It Snowed

It Snowed.*

It rained all day Friday, a not particularly cold rain, that didn’t slack off until after dark. John and I cancelled plans for a day trip on Saturday because the rain was to continue, and possibly become snow in the north Georgia mountains, our intended destination. Saturday, however, though the day remained overcast, it never rained.

Sunday, however, we woke to rain again, and cold. I pulled on my husband’s giant insulated camouflage jacket and felt swallowed by the warmth of it as I trekked the 100 yards or so down our driveway to retrieve the Sunday paper. I kept staring at the grassy field in front of the house. It looked funny in this rain, and then I realized the field was covered in tiny ice pellets. Although it was raining now, at some point early this morning there had been hail.

Back inside the house I mentioned my discovery to John and then busied myself with morning activities. The sound of the rain on the roof moved from my conscious awareness into the background of other things stealing my attention away.

It was sometime after breakfast, as I sat reading the paper, that I noticed the silence. The rain had stopped. I looked up at the window expecting to see a slight reprieve from the rain. Imagine my surprise therefore, when I saw snow falling in huge, almost giant flakes. I haven’t seen snow in the five years that I have lived here on the farm, 40 miles east of Atlanta. I haven’t seen snow since I left my beloved North Carolina mountains 14 years ago.

I was in my late 30s when I went to Appalachian State University in Boone, NC to finish my undergraduate degree. I found a two-bedroom basement apartment on a horse farm in nearby Zionville that I just loved. It was twelve miles from the campus party noise, and big enough for my large personal library to live outside of boxes and long-term storage.

In the summertime, I found to my delight, I could pull up a lawn chair outside the garage and watch hang gliders coming off Grandfather Mountain land in a small field a mere few feet from the driveway. There was also the neighbor who drove his horse-drawn covered wagon past my apartment almost daily. I always watched for him on those mornings when I was home, and when I invited my extended family for a visit one Thanksgiving weekend, this kind neighbor very generously came by to give my family a wagon ride at no cost other than the joy of the experience, and our thanks.

In the wintertime the horse farm became a place of absolute wonder. As old as I was, I anticipated each new snowfall like a child. The snow would come as early as October, and as the season progressed, it came deeper and deeper. The silence deepened as well, as traffic on the nearby highway lessened, and disappeared almost completely from the small mountain road that meandered past the farm. I delighted in watching the horses play in the snow, and marveled at the deep, clean whiteness that filled the dark barren places in the mountains around me, glistening in the sunlight when the soft flakes slowed and stopped, and the skies cleared from gray to blue. It was then, when the weather was clear, that I could see the ski trails at Sugarloaf Mountain.

In my final year at Appalachian, late one winter night, as I left the library and began walking across campus toward my car, I realized there might not be many more nights like this one. After graduation I would be leaving, heading for the coast to join my family. I would probably never see this much snow again.

The snow was a good foot deep that night, and more snow was falling. My senses sharpened in the moment. I became acutely aware of everything, and I took it all in like an unexpected gift suddenly handed to me. I watched my breath escaping my lips in cloudy bursts, and studied their flowing movement against the dark night sky. I inhaled deeply the cold air, felt it sting in my nostrils and warm as it entered my lungs. I listened to the soft crunch of snow beneath my boots as I took each step slowly and deliberately. I glanced up at a streetlight and studied the flakes falling in a slow motion dance beneath the gentle glow of light, and closed my eyes as I felt the flakes falling on my face, collecting on my eyelashes. I stuck out my tongue and tasted a few cold flakes as they landed on my warm wet tongue and melted.

I stood still and listened to the silence that snow always brings. I listened to the earth tucking quietly in beneath a new layer of snow to sleep until morning, and perhaps, if it could, dream of a warm spring. I listened to the snow as it fell gently to the ground, and imagined each flake to have been a dream, a hope, a prayer that had lifted to heaven, and having been received, was now released to return, transformed, falling to earth, I imagined, as a quiet, faithful promise.

I didn’t expect the snow on Sunday to continue very long. I certainly didn’t expect it to accumulate to anything more than a dusting. As I glanced out the window throughout the day, I continued to be amazed – at the size of the downy flakes, at their tenacity as they kept falling, and at their beauty as they accumulated en mass over the roads, the grass, the trees, and the cars.
The snow on Sunday was another unexpected gift, handed to me without warning or ceremony, but more valuable than it seemed. I made a memory of the day, and the snow, and I will cherish it always.

