Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!

What a task

to ask

Of anything, or anyone,

Yet it is ours,

and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.

 — Mary Oliver, Snow Geese

 

The survival of a livestock farm in a natural system relies heavily on her guardians — those animals chosen for their ability to be aggressive and incite fear — The rooster shuttles his hens into the coop at night and launches his talons at intruders; the geese guard the broilers and sound alarms when predators draw near; llamas and alpacas will alert their flocks, kick, spit and trample; donkeys bite, use their hooves and bray loudly.  

There’s a knack to working peacefully among all these strategically ill-tempered beasts.  I call it the tennis racket method.  I learned it as a kid when going over to the neighbor’s big red barn to do their chores when they were away.  They had a flock of geese that would come charging at us, necks lowered to the ground, wings spread wide ready to flail my brother, Sean, and me, tongues hissing.  Sean and I would take turns distracting them, madly throwing fistfuls of corn at them so that they’d be too busy eating to bother the other child, who would fill the feed and water buckets.  We would both return home with mouths tasting of adrenaline.  

….Until one day, when I brought a tennis racket.  I held it bravely before me, swung it a few times to demonstrate it’s might, and never once had to use it.  The geese sensed a change in my behavior, backed down, and stopped menacing us.  Years later, Dad discovered our first guardian llamas and alpacas responded similarly to the waving of a hat.  He used it to defend himself from attack once, and they soon came to respect the power of a floppy sun hat.   Soon thereafter, I learned that the hats and tennis rackets were no longer necessary.  I merely needed to believe I held a hat or a tennis racket that I could slap back an aggressive beast with.  I would look my attacker in the eye, show them my imaginary weapon, and we both came to an understanding.  Without fear, we could all proceed pleasantly.

I taught my girls to do the same.  These days, they wander amongst the guardians with confidence, able to sweet talk the beasts and produce imaginary weapons at the blink of an eye should someone suddenly get fresh.  

It’s important for them to do this work without fear.  A farm is rife with dangers, but fear can ruin the richest part of the work — those lush never-ending displays of fresh beauty that unfold every few days during the growing season.  We’ve been lapping them up this spring: the first chorus of spring peepers, followed by the eerie laments of the toads, the startling splendor of apple blossoms and lilacs, the air simply laden with their perfume; the Baltimore orioles flitting among their blooms, scarlet tanagers chirruping from high up in the trees along the hedgerows; the glorious tropical warblers migrating through with their songs and flashes of color.

These delights, for Bob and me, surpass any pleasures a steady paycheck might provide.  They make us willing to do the scut work and consider it a privilege.  And on this glorious morning, we are high in the pastures, doing just that.  We’re setting up the Tentrr site, pulling out the furniture, scrubbing the walls and floor, tightening the bolts on the furniture, re-installing the stovepipe, addressing any rodent damage.  It’s a beautiful spot to be in, cloistered away in the top corner of the farm, overlooking all the surrounding mountains tiny valleys.  The girls add to the pleasures of the day by offering to drive the Mule up to meet us for a picnic lunch.  Grammie and Pop Pop get in on the idea, and start planning a special meal to bring up.  And while they do that, we putter about the tent, gazing at the hedgerows, listening to the birds, and watching the spring clouds fluff along the dazzling blue sky. 

I finish scrubbing the floor of the tent and step out to drink in the view when a black plume of smoke rises up from below.  

“What that HELL is that!  Bob!  The kids!”

They are due here any moment, and we’re fearing the black smoke means there’s been an accident.  We race down through the pastures looking for them when my cell phone rings.  

It’s Saoirse.  “Mom, Victor’s barn is on fire!”

The neighbor’s barn.  The big red barn.

We come around the top of the last hill, and we see the genesis of the smoke – giant plumes of hungry flames licking out the top of the same red barn where I learned to wield the tennis racket and beat back my fears.  

We race down to the valley floor and I begin taking attendance — Dad has gone to make sure the neighbors are safe, Mom is standing in shock in front of the house.  Ula is beside her.  Saoirse is in front of me.  Dad returns, and we stand there in the driveway, just hugging and trembling, watching a two hundred year old barn and the surrounding buildings vanish in a matter of minutes.  Ash begins to rain down over Sap Bush Hollow, and I just keep counting over and over — Dad, Mom, Saoirse, Ula, Bob.  Corey is gone to Richmondville for the day.  Then I wait a few minutes and I do it again:  Dad, Mom, Saoirse, Ula, Bob.  Corey is gone to Richmondville for the day.  

