Tucking In.
This is a post from the archives of the “On Butter Hill” Substack newsletter. In an effort to streamline our online presence, I will be reposting our Substack posts here on our blog while gradually dissolving our posts there.
Summer is officially collapsing into fall here in western Ohio. Just last week the mid-eighties bore down on the dry, dusty bean fields as plumes of dust rose behind the combines. Yet this morning, as I write, I am hunkered down next to the fire, cozy and warm, hiding from the near-frosty landscape outside. A chilly mist hovered over the creek this morning, and I wondered…how can a scene look cold, yet warm, at the same time?
I appreciate the farm for many things; the responsibility it bears, the merriment of animal watching, the sustenance on our table. With the farm comes this as well: a bone-deep knowing that seasons matter. A tucking in, a rest, a waking, a blooming. Exertion, exhaustion, collapse, rejuvenation. And so it goes. This particular turn of season, summer to fall, always feels so pronounced, so momentous, it cannot be passed by without a little reflection and gratitude.
This was our first year to have tended this land. We took a mighty stab at it. Many things remain on the to-do list, but it was not for lack of trying. Time and money seem to be our ever-present nemeses. We planted berries and even harvested a few. Four homemade raised beds went in, and though they grew not much but some late planted flowers, they satiated my desire for a garden of some kind. Many dump runs have been taken (and many more to come). Cows were rotated around and around again. If ever there was a soundtrack to my summer, it would be the click-click of a polywire fence reel.
We’ve had some mishaps and misfortunes this summer. One muggy July morning we woke to carnage at the hands of two loose dogs. Our entire flock of chickens and ducks mangled in piles around the yard. I am still waiting for a regular supply of eggs again. Any day now.
There was the time a drifter chose to camp in our barn, unbeknownst to us. Perhaps our house does look abandoned? Though I would have thought the cows in the field would be a clue. A little chaos later and 911 calls later, and we sat in our dark house wondering…is this the rural life? For what it’s worth, I don’t mind much dealing with the occasional drifter if it means keeping time by the seasons on the farm.
We have of course battled the elements. Wind and rain come in stronger here. The summer was long, hot, and dry, particularly without the luxury of air conditioning. I feel sturdier having made our way through my first experience with no A/C. I am a true millennial after all.
There has been much wonderment too. Chasing sunsets, ice cream runs, getting a front row seat in our pasture to our small town fireworks show. Laboring under the sun together, chopping down dead trees and brush and making way for what’s to come. Naps. Learning the slow language of this piece of land.
And as it goes on the farm, with slowing down comes not just reflection, but anticipation. I am positively bubbling with delight at the thought of seeing our farm covered in a blanket of snow. From what I hear, our little farm road will not be dug out for quite awhile should a big snow come along. We have sledding hills now, and room to let imagination swirl.
This winter will bring a dry season for the cows, for which this tired milkmaid is thrilled to experience. I love the milking routine, but I crave a rest and will savor it fully. We will watch their bellies grow, and as winter grows long as well, calves will come. We may have piglets before that, judging by the behavior I observed just the other day in our pasture!
On the docket before winter bears down is suring up our animal sheltering, preparing areas to bring big pregnant animals should the need arise. Water must be accounted for, and hay. The windows of this old rickety farmhouse need covering of some kind. Mostly, we will make it through somehow, and judging by the past, it will be a ragtag job at best until we strike it rich, I suppose. There is nothing cute about the inner workings of a low budget homestead in the wintertime.
So here we will be, savoring the season, tucking in, planning and dreaming. A cold winter awaits, a rest for body and soul. We will welcome it, bake bread, break bread. We will find new wonders around every tree, and start a long and unrealistic “in spring” list. By the fire, with each other, which is what we do it all for anyhow.
Autumnal greetings,
