Pushing

I have been working hard the last few weeks, with no down-time. I had thought that maybe while the family was away I would have some quieter, slower-paced days, and had looked forward to it with yearning, but the list rapidly multiplied. I’m trying to ride the log jam and not panic.

I spent yesterday fencing in the back field between downpours and thunderstorms. The cows have eaten all the available grass in the fenced sections and I had to get them onto new ground. (My plan is to mow the weeds left behind them but there has been no time. The field is 85% inedible matter, mostly goldenrod, that must be knocked down before it goes to seed. Perhaps next weekend.)

In the heat and humidity the black flies and deer flies swarmed so badly I could barely breathe without inhaling them. Time for the bug shirt! This item looks so ridiculous that I had to try to take a selfie with my camera.

 

However, being draped in bug netting was effective and I was able to work peacefully for hours, soaked to the skin from the intermittent rain and from walking through the thigh-high wet weeds — but not losing my mind to the whine of biting flies.

Despite the time pressure I appreciated the beauty. Small birds flitted through the weeds, and hopped up to watch me from the top of posts I had just erected. Once I heard a downpour approaching, a loud rushing sound like wind in the trees, blowing in from the north for minutes before it actually drenched me.

By 7:30 PM the skies had cleared and I had half the fence up.

I got it finished and the cows turned out just as the sun set around 9 PM.

I walked and fed the dogs at 9:15, peeled off my wet jeans, kicked off my squelching boots, and sat down to my supper at 9:30.

Now it is morning and I’m heading to chores. Our fabulous friend Gary arrives at 8 AM.

Off to Peru

Wednesday afternoon I drove DH and Lucy down to Connecticut. They are headed to Peru for a ten-day father/daughter trip at the start of DH’s summer of guiding. The only flight I could wangle with frequent flyer miles was early morning of the 4th of July, with Lucy returning on the 15th at nearly midnight, so I had booked them out of Hartford, only twenty minutes from Amanda and Jon’s house.

The trip down was punctuated by the discovery that our car’s air conditioning was broken. (This is not a feature that is tested much at home.) So we drove the highways with all the windows open, shouting over the roar of the wind. It reminded Lucy and me of our trips to family reunions when she and Jon and their cousin Jessie were little, when we couldn’t afford to fix the air conditioning and thus similarly drove, sweating and shouting, with me as the driver making up songs in an effort to keep the children entertained.

Sadly, Amanda and Ami were away, but Jon was a fine host. We had pizza and gelato and watched Raiders of the Lost Ark, a film Lucy somehow missed in childhood. It was lovely to hear the familiar sound of Jon’s laugh and the murmur of him and Lucy talking as I washed dishes in the kitchen.

Getting ready for this trip had been pell-mell.  DH worked through the weekend at his old job, had meetings Monday, and then spent Tuesday trying to pack everything he would need for the next two months. He laid out all his clothes and supplies in Jon and Amanda’s room at our house, crossing off lists. In the interstices I was mowing, weedwhacking, and fencing — and pulling him away to talk to people on the phone at Social Security.

But at last all the details were ironed out. After 20 years, he had a new email address. Health insurance had been successfully switched to my name. The packs were packed. The dogs went to the vet overnight. Alison would tend my barn that evening.

Yesterday morning we kissed Jon goodbye and then I dropped DH and Lucy at Bradley International airport.

After hopscotching across the U.S., this morning they finally landed in Lima, Peru. I hope they have a great time.

Fledging

Yesterday the sky around the barn was filled with flashing wings. It appeared as if the nest of barn swallows in the hayloft had finally fledged and jumped to the air. The tree swallows in the birdbox on the gate post will soon follow. Summer is passing!

I try not to mourn or panic but simply appreciate the beauty.

This Call May Be Recorded

In between mowing and fencing, I have been struggling with paperwork… and automated phone menus. This has been the year of trial by paperwork. Our town taxes, our federal taxes, and our state taxes have all been a mess — each with different problems, none of which was caused by me. In each case my forms were submitted promptly and correctly. It would be hard to overstate the hours and hours and hours I have spent trying to disentangle all the errors. Or to overstate the stress.

Now it is health insurance. With his retirement, our policy must be switched from DH’s name to mine. One would think this would be straightforward, but there has been a problem with DH’s Medicare number — only one line in the long form, but an important one. I have spent more hours on this.

I often wonder how people who are less literate can possibly fight through the modern maze of official forms. I am a person who is comfortable with print. One might even say that reading and writing are my only significant skills. Yet this year has been an unrelenting nightmare.

Thankfully, I had a breakthrough this morning and am hoping I may have figured a way out of the latest challenge.

Fog

It was raining hard yesterday morning. I hadn’t slept; I felt old and blue. Therefore I decided to drive to the big city to do a round of errands. I might as well accomplish something. I know from experience that I am almost always calmed by action.

As it happened, half my errands were not productive. Items were out of stock and a prize I’d found on Craigslist would not work for me. Nevertheless, driving home at the end of the day with a new pressure washer on sale (for the inevitable house-painting project) plus enormous packages of toilet paper and paper towels, I was indeed calmer. The rain had stopped. Onward!

