, but not the stinging, cheek nipping kind. We worked by the light of single bulb hanging from the lean-to shed. A little breeze now and then rocks the bulb and makes our shadows even more active than we are. Gloved up in leather, we unload wood a stick or two at a time.

My good friend Don Smith has brought a load or two of stove wood to the Chicken Ranch every season for years. I burn it in my wood stove in the shop. Mostly oak with some yellow poplar mixed in, the fire from that wood makes for comfortable working on a snow spitting winter day. So we offload the annual winter supply and talk. Talking as men talk while they accomplish a task together.

We each throw in snippets of info about the health and welfare of our families. We speak of our own aging discomforts and grouse about not being able to do all that we did at 30. But then one of us mentions the recent ill health, or death, of a friend and we give thanks (including the Good Lord in our conversation) that we’re still “vertical and ventilatin“. We talk politics, the current state of the world we live in, how it’s getting worse and ain’t likely to improve. How it makes us fear for our grandkids. Then to lighten things up, we tell political a joke or two. We talk ranching and cattle, the price of fuel, and then the wood is stacked and the truck bed empty.

We shake hands and ask each other to exchange “greetins to the family”. Don fires up the diesel in his white Ford and pulls away. I give him a quick wave as his headlights point up the road .It’s then that I realize that I’ve altogether forgotten the cold. I’m warm inside.

As I turn off the shed light and head up to the house, I think the work took the edge off the cold, sure. But spending time workin with a close friend on a crisp autumn evening, with the smell of a woodpile in your nose and the canopy of glittering stars overhead. Talkin about things that matter to ya. Well, if that can’t warm a body up inside... I reckon nothing will.

Fall Walk

I took a walk along a woodland trail recently. The steady ka-kish ka-kish of my boots displacing newly fallen leaves alerted the wildlife that an intruder was nearing. Birds tweeted minimal alarms and flitted to higher branches. A suspicious owl took wing to another tree to get a better look at me. Squirrels lifted their heads from acorn chewing and peered silently as I ambled by; then the tenants of the wood decided that I posed no real threat and continued about their day. When I’m hunting I am much stealthier in my movement. This day though, I was in the woods to connect.


I have walked the woods in solitude since I was a small boy. I was fortunate to have relatives on farms all through a little Kentucky valley. One little farm after another. I could walk or ride horse-back for hours and never leave family property. I have always felt the most alive, and at a natural peace, when I’m in the presence of Mother Nature.


The smell of the woods, of the tree bark, plants, even the decay of leaf and limb, is to me the scented candle of nature. There is a primal, intuitive part of me that the aroma awakens. I feel life animate from every growing thing, from every rock. When I hear the sounds of the woodland residents, the gurgle of creek water over stones, and the wind in the pines, the cacophony of daily living is washed away. I hear instead the voice of the Creator. 


Over two thousand years ago King David penned “When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars that thou hast ordained, what is man that thou art mindful of him?” I see in everything God has wrought in nature a strict adherence to his plan for them. Would that man was so obedient. Like the King, in the woods I am reminded of the smallness of my place in this universe. I purpose to become better connected with His creation and with Him. I long to be like the nature around me there; steadfast in the place created for me. 


In the woods I am reminded that I need to be living up to my responsibility, as a good steward of all I have been given.

November 2011

Approaching Winter

It’s a typical pre-winter day here at the Chicken Ranch. I hold the curtain back and peer out the north window. The sky is a water color mix of gray, lavender and pastel blues. The lighter portion of sky orients me to the east where the sun hides behind the gloomy veil. Here and there a small faded-cotton cloud ambles slowly to the south. Someday those pillows of moisture will choose to stay and paint the earth a powdery white.

The leaves fall like wedding rice as the breeze urges them lose from the now scantily clad branches. A shower of foliage, and then a trickle, and then a burst again. They fall at a dizzy angle and then blow into a cluster against the Forsythia hedge. There, some will stay huddled through the frigid months until my rake removes them in the spring. Others will be chosen to ride the wind into the fields where the plow or disc will add them to furrowed soil.

