Fading Light

The old red potting shed appears to flicker in the fading light as the wind blows the few remaining leaves on the maple between the house and the barnyard. The sun is mere moments from disappearing below the horizon on this mid-November day, some 15 degrees south of true west. Light in autumn is a magic act of revelation. Sunbeams shoot through the woodlot on the south end of the farm, where stand leafless trees unseen since last winter. Nothing blocks the sun at this time of year except the curve of the earth. During the day, as I go about my farm work, it finds and illuminates my face—a gesture of kindness on the cool days, a gift, even if illusory, of warmth.

On this particular evening I watch from the porch as the sun drops from view, the light begins to dim, and the show at the potting shed ceases. Sound steps forward onto the stage, taking front and center, replacing the sunlight. At the hay barn the cattle bang around a feed trough looking for the last of their dinner. Behind the equipment shed loud snorts can be heard as a crop of greedy growing hogs do what they do best: eat. A feed can rattles, and with a grain-filled scoop Cindy calls the last tardy chickens to the coop. I watch from the porch as the straggler hens lean into their ungainly run, making surprising speed to get to the enclosure before curfew. All accounted for, the gate swings with a squeak, the latch closes with a snick, and another gate opens as Cindy does a final check of the sheep.

The world, close and intimate at this moment, seems sufficient. The story told by a dinner guest the night before about a good friend who disowned her for not voting “correctly” feels alien to the light and sounds of this place. The posturing, the incivility, the claims of disaster by this side and that side, the crisis, the tears—all fade away in the now darkening dusk. This I can handle, the work on the farm, my relationship with my partner, the shared decisions about what to do next and, as always, what to do again, as another autumn slides into winter that then morphs into spring.

The gate to the front yard opens, and Cindy comes up the walk with a basket of eggs. She sets it down on the edge of the porch and takes the rocking chair next to mine. We sit for a while in quiet. “Remind me to fill up the cattle’s watering trough tomorrow,” she says. “I’ll take care of it in the morning, when I feed,” I reply. A field sparrow sings its distinctive blast of short whistles, ending in a rapid trill, from the muscadine vines beyond the backyard. Then, “I’m afraid Crime isn’t going to live through the winter,” my beloved says. “Maybe we should put her in the freezer?” “Yeah,” I say, not yet wanting to break the spell of the earlier evening. But the moment is now gone. “I’ll plan on slaughtering and butchering her on Monday.”

We linger a few moments more before Cindy sighs and heads inside to prepare dinner. I stay on the porch. The dogs find me, insist on a pat, and settle near my chair. A new light, somewhere north of true east, begins to bulge below the ridgetop trees. The full moon is preparing to take center stage in another day. A hen wheezes from out in the coop.

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Reading recently: Empire of Booze, British history through the bottom of a glass (H. Jeffreys), The Bookshop, a history of the American bookstore (E. Friss), In the House of Tom Bombadil (C. R. Wiley), Gumbo Ya-Ya, a collection of Louisiana folktales (WPA), and The Exploration of the Colorado River (J. W. Powell).

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Note: My book published by FPR, Kayaking with Lambs, is still available for $13.60 (normally $22). My mercenary little heart suggests that this holiday season continues to be a good time to buy a copy or three.