(This blog was intended to be posted March 6. Computer problems, et al delayed that.)

The More I See of Politicians, the More I Admire My Dogs

It's almost time to vote again, and to quote Forest Gump, "that's all I'm going to say about that!"
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This post is for Kathy and Kalail, who just rescued ChooChoo;
and for Beva, who wants a dog of her own.

Growing up in a rural area, I saw a lot of dogs abandoned along the dirt road that ran by our house. It was heartbreaking to see these lost and frightened, often abused animals that had once given someone their undivided love and loyalty, now struggling to survive, chased away from place to place, sometimes shot at, hiding among the trees and brush, conditioned by their fear and anxiety to mistrust the approach of any human.

Domesticated animals are helpless in the wild. It became my family’s practice to leave food in areas that we knew a stray was frequenting, especially if we knew it was a female, usually emaciated, ribs protruding, teats dangling, that was nursing pups hidden somewhere nearby. It often took a long time to convince these strays to trust us, but eventually we would win some of them over. We took them in and fed them, nursed them back to health, and did what we could to find loving homes for them and their pups when we could. We always told the people adopting a dog to bring it back to us if things didn’t work out. I don’t recall us ever taking any of these strays to the pound.

We didn’t have the money to take these dogs to veterinarians for shots and treatments unless it was an emergency; and what constituted an emergency was occasionally debated in our home – passionately, loudly, and sometimes tearfully. So it was my mother who nursed these ailing creatures back to life and health while I stood at the ready to assist her. Most of the time mother used what knowledge she had gleaned in her lifetime from her mother, who had been a nurse in WWI. The rest of the time it was my mother’s gentle voice, reassuring touch, and, I know with conviction, her fervent prayers that brought these forlorn unwanted creatures back from the brink of death.

My father’s participation in all of this was frequently under duress. His family didn’t have pets when he was growing up. My grandfather’s philosophy had been that an animal was worth only what it could contribute. The family mule, which pulled the plow my father and his brothers worked daily, had great value, sometimes more than the boys. Consequently, my father’s attitude toward pets was less than desirable to the rest of us. At best, my father tolerated the strays. But his outlook changed during the years of my childhood. It had to. To paraphrase Shakespeare: some are born with compassion, some achieve compassion, and some have compassion thrust upon them. My father falls into the latter category. He was swept along by the wave of compassion that swelled and moved through a wife and two daughters. He was compelled by the chorus of tearful pleadings to venture out on cold winter nights, flashlight in hand, to search out the plaintive cries of an abandoned litter. And it was he who built shelters and filled them with warm hay, and was occasionally seen patting the head and stroking the fur of a four-legged, tail-wagging canine that shadowed his every step, and looked up at him with trust and gratitude, and love.

It wasn’t surprising that my first marriage was to a man whose compassion for animals exceeded my own. Barry had collected several strays before we met, and together we collected several more. Ours were the unadoptable, those dogs the shelters would be forced to put down when they ran out of space, but each was wonderfully lovable and full of personality. We were blessed to be able to afford all eight of our dogs and the cost of their medical care.

Barry passed away in January, 2004. By then, six of oureight dogs remained, and I was managing them alone. In 2005, when I married John and moved to the farm, my six dogs (Sam, Charlie, Goldie, Crossword, Barney, and Taco) joined his three dogs (Charlie, Toby and Mitzi) and one pot bellied pig (Lulu), to live where they could run and play and bark as much as they wanted to. Two years ago we adopted a puppy (Patty), and this summer we adopted two more dogs (Lucy and Maggie) whose owner could no longer care for them.

Since moving to the farm, Sam, my Charlie, and Taco have all passed away in their old age with various problems. I nursed each through his last days as though he were my baby, and held each in my arms in the final moments of his life, whispering my love in his ear as I wept for the loss of my beloved companion.

We picked out a special spot on the property to bury Sam when he died. Taco, and then Charlie joined him there, and some day, when they have chased their last ball, bird, or rabbit, the rest of our dogs will too. Whenever I pass by that special spot, I greet each by name and tearfully recount how much I miss them.