Only the Willow tree seems to discount the inevitable. It clings to its pen knife size leaves that remain green, though a paler shade with a piping of yellow around the edges. It’s pessimistic branches hang to the ground. It’s trunk bent, bowed and submitted it lives up to it’s weeping reputation. A red squirrel digs under it, places a package in the dirt, pats it down and then hops and jumps to the white mottled trunk of the Sycamore tree nearby.

Some say squirrels don’t hide food for the winter. They just do it for entertainment. I think squirrels are smarter than that. Like me I think, this fiery tailed creature feels the wind of change on his skin. He and I are just preparing to make the best of what’s sure to come.

The Wood Pile

“Every man looks upon his woodpile with a kind of affection” Thoreau wrote in Walden. I remember this as my maul separates a log in half, then quarters. Splitting wood for the fireplaces is something I have always enjoyed. It satisfies my need for physical activity, especially in the dead of winter. It’s a stress reliever for me as well (something about sailing a maul through a log while imagining settling an argument with someone feels.. well.. therapeutic). And it’s been said a hundred ways, but he who heats with wood is twice warmed. I realize this as I release another button from my flannel coat, even as the north wind creates a tornado of red and gold leaves that pirouettes around the corner of the shed, and then releases in all directions. I wipe my forehead with my blue handkerchief, place my big hat back on my head and admire my results.
A long cord of split wood is a comforting thing. Like egg money in a Mason jar. You feel prepared a little for whatever might be around the corner. I gather an armload and enjoy the earthy scent from the wood. I duck my head some and walk against the cool and misty wind back to the house.. Time to put a match to my work, grab my coffee cup and rest a bit in front of a cracklin fire.
Yes, twice warmed. And doubly satisfied.

Nov/3 2011

The Mind

I read an article recently about Alzheimer’s Disease. It seems such a terrible thing to have your whole life erased from your consciousness. I silently thanked God that I have a memory that still serves me well.

I, like most, have an ocean of remembrances . Some golden ones that I love to revisit. Some dark and despairing that I have spent years trying to delete. I have made some terrible choices and some wise and wonderful ones, like marrying and raising a family. In my 58 years I have experienced enough for two lifetimes. As James Taylor sings, “I have seen fire and rain“. Simply put, like all of us, I have lived.

The mind is such a powerful store house of pictures, sounds and emotions. Some happy memories cause me to smile to this day. Some past remembrances well my eyes with tears just as they did ages ago. I try to travel the mountain tops of pleasant memories as much as I can, and yet I am aware that the valley experiences have often provided the greatest lessons.

I choose to draw from the well of good memories when I write. I pen, for the most part, the simple, pleasant experiences of my life. Life for us all is a mixed bag of pain and gladness. I just prefer to put on paper what I want to remain imprinted in my mind. I want to keep the rich experiences to the forefront of my thought.

After all, this memory house that I’m building each day may someday become the place where I spend the most of my time. I want that place to as pleasant as it can be.

Nov/4/2011

The Swing

It seems forlorn, just hanging there

 

 With only the breeze to cause it’s sway

 

Oh it rocketed so into the air

 

Back in my children’s day
 

 

The earth beneath once was trodden bare

 

By happy dancing feet

 

Now the twisted rope needs repair

 

And moss grows on the seat
 

 

Time moves us ever on and leaves behind a thing

 

A joy that was has come and gone

 

And now grass grows under the swing  

July 2006

Musical Roofs

I love metal roofs. They have regained popularity in recent years and well they should. It goes without saying that they are a better choice for the environment. But really, for me, it’s the sound of rain falling on a metal roof that I love. When I built our back porch years ago I put on a roof of steel.

