~::May 2012 – Revisiting Summer::~

Truck full of tools.

Husbandman (in the true sense), using a wretched piece of plywood and a tire, makes a plug for the ditch no longer in use.

Next step, climb down in the hole. This is our gate. G is sealing it for the second time, trying to keep the water from sneaking out of the box into the ditch we are NOT using.

Next step: stick your head into the actual culvert. Any raccoons in there? Scary spiders?

Our pasture from the perspective of the irrigationists. (I made up that word. It means us.)

I was off working in the grass, putting up the electric fence, getting things ready for the grazing.  When I came back down into the pasture, there was Reed Stone, our neighbor and friend – one of the greatest men we know.  Now ninety – a birder, metal sculptor, wood carver, teacher and leader of young men, once a farmer, now the father of our whole neighborhood, and grandfather to many children to whom is not related by anything but love and respect. He has stopped to chat, and perhaps to enjoy watching somebody else doing the work for a change.

Here is the pink tree. I’m too late to catch it this year; the blossoms are almost gone – torn by the spring winds. Sorry about the ugly (but miraculous) power lines.  I usually take the time to remove them, but I’ve got church in a little.

Here is the pink snow. It fills the mouth of my driveway with bright pink – and the gutters and the streets. But the petals are a little worn now.

It was a stormy day for us – no rain, but lowering clouds – a sort of luminous gray that made shooting hard. I ended up over-estimating my light.  So all these shots will be brassy; I had to pull the horses out of the shadows, so they are all noise and harsh color.

This is what I see every day when I come to the little farm: they know the sound of the car, of my feet on the gravel.  Out come the waiting horses, peering down the long drive, encouraging me along with nickers, when they are polite, and clangs – hooves striking the gate – when they are saying, “It’s about time.”

I love the alert heads, the shining blazes down their faces, the eyes, at once richly brown and shining.  Watching for me. Eager, impatient for me to come.

I am working in the back. They are cross with me, anxious to get out of the arena, onto the fresh grass. Here, they argue over who is standing in whose space.

The cow next door watches them with interest.  Lonely cow.

Zion is watching me.  If I look at all inclined to start walking toward the arena gate, he wants to know it first.

Two white noses.

When I open the gate, this happens (can you see anything?): horses pounding wildly down the driveway, looking for an open gate.

But wait – there is a problem halfway down there. See the two arrows? Dustin has stopped and turned back, scaring the daylights out of Sophie, who throws herself out of his way, tail flying.  Zion is wisely keeping his distance.

For some reason, Dustin didn’t make it all the way down to the end, where the gate stands open.  You can see Hickory, already on the grass down there.  But something must have startled Dustin, and everything about Dustin startles Sophie.

Zion is philosophical. If they are going to stop up the driveway, he’ll just do a little weeding right there at the barn.

Finally, they all get down onto the grass.  The wind is blowing brightly and the light is still that glowing gray. I manage to get a totally horrible exposure of a scene I was hungry to catch. The grass is so lush, the horses so satisfied.

This house belonged to my good friend, Stan. But he had to sell it. The very sad thing is that Murphy and Laura have lived in that over-the-garage apartment (see the arrow over the left side of the house?) since the day they married.  In the morning, if I came early enough, Murphy’d know I was there working with the horses, and come out his door (the arrow) to stand on his tiny, high porch whistling for me.  When I climbed my panels to wave back, I’d hear, “I love you, Mom!” coming from an acre away.

Something I kinda treasured. Treasured, treasured, treasured. But now they have moved up onto the lap of the mountains, closer to school, paying less rent.  Good for them, but now there is no chance I will see my young son waving from his porch.

There is this now: wee E and dainty An and teeny, wild Ktln, the children who now live in that house, call to me and wave from their back stoop as I walk down the driveway. And that is pretty good, too.

Dustin, all unaware that he is setting Dandelion puffs a-blowing, grazes deeply, first grass of the season.

Seeds fly like strange, rotating creatures.

And smaller beasts catch a ride as he moves.

Sophie, with her silken tail dancing in the wind.

John Dear.

If it were only a square yard of country, it would yet be a pearl of great price.