Raw Hide
We’ve had rain here every evening before sunset for nearly a week. “What the hell is going on!?” I’ve shouted to Jer under the metal roof that pummels like gunshot. “It’s supposed to rain a little every day or so – that’s the way it’s supposed to be,” he reminded me gently, my memory of regular weather patterns short when it comes to a drought that’s been so long. Just now I settled down onto the porch for a glass of wine and a snack, set on watching the sheets of water come down, a swaying choreography against the wind. The view from the porch gives lots of warning about the weather so long as it rolls in from the south or east, and it was evident something significant was coming behind this first dousing. From the right I heard a high pitched peeping that always means baby-chicken-distress, something we’re hearing a lot more of these days since I let the babies out of the brooder this week and wished them well knowing luck and instinct would direct their fates. Already the puppies Gus and Woodrow have made it their job to become chicken assassins, Gus in particular as slippery as water under a fence, he can glide right through anything despite his goofy lumbering gate and size. Don’t let looks deceive, in any situation. And sure enough I saw him pawing at a chicken, stunned into submission, but with enough life left I had time to scream from the edge of the porch. He tucked tail and ran towards the goat pasture. I hesitated there under cover because the rain was beating down so heavy, then went out into the storm.
Now Gus is locked away, the chickens stumbled off to safety and I’m sitting up in the loft where the view is high above the tree line. On a day that tipped 100* I’m shivering and refuse to dry off; seems like sacrilege in this multi-year drought. Plus it just feels damn good to shiver in the last gasp of summer that always heaves through with the thickest humidity. I’m waiting for autumn, or the Texas version of the season, to come blowing in. I’m always waiting for autumn. It represents the beginning of the year for me since I’ve worked in public education for so long. In fact the other day I mentioned planning to do something by “mid-year” and Jeremy thought I meant summer. Huh? I questioned. Mid-year is December. It always has been, since my seasons follow the public school calendar. It’s a ritual I wonder might fade when this job eventually does end, the one I know might be the last between me and public education. I wonder if I’ll miss the work.
Lately there’s been some talk here about transitions, the type of thing that has (I thought at first) nothing at all to do with a farm blog. But actually, it’s the soundtrack to the story, the mood determined by the chords I strike on a daily basis with the office, with my boss, with the whole other side of this life. Even though it’s started to slowly retreat into the background of everything, it still dictates my mood and outlook. It’s the worst kind of stasis even with the assurance of a last day. Endings, no matter how distant or certain, are scary. They just are. I wonder too who else is reading that feels pulled two ways or wonders how to leap into one from the other. Can I hear your story? What I want to know is how you made the transition and if it was graceful, or if it’s always awkward as a junior high dance. Is this hard for everyone? It’s not that I’m lonely on the tightrope, just weary of the balance, and it helps to know how the inevitable fall feels – either one way or the other.
Today was a hard day. But it was the farm that patted my back while I chased my tail inside, even though it’s the farm that causes me to gnaw at convention and pace the floor inside which, if it weren’t made of concrete, would be worn in a pattern across the living room; back and forth, back and forth. Between a morning of research about building a milk machine then cow and goat milking, I received an email from work that sent me spinning – all the plans and notes and books scattered at our table seemed momentarily meaningless. Futile. Which work is mine, right now? The one on the computer or what’s laid out before me? The one that pays or the one that does not? It’s the kind of day that leaves me raw, the taste of metal fresh where I bit my lip in frustration and inadvertently drew blood. My to-do list includes both the goats and a work conference, hoof trimming and spreadsheets. So I draw a line down the middle and move between the two, head down, hackles raised, checking it all off until it’s done.
