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| The Carolina Silver Bell planted last fall where we felled the old tree. | |
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We heard from Kyle, the farmer's son, that he'd done some serious work clearing trees and brush on the farm. Saturday was booked, so I offered to go down Thursday on my own to make sure the woods were still there. Rock usually drives. Correction. Always. Always drives. So at 8 AM sharp with his careful directions, phone number file, gps and a bag of fruit, I was off. I surprised myself by knowing exactly how to get there. The gps pontificated wrong turns at every intersection and I told it to please, let me drive. 11AM I pulled in, turned off the engine and stepped out. A resonant quiet enveloped me. It was the deep intelligence of blossom-scented air and birdsong. It was bundles and bundles of baby leaves in the tree-tops, conversing with breezes and sunlight and blue skies.
It was the farm in spring.
I took out the camera. And there was Kyle's good work, a tractor-swath of brush and tangled barbed wire, posts, and vines all cleared. The swath extended from the driveway to the cedars, midway down the roadside. Good man. Ok. Did that. Then I wandered the wooded streamland checking on things. Weeds sprouting up big time on the bank we cleared last visit, but iris that Rock planted by the bridge thriving. I raked the stream again, helping water move on. And something plopped in -- oh, frog life! Left the rake there. Picked up the camera again. Stepped shin deep into the marsh. The birds kept up a concert worthy of Carnegie Hall, and rose-breasted woodpecker, and scarlet tanager, and who knows what others flitted and perched and flew away. The brush was already too grown to let me explore the stream all the way to the Fox Farm, so I shook off the mud and walked down the road to approach the stream from that end. Ostensibly. When I was little we lived on a tree-lined street by a road that led up to a grand estate, rich with woods, orchards and gardens worthy of an English novel, and the child in us never knew the concept 'trespassing'. It was where we retreated to dream; it was ours. So the child in me walked on and on over the cedar-scented land in wonder. It's a magical place. If anyone asked, I was a prospective buyer, using the currency of appreciation. Here's the photos.
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| the swath cleared by Kyle by the road. |
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| The sundappled drive to the fields. |
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| A great gray heron lumbered into the sky as I explored the neighboring Fox Farm. |
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| And lookie! Life in the stream! Poliwogs and fishies. Something leapt off the bank as I approached. |
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| The enchanted, abandoned nursery trees on the Fox farm. |
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| And geese and goslings. |
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| And the heavenly meadow. Take a deep breath of the grass, the wild-flowers, honeysuckle and pond. |
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| Back at our farm, azaleas bloom on the old barn foundation. |
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Tenant Joyce's grand-daughter, Ashley, was home from Philly, washing her new car. She said she used to go to the stream with her cousins and do fashion poses. So we went to the stream and did a fashion pose. Sweet lady, working hard, doing her best to live a good life in the city after a childhood on the Allison farm.
I finally reached Kyle, and met him at his work a mile away, thanked
him, paid him, talked about the drought, and how nothing could be
cleared or burned till it was over. Maybe the next weekend. Well, last
weekend brought a deluge, so we'll see. I drove home refreshed, and stayed refreshed long afterwards. Rock and I will till a little field next time, plant some sedge, maybe, something learned from a book he bought at the Strand. We're doing the research now.
Cheers,
d.