Every night I move the temporary fence down the back field to give the cows access to new grass. (I should be mowing behind them, to knock down the weeds before they go to seed, but I haven’t yet had time to start this.) Usually as I drag the fence to its new position, black flies are swarming me, singing in my ears and biting my neck, face, and hands. No matter how hot it is, I wear a sweatshirt with the hood up.

Last night as I was moving fence through the wet grass and weeds, fog rolled in. It was cool and damp and very pretty.

There were no bugs. Watching the fog creep over the field as the birds flew home at dusk, my heart lifted with joy. I know this is irrational. (“Yes, doctor, earlier I had been rather depressed but then a fog appeared!”)

I turned out the cows. I’m aware I haven’t told you yet about Flora’s 2019 calving. I’ll try to soon. That’s her little heifer calf beside her.

As I cooked dinner I tried to explain to Lucy my happiness over the fog. She took this photo from the living room with her zoom lens.

Happy cows, happy me.

Last Day

Today is DH’s last day of work as head of our school, ending a chapter that began for him in the fall of 1982. He has run the school for the last twenty years.

Because I have been the photographer, we don’t have many photos of us together. My father took this snapshot in the kitchen of DH’s dorm in June of 1984 at the end of our first year of working together. I had arrived as a new teacher the previous September. My parents had come up to help us plan our wedding.

DH has always worked hard. Evenings, weekends; on long car rides, writing in his lap in the passenger seat while I drove. To save money for the institution he has slept on the floors of countless airports; he has fought through snowstorms, arrived home at 3 AM, napped, and gone to work at 8. He has been tireless. However, he turns 67 soon and now he is weary. I am glad he is going to retire.

Still, it is a poignant time for me. Our existence has been centered on the school for most our life together. I will still be teaching there, and I’m grateful to have the job. But it will be strange to be there without him, so many years later.

I know I will get used to it. I am also excited to start a new chapter in our marriage. I’m just not great at endings.  As happy as I am for him, I can feel the edges of my eyes prickling.

retirement dinner in NYC, May 2019

A Good Day

Yesterday was a pretty day that gradually clouded over. (The dark spot in the center of the photo above is mold inside the lens. I love the little Canon Powershot cameras because I can carry them in my jeans pocket without concern, but inevitably they develop mold and other problems. These cameras are now so outdated that I buy a new one off Ebay every summer for $25. The 2019 iteration arrived last night.)

I worked on paperwork all morning and mowed all afternoon.

I mowed for a couple of hours with my 2005 John Deere mower, and then for the taller grass and weeds (the undesirable stalks left by the cows), I brought out Allen’s tow-behind brush hog from the 1970s and the blade-less Cub Cadet, also from the ’70s, to pull it.

Both of these machines were rescued for me from junk piles by Allen and both need a little work. Allen had replaced the missing hinges on the Cub Cadet’s heavy steel hood with door hinges and 16-penny nails for pins. One of the door hinges has broken under the stress and both have lost their nail-pins. This is the type of straightforward repair that I can manage. Door hinges, yes! Meanwhile the brush hog probably needs a new engine (not likely to happen) and a new belt (I’ll ask Mike). I had to restart it more than once, and it wants to push over the heaviest grass instead of cutting it. Yesterday I dealt with the latter simply by going over those spots half a dozen times. Tedious, yes, but ultimately effective.

A Connecticut Farm, 1780

I mowed and mowed, talking in my head to my old friend. I find mowing soothing and meditative.

Before quitting to cook dinner I moved the sheep to a new spot in the south pasture. This grass is not very good — mostly wild native grass and weeds, as opposed to “English hay,” what American colonists longed for — cultivated grasses like timothy and orchard grass. I dream of English hay with the same yearning. My progress toward this dream is slow, but every summer my fields are a little thicker.

 

I am not a patient person, but it helps to have the long view. Here’s Allen on this field fourteen years ago.

I’m a believer in the long view.

My Warren Connection

I didn’t watch any of the Democratic debates. I never watch. But I have heard about them from DH, Lucy, and Jon.

Today I am reading the many comments in the papers and online about Elizabeth Warren and her “teacherly tone.” This tone clearly doesn’t seem to be an asset.

The use of the phrase brought back something Lucy told me last winter. She said she had watched an interview with Elizabeth Warren and thought to herself, Who does she remind me of? “A bit of a Southern tinge to her voice, a teacherly tone… It’s Mom!”

Oh, dear! I suppose I’ll have to watch Ms. Warren on television at some point, but now… I am a little nervous. Ha ha.

Fun Distractions

During Christmas break of 2015 I realized that I needed something to chew on, mentally, aside from my many worries. I decided then to return to some research I had done at age 19 on the American Revolution in Fairfield County, Connecticut. I still had the rusting steel file box with all my files and had always dreamed of writing a novel using that research. Now, before getting started, I would reopen my investigations and nail down all the facts.

Historical research is the perfect pastime for me. I can pick it up and put it down for greater or lesser periods of time. Weeks or months can go by when I don’t have a moment for digging into or even thinking abut the Revolution. Then suddenly I’ll have a free afternoon and I can dive in and lose myself. Whether it’s period newspapers, letters, journals, muster books, or legal trials — with today’s internet access I can track down and read materials in libraries all over the country and the world.