The fire trucks arrive, the road is closed down, and we are on an island at Sap Bush.  The barn is reduced to rubble, but the neighbors’ farm house is spared, and no livestock are harmed.  We go inside, close up the windows to avoid the smoke, and take our picnic indoors.

But not thirty minutes later, the food is away, and Dad and Saoirse go back out to the animals.  Ula and Grammie go back out to clean the porch.  When the fire trucks are gone, Mom, Dad & the kids go over to sit with the neighbors.  Bob and I go back up to the Tentrr site to finish working, then take a back road detour around the closures to get down to the cafe to start cooking for the weekend.  

The day can’t stop.  We are given a short season in which much must be done.  And as we drive around the long way through the mountains, I consider all the delicious pleasures we were taking from the day until that moment:  those apple blossoms alive with bees, the warblers, the lilacs.  And then in a single moment, a piece of our community’s heritage was blown up in smoke and flames.  

My soul is divided.  One half aches for the loss of that beautiful old barn; the other half wants to drink in the most luscious display of spring blossoms I’ve ever seen.   I roll down the window and I can smell the air, even now, perfumed with the wild apple blossoms and the old lilacs that pop up along these dirt roads, relics of homesteads long gone.  Like the big red barn, those houses and outbuildings no longer stand, claimed by fire and age long before they reached their second century.  Only their stone foundations can be found now, often tucked somewhere near the lilacs and apple trees that survived them.

Gazing at them, perhaps I should be sad.  Perhaps I should be lamenting the loss of a way of life.  And I recognize my own fear that my own farm could go next, that extinction is always a possibility.

But I see in these surrounding hills a legacy of growth, death and renewal.  We drive past the road that leads to Nate and Jenn’s new homestead.  She’s gone down to Sap Bush already to do the afternoon chores.  They are learning all they can from us, making plans for their own farm business.  I think of Kate and Joe, who left Sap Bush and moved to the next county over last fall, starting up their first lambing season and their first batch of broilers.  

I think then of the tennis racket I used to wield when doing chores over at the big red barn.  The guard geese over there taught me that, when I carried the means to protect myself, even if the racket was only imaginary, my confidence kept the fears at bay, freeing me up to enjoy scritching the noses of the cattle, petting the cats, smelling the molasses in the feed.  

And I realize now that the tennis racket wasn’t even so much a means of protection as much as it was simply a reminder to not be afraid.  Things happen.  Things are going to happen.  And meanwhile, there are apple blossoms and lilacs, and scarlet tanagers, and singing toads.  There are sweaty kids and picnics, and hugs with your mom and dad out in a dusty driveway, even as the ashes come drifting down like rain around you.

Folks, don’t forget that my newest book, Redefining Rich: achieving true wealth with small business, side hustles and smart living, will be launching through BenBella Books this August.   And as I mentioned at the beginning, there’s a way that you can help me get the word out AND earn a summer-long discount at our online farm store.  We are looking to put together a launch team of volunteers who can help promote it. If you’re interested in joining, details are at the top of the blog page at sapbush.com but basically, you’ll 

• Pre-order a copy of the book
• Fill out our launch team form, which is found at the top of the sapbush.com blog;
• Promote the book through your social media channels
• Request the book at your local bookstore and library
• Leave a review wherever the book was purchased

But WAIT!  It gets better!  As an expression of my thanks, here’s what you will receive in return:

• A 15% discount code for anything in the online store at sapbushfarmstore.com, good through July 31, 2021
• A free digital chapter from the book in advance of the release date
• Entry into a giveaway for a signed copy of the book and a throw blanket from the store
• Official graphics for sharing on social media
• An invite to an exclusive virtual book club meeting so I can answer any questions you may have once you’ve received your copy. Note: Book club sessions will be limited to ten participants per session to ensure everyone has a chance to talk — we will keep adding on additional sessions until every launch team members who wants one can get it.  So, everyone get’s a chance to have an intimate hang (bring coffee or cockails, depdending on the time), and we’ll have a lot of fun together.  So please sign up – just go to sapbush.com, click on the blog, and the details are at the top.

This podcast happens with the support of my patrons on Patreon.  And this week I’d like to send a shout out to my patrons Ruth Tonachel and Roseanna DeMaria.

Thank you, folks!  I couldn’t do it without you!  If you’d like to help support my work, you can do so for as little as $1/month by hopping over to Patreon and looking up Shannon Hayes.