The Beauty Around Me

King of the Hill, by our friend Tim.

The world at the edges of the farm disappears in a conjuring act as spring fully buds in the forest. Trees leaf out in their hundreds of varieties of green. And while, unlike the Inuit, I do not have a corresponding number of words to describe them, my eye certainly recognizes the differences. All manner of oak, gum, maple, elm, and poplar, and dozens of others, contribute distinctive shades and colorations on the hillsides and in the woods, focusing my sight closer to where it is needed in the growing season.

On the land, in frenzies of activity the lambs leap about with clear joy in the corrals and pastures. On the large round hay bales they play king of the hill; in idle moments they balance precariously on the backs of dozing ewes. They call loudly, impatiently, when they discover they are hungry. A small one resting in the shade of the hazelnuts awakens alone to find the flock has moved on and out of sight. Its plaintive call of “Mom!” is finally answered by what can only be described as a liquid response, when one of the ewes, mouth full of grass, gurgles a reassuring reply. Following the call, the lamb races to her side and begins to pummel the udder.

On this late afternoon, the glory of spring is found on Cindy’s face when she spots a bird in the Rose of Sharon in front of the porch. “It’s a blue-gray gnatcatcher,” she says with surprise. Moments later, spotted in the same bush, “a Carolina chickadee!” For the next half-hour we marvel at the density and beauty of the fluttering bird life around the house and farmyard. A pair of bluebirds, nesting at the end of the porch in a birdhouse Cindy made, make endless trips to feed their young. Farther out, past the orchards and muscadine vines, at woods’ edge, a pileated woodpecker taps, its red-crested head cocked to the side, listening for the hollow sound of bugs feasting within a dying maple. Even the buzzards soaring high on their endless funereal quest are granted temporary spring admission into this avian fellowship of loveliness.

It's late afternoon now, and I begin to tackle the evening chores. Along my route I pause to examine the wood chips, courtesy of the recently restored chipper and a particularly strenuous day of work, piled in front of the potting shed. Two newly planted fig trees are in the ground, just behind the chips, on either side of the steps. I take all of this in and proceed to the barn. The sun is above the tree line at six o’clock. In the brooder the week-old chicks are spread across their pen in the barn breezeway, practicing their scratch and peck routine. It looks to me like they have it down pretty good, but I guess it doesn’t hurt to start honing early the skills of one’s life’s work.

I peer over the fence at the empty hog lot. Silence. Beyond the paddock, in the holler, a lawnmower comes to life. In an odd way its roar is a sound I find soothing, nostalgic, the familiar background hum from the years of childhood, announcing the glad news of warm spring and the free summer days to come. I can say with no shame that the sound also puts me in the mood for a late nap.

Instead, I head to the hoop house and turn off the water running through the drip hoses. The greens and cabbages are now more than a foot tall; the tomatoes, peppers, and eggplants were planted only this morning. A movement catches my attention as a rabbit makes an appearance at the other entrance. It sees me and wisely hops out of sight. I head back to the house, for it’s now dinnertime. Later, when the sun has set and the waning moon is rising, we sit in the backyard and talk over the day.