Haiku and Farm Notes, from the end of Summer, 2023
The mind seems to want
Answers that it doesn’t need
To pick up the foot.
Walking many places on the farm in the early morning requires putting a hand or a tool out in front of your face, lest you collect spider webs with your head. Rather than see this as an annoyance, practice being grateful for the health of the environment at the smaller end of the scale.
Some years ago, I started going the “custom” route on gaskets, making my own from either a sheet of cork material or even flat cardboard (if it’s not a high-heat application). Usually, I moisten them slightly with a small bit of the fluid they’re sealing to keep them from bunching up. Things whose purpose is to go between other things, ideally gracefully and smoothly; whose identity is generally determined by at least one other surface. There’s a poetic, place-in-the-universe metaphor even here.
There are THREE drain plugs on the connected transmission/hydraulic system of the Ford 8n tractor. The two large ones have a nut that’s 1 & 1/16 inch in size. Fortunately, I still have my grandfather's tools for this job, as that’s not such a common size. These old tools are heavy, substantial, and well-balanced. They feel good in the grip, and I find it a pleasure to hold hands with my grandfather again in this way.
There used to be a much greater variety of birds on the farm; the dawn chorus isn’t nearly as diverse as it was when I was a boy. One I remember is the Bobwhite quail, which declined in population by 85% between 1966 and 2014 (according to the American Bird Conservancy) due to habitat loss, mechanization of agriculture, pesticides, and other factors. My grandfather used to whistle to them, and they would respond from the fencerows. I haven’t heard them in years.
Still overseeing my lakeside work is the kingfisher, a beautiful bird that’s frequently hard to see but easy to identify with its distinctive rattle. I appreciate the company and the call-back into presence he provides.
The large elm tree next to the old house lost a major trunk in the August 7th storm, revealing some interior rot, unbalancing the remaining portions of the tree and making it feel very unsafe, as it had the potential to fall on the house. My sister Carol and brother Mark made an executive decision to get it removed as soon as possible, and it was scheduled within the week. However, the cost of removal did not include hauling the wood completely away or getting the trunk off low to the ground (which might have almost doubled the expense). The crew moved the largest chunks to a spot over the bank above the lake and most of the branches to the south-facing hillside below the house, where they could lose their moisture and later be burned. Five weeks of dry weather did the trick, but it was a tangled mess for me to unravel, with interlocking limbs. It required some careful chainsawing while standing on a steep bank to extract them all. It all went to one burning pile, carried there over several days by tractor and wheelbarrow; it took four days of burning to dispatch it. Fortunately, our burning pile location is within reach of the water hose from the house, so the fire was easy to control. Starting to burn in the early morning helps, too, when the dew is heavy and the humidity is very high.
I made two trips to the local metal recycling business: one from the shop and one from the corn crib (360 pounds and 220 pounds, respectively). I received $43 in exchange for this weight, but mostly I was glad that it would be shredded and re-used.
I enjoyed connecting with our current tenant farmer, who was cutting and baling hay this week. His name is Tyler, and he is a young dad with two kids under 3 years old.
At my solitary meals, I sometimes would glance through a regional magazine entitled (pleasantly) The Cooperator. It’s published by the Tennessee Farmer’s Cooperative, whose motto is “growing better together.” Articles include information on broodmare nutrition; harvest forecasts for corn, cotton, soybeans, and tobacco; and an entire page of cornbread recipes. Nice to expand my range of reading.
The old tractor’s engine died this trip while working, probably throwing a piston rod. I was able to nurse it to a good location, knowing that if I stopped the engine, it might not start again (which proved true). I contemplated for a day and made some calls, including asking Tyler for a recommendation. I settled on a mechanic about 4 miles away who will rebuild the engine. After 71 years, I think this MAY be the first rebuild. Pretty good! I know it hasn’t been rebuilt in the last 30 years that I’ve been maintaining it. We will ride again!
Much of the large pecan tree west of the old elm was also lost in the storm. But amazingly, the attending branch and the old swing survived, and its slow pendulum motion still calmed me, though the empty sky above as you lean back is a surprising new experience. So much of our canopy is gone.
On Wednesday, September 20, I got the call that our dear friend and my longtime recording engineer and co-producer, Glenn Short, had died. The last time Nicky and I saw him out at his place west of Longmont, he didn’t look good, and given his recent health problems, this wasn’t completely unexpected. But it was still shocking and deeply affecting, and I was grateful for several days of solitude to process it. Henry David Thoreau wrote, ” How plainly we are a part of nature.” Yes. And here on the farm, we sense that deeply, daily. Glenn passed near the autumnal equinox, a day of balanced light and dark. There was so much light in him, though I’m sure it was balanced by a private darkness that he didn’t let people into too readily. I’ll remember most his calm, gentle joy, his easy, genuine smile and sense of humor, and, of course, his amazing, gifted ears.
A haiku for Glenn; on watching an osprey land on a high branch –
Alight. Fold your wings,
One easy motion. The sky
Now has less than clouds.
- TM, 9/25/2023, in flight (Knoxville-Denver), seat 29B