Some of my earliest memories are of staying at my grandparents home in a little valley of the Bluegrass. The roof of the old place where they lived at the time was metal. On cold, rainy autumn and winter nights the steady percussive roll of rain on the roof would match the dancing of the wall shadows that the copper colored flames in the old stove produced. In the summer a soft rain heard through the open window would drum the Kentucky dust from the roof, while all through the night the Whippoorwill would sing her lonesome song. It was the music of peace. A symphony of comfort.

With the covers on my neck and my head sunk deep in the feather pillow. I’d hear the call “whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill”. And I would involuntarily smile and match the cadence with the sleepy whisper “ let it rain, let it rain, let it rain.

Nov. 4, 2011

Porches

Some fellow wrote once that he thought America started goin down hill when we quit building front porches on our houses. He could be right.
The front porches of old were big with plenty of sittin space for neighbors. Folks would drop by with a plate of cookies to talk a spell about families, weather, politics. We knew their ups and downs next door, and they knew ours. We laughed, and sometimes, cried together. But over the years we’ve gotten more private, self centered. We got busy. Some folks can't even tell you their neighbors names. We stopped sittin on our front porches.
We quit buildin porches on the front and built decks instead. We've sorta become folks with our backs turned to our communities. Literally.
Now everyone knows my favorite sittin spot is my backporch lookin over the fields. And everyone is welcome to come by and sit and talk. Or just sit. But across America, I kinda wish they'd start building front porches again. I think we all could use a cookie.

Autumn Rain

A cool rain fall yesterday here at the chicken ranch. I watched as the frigid drops fell from a gray sky and hitched rides on the colored leaves. They then cascaded, limb by limb, before gently touching down on the glistening grass below. The wind in the bushes whispered the warning "Winter this way comes, are you ready?"
I turned from the window back to the fireplace and watched as the orange flames raced each other to the top of the logs. I took a sip from my coffee cup and basked in the warmth of my country living room. Then sank with a smile, deep into my favorite chair.
Yes, I thought, come along your blustery way Madame Winter. I'll be prepared to meet you. Oct 18 2011

Evening Hunt

Hunting is usually associated with pre-dawn rises and shivery walks through dew drop laden under growth. I have had a few hundred such hunts, but years ago I began to appreciate the evening hunt. There is no advantage to it. It's the experience I relish.

Squirrels that have chattered their aggravations all day become subdued as the sun begins to set.

The constant conversation of the day birds is slowly replaced with slower more patient, sometimes haunting, calls of the night birds.

Raccoons skid down tree trunks or emerge from hollow logs. Possums waddle along in search of the repugnant. And in the distance, coyotes sing to all that their shift has begun.

 Even the wind slows, and a coolness surrounds your neck as you sink a little deeper into your collar. My own senses become heightened as darkness approaches.

It is the changing of the guard. It is beautiful, even when all I bring home is a contented smile.

Oct. 10 2011

Harvest Days

The harvest is nearly complete around us. The fields that were tall and wavy with corn are now a buzz cut of stubble and shuck. The once bushy-thick and green bean fields have been shaved as smooth and tan as an onion skin.
The stampede of tractors, wagons and trucks to the giant grain bins has looked all the world like forager ants hurrying their lucky finds back to the nest. But that has slowed to a trickle now. Rest is coming.
The soil will winter soon and store up the energy to do it all again in the spring. And so, as much as possible, will the farmer. Oct 8 2011

The Fire

Sat on the back porch till well past dark last night. A nice fire in the outdoor fireplace kept a little space between me and crisp air. Something ancient, primal about a fire on a cool evenin. Flames dancin like their tryin to catch the smoke. Just watchin it warms a body and relaxes the mind. Kind of like comfort food for the soul. Sept 2011

Autumn Feeling

Gray and cool here today. A cold rain loosens a few leaves from the trees who seem reluctant to give up their green cloak. Little by little the colors change though, and each tree presents offerings that drift slowly down like multi colored feathers from an old pillow.
A breeze lifts the corn shucks from freshly harvested fields and they dance across the road like so many seahorses on parade.
Autumn begins and the changing is felt without and within. This is hands down my favorite time of year. Oct 2011