Moreover, historical research is one of the few things I have an innate talent for. DH and Lucy are accustomed to me rushing out of my office gibbering with excitement to report that I’ve found an obscure person or put together obscure facts. They listen as I explain my brilliant discovery and then reply politely, “I’m happy for you.”

My friend Alison has been more concerned. “You do know, right, that people don’t care about facts and you have to actually tell a story?”

Yes, I do know. However as someone who does care about facts it has been important to me to find out, as much as possible, what really happened.  Besides, it’s endless fun.

Naturally, having tracked the lives of a number of the townspeople in southwestern Connecticut, I have come to feel I know them. With no one is this more the case than with a loyalist from Norwalk named Stephen Hoyt. In 19th and 20th century histories of these towns, he is always described as “the notorious Tory Hoyt” or “the renegade Captain Hoyt.” When at 19 I discovered that in 1776 the infamous raider was only 26 years old, I knew I had to put him in a story someday.

Today I know that the exploits ascribed to “Tory Hoyt” were actually an amalgamation of actions by Stephen, his older brother Jesse, and a cousin Joseph. The real story of their lives in this first American civil war is far more complicated and interesting than the Victorian morality tale. Stephen and Jesse (one a captain in the Loyalist military, the other a sea captain) were both pillars of the Anglican church and respected as men despite being hated as enemies. When I found a letter from a Patriot general describing “Captain Hoyt, though a Tory,” as “a man of strictest honor, probity, and truth,” I beamed as if I were their mother.

When the war was lost, both brothers left America in 1783, evacuating with their families to the wilderness of Canada. Jesse never returned. However, after ten years Stephen came back to the United States and settled in upstate New York, where he died in 1809. Last fall, while at a conference in the mountains with DH, I spent a happy morning looking for his grave. His bones had been moved in the 1880s from the church cemetery to the rural cemetery, and now his headstone was one of about forty aged markers in a corner.

I scuffled through the fall leaves, struggling to read the slabs. Most were weather-worn and illegible. Many were, literally, blank slates. Here’s a rare one on which the inscription could actually could be distinguished.

After an hour I was frustrated and ready to give up. I stopped at the cemetery office before I left, to admit defeat. A kind young woman jumped up to look in a file. In the early 20th century, a man had made a list of the stones. Perhaps using that list we could retrace his steps and figure out which was Stephen’s.

We trooped back out.

We tried to imagine the path of our scribe in 1920. Which way had he wandered?

At  last, by triangulation and deduction, we found the headstone. “White marble.”

I traced Stephen’s name with a fingertip. The 1920 scribe had noted the line of a poem at the bottom of the stone. (I think both Stephen and his wife Esther were readers — unlike most loyalists who put in claims to the Crown, Stephen reported that when his house was ransacked by the Norwalk mob in 1776, among other valuable items, he lost his books. And the 1774 estate papers of Esther’s father, a minister, included a library inventory.) I could feel the inscription through the lichen. I could also feel another line below.

In the 140 years since it was moved, the stone has sunk into the ground. Of course I have since found the 1808 poem … and I’m guessing that there may be up to three more lines under the soil.

The cemetery has added Captain Hoyt to their walking tour and has promised to try to lift the stone this summer and clean it. I’ve also offered to drive down to clean it myself. Yes, I know this is eccentric. But that’s me. We shall see.

I have often told myself that I have all the information I need. Then I stumble on something else — and new windows of understanding open. However, three and a half years after starting my research, I reluctantly realize I have to stop. This summer I am organizing all my material and starting to weave my story.

Of course, Stephen Hoyt will be in it.

That’s what I am thinking about when I’m mowing and mucking.

The Eagle Has Landed

Early last Thursday morning crows were screeching and our dogs went crazy barking at the glass porch doors. I jumped up and ran to look out, assuming I would see a coyote (though wondering why the crows were fussing — coyotes don’t bother crows). Instead I saw this huge bird, mobbed by so many dozens of screaming and dive-bombing crows that in confusion he lighted on the top of my manure pile. He finally flew away toward the woods to the north, the mob in pursuit.

I was happily surprised to see him back in the top of the giant spruce in the driveway the next morning, when I was able to get some photos.

I checked with a naturalist acquaintance on Facebook. As I guessed, it was a young bald eagle. “Third year,” said the naturalist.

Lucy’s camera is terrific. The eagle was sitting in the crown of a very tall tree as I leaned back against the hood of our car in the driveway below. The camera later showed me details I could not see with my eyes.

Meanwhile the next tree over was collecting crows, loudly sounding the alarm. At last the eagle had had enough, and with a heavy flap of wings he departed.

In the summer on the farm the natural world is full of wonder at every turn. The tree frogs calling when I walk the dog at night. The wild turkeys in the pastures. The garter snakes that slide away through the grass. The bluebirds and goldfinches swaying on the fence lines, the barn swallows swooping in and out of the hay loft, the snowshoe hares nibbling grass along the driveway. All of these are little jolts of joy.

I am so blessed to live here.