I find this morning that what I most vividly and longingly recall is the sight of my grandson and his little sunburnt sister returning to their kitchen door from an excursion, with trophies of the meadow clutched in their hands – she with a couple of violets, and smiling, he serious and holding dandelions, strangling them in a responsible grip. Children hold spring so tightly in their brown fists – just as grownups, who are less sure of it, hold it in their hearts.
E. B. White, “A Report in Spring,” May 10, 1957, Points of My Compass
The tractor makes quick work of the long grass in the lower pasture. The grass has dried in the warm sunshine of a late morning and does not clog the blades of the mower, allowing me to first create, and then diligently follow, the mown patterns left behind in the standing grass. The grass cuttings do not clump and drop in place underneath the mower deck as they do on wetter days, but spread and disappear behind the tractor as if the now-former blades of grass had never existed, had never stood tall in the pasture and waved their tassels gaily at passers-by while caught in the vagrant breath of slight spring breezes. The acrid smell of the cut grass is pleasant, especially in combination with the sun’s warmth and the tractor’s hot diesel exhaust. I feel the strain in my wrists as I turn the tractor into the tightest corners, enjoying its clatter and swing as I accelerate out of each turn, even though I know that when I’ve finished the morning’s work I will be overheated, stiff, and sore from my manhandling of it.
My chore completed, I stow the tractor in its assigned place in the barn, pull the choke to cut off the engine, turn and withdraw the key, and climb stiffly down. I take off my work gloves and hold them and the tractor key in one hand while closing the overhead steel door with the other. I begin the walk up the slight hill to the house, each step releasing some of the pain I feel from having suffered the cramped quarters of the tractor’s driver’s seat. When I get to our front porch, I take off my cap – the orange one with the logo of a former law firm in which I was once a partner – place the key and work gloves within, set the resulting pile upon the wooden bench on which Marco, our only house cat to be allowed outdoors, stands and meows when he wants back in, and sit down in the adjacent wooden gliding chair.
The chair sits out of the direct sun, inviting me to rest in the aftermath of a successfully completed chore. It sits underneath two bird feeders: one for hummingbirds filled with a sugary nectar hand-made by Helen; one for the rest of the birds filled with a seed mix purchased from a retail store located in a near-by, small town mall – a kind of store unlikely to be found in the city. A rufous hummingbird darts in and out at one of the yellow flowers on the red plastic feeder, tail up, wings fluttering too fast to resemble anything other than a blur, bird and beak alike diving and withdrawing as he swallows his fill, sip-by-sip. When done, he disappears into the limbs of the dense, flowering pine standing beside our garage, only to reappear and repeat the process several moments later. He repeats this circular journey several times while I rest, ignoring me because of his certainty that I am no match for his speed and agility. I wonder where his nest is and how many babies he might be feeding.
A miscellany of small birds flits into and out of the other feeder, the one not given over to hummingbirds. They are more cautious and jittery than hummingbirds, spooking at my slightest adjustment, no matter how carefully planned and executed, or at the sound of each unwanted cough made in response to the ever-present pollen or the remainder of the tractor-trailing dust still lingering within the depths of my throat. One small black-eyed junco is braver than the rest, hopping about on the porch planks near my feet looking for gems within the bevy of seed husks covering the area beneath the other feeder. Given the zest with which the birds attack and fling their food about, he is not disappointed in his search, and finally, having eaten his momentary fill, flies away in a flutter of wings without so much as a goodbye or a backward look.
Cottonwood fluff is everywhere, drifting and swooping according to the whims of the contrary breezes. As soon as they alight on the tarmac of our drive, they are carried aloft again; they will not find a home until caught and held by the spines and leaves of the vegetation growing in our fields or flower gardens. I am certain it is cottonwood rather than dandelion fluff, because the dandelions are mostly done with their gestational work while the cottonwoods have only begun. Besides, dandelions are forbidden to grow near the house; their principal allowed residence on the Farm is the pasture I’ve just finished mowing, and all that remains of them there – for the moment at least – are their roots. As I sit and ponder the uncontrollable serendipity that is the fate of cottonwood seeds, I idly wonder if cottonwoods and dandelions could cross-breed since their seedlings look so alike. I shudder at the fantasy of a tall cottonwood crowned with broad green and yellow leaves and quickly return to the more comforting contemplation of birds.
Birds are everywhere about the Farm singing in counterpoint – the calls and responses of each single species of songbird commingling with those of another to produce a richness akin to that of a full symphony of woodwinds and strings, while woodpeckers provide an intermittent, lackadaisical drum beat. Being careful not to interrupt the birds’ composition, I remain as still in the chair as my sore muscles allow, not rocking in the glider as I often do during the shank of a summer’s day. To my left, peripheral vision senses, rather than sees, a mob of blue-black Stellar’s jays streaking from the feeders located above our side deck to the pine limbs where they take each captured peanut to eat the nut inside and drop the shells for Helen to find later in the evening as she gardens by twilight.
I sit in my chair as if I, too, were woven into the tapestry of this warm spring morning, sated with the knowledge of a well-executed chore as my muscles and mind relax within the heat bath of noontime. And in that warmth lies peace.