I like to think that Sam, and Taco, and Charlie have gone to Heaven, and that they've found Barry, and that the lot of them are having a grand good time. Perhaps that's silly, but it offers me a touch of peace; and it comforts me to know that these animals that Barry and John and I have loved and cared for have not known hunger or cruelty or fear while they've been with us.

Now, if we could just figure out what we're going to do with the pig when she dies! And I don't want to hear anything about barbecue!

Who Is Gagardensylph?

Ga - Georgia

Garden - vegetables for now

Sylph - imaginary female being inhabiting the four elements (air, earth, fire, water); light, dainty, airy being

When I was between the ages of 13 and 21 my family moved a couple of times, but we always managed to have a few acres and make a stab at farm living. We raised a few vegetables, pigs, chickens, ducks, geese, and cows. We even had a pair of peacocks once. When we lived on the southern coast of NC, after my father's retirement from the Army (I was 13), we also fished commercially.

I loved the fishing part, but I didn't participate as fully as I should have in raising the cows, pigs, chickens, and the garden. My parents didn't make it a requirement. They were in their late 40s then, and it was a project they shared with great affection, argument, and exhaustion.

These days my parents, who are by the very grace of God still with me and in amazingly good health, are in their early 80s. I am in my early 50's, and with a second husband and a small farmstead of our own now, I pick Mom's and Dad's brains constantly for the knowledge and how-to's of all they were doing in the 70's. Of course, I should have been paying more attention back then. But at least I'm paying attention now.

I was single until I was 45. My income level and OT workloads didn't afford me the chance to live the "back to the earth" lifestyle I longed for. So I took the academic approach for many years, burying myself in the writings of Helen and Scott Nearing and others who promoted simple living and homesteading until it was part of my own nature and philosophy. I didn't yet have the opportunity to live externally what I was learning, but the seeds of what could be had been planted in my imagination, and I spent many hours dreaming, planning, and hoping.

I married John Alderman in 2005, after the death of my first husband in 2004. Our mutual ambition to live a self-sustaining lifestyle, and other common goals and interests, gave us fertile ground on which to build a life together.

John and I live on 5 acres east of Atlanta, Georgia. The farm used to belong to John's father, and we are blessed to be reaping the benefits of his father's labor. There are half a dozen apple trees, and as many peach trees; one lone pear tree that bears so heavily, the branches sag almost to the ground; and there are nearly 100 feet of heavily overgrown grape vines. We pruned the vines last winter, and had no crop this year, but last fall, as in autumns past, we had a good harvest of grapes.

There's also a greenhouse. John helped his father build it many years ago, and although it is in usable shape, it, like much of the farm, needs a lot of improvement. Oh, I almost forgot to mention, we also have fig trees! I feel almost Italian (or at least, Californian) picking this decadent fruit each July.

Every year we try to expand our garden area. It's just the two of us here. We have no help, and can't afford to hire anyone. Although we have not been able to do as much as we would like to now that we have the opportunity, we are, at least, making steady progress. John works tirelessly, and endlessly, it seems. He calls me his "strong Russian woman" (I'm actually Irish/Cherokee) as I work beside him hauling, lifting, bending, climbing, pulling, picking, and sweating. Dear God, it wears on these old bones! But the rewards are abundantly worth it!

Last year a late frost killed any chance of harvesting apples, peaches or pears, but we had a modest grape harvest, and I finally fulfilled my desire to learn canning. I put up a half-dozen little jars of grape jam, and several quarts of pickled green tomatoes from our garden.This year I put up dozens of jars of apples and pears in various forms, and 9 quarts of pickled squash. We feasted on a variety of tomatoes all summer long, as well as a few oddly shaped cucumbers, some yellow squash, acorn squash, and a few tiny watermelons.

This Fall, we gave away bushels of apples - to a small church, and to a local charity that provides assistance for needy families. Our families shared in the bounty too, but we still had many left, and so we gave some away in the parking lot of the local Wal-Mart.

Now that the cooler weather is here, John and I are focused on some clean-up around the farm, and preparing for the cold season. We have planted a Fall garden, and while we are still harvesting a few tomatoes, we are anticipating rich green heads of Boston Bibb lettuce, and peppery red radishes in the coming weeks. Throughout the winter we will harvest fresh collards, sweetened by the frost, and many heads of cabbage that I will make into slaw and soups, and for the first time, sauerkraut.

I am not Helen Nearing, but like her I am living the life I desire, a life that truly is "The Good Life."