As Indian summer shifts to the brilliance of fall, only to wind its way into the snowy embrace of winter, I look around and wonder, Where did the summer go? My garden has been uprooted, but the turkey coop is still unfinished. Our rabbits are multiplying like, well, rabbits, and the goats have cleared the hillside to the point where we've had to supplement with hay to keep them from eating the neighbors' flowers.
One of the things I love about having a garden and raising my own animals is that it puts me in touch with the seasons—but not this year. No, this year, I've felt like a clumsy dance partner, always a beat or two behind and frantically hurrying to catch up to my inexorable, eternally graceful lead. It's already time to start planning our annual homesteading weekend and figure out the butchering schedule. Best get on it, I tell myself, and still look around dazed as another week screams by on the calendar, howling past like a winter storm.
Everything on our small farm has an expiration date, as Greg and I are fond of joking. We'll scale back on the rabbits, board out the milk does (another thing for the to-do list!), and the turkeys will be taken care of by late November. Winter is our high time, and we simply don't have the time and resources to take care of a large assortment of animals during the season.
Yet, before we know it, spring will be here again with its inevitable bipolar weather. We'll be another year older, with more silver in our hair and fine lines deepening their etching around my eyes. We'll continue to haul water, build out our garden, and swear at the weeds. We'll listen to the coyotes sing up the moon and settle further into our hillside home, noting the seasons as they pass us by and leave their mark on our lives.
Even when I am off time, out of balance, and stumbling, I wouldn't trade this for anything.
One of the things I love about having a garden and raising my own animals is that it puts me in touch with the seasons—but not this year. No, this year, I've felt like a clumsy dance partner, always a beat or two behind and frantically hurrying to catch up to my inexorable, eternally graceful lead. It's already time to start planning our annual homesteading weekend and figure out the butchering schedule. Best get on it, I tell myself, and still look around dazed as another week screams by on the calendar, howling past like a winter storm.
Everything on our small farm has an expiration date, as Greg and I are fond of joking. We'll scale back on the rabbits, board out the milk does (another thing for the to-do list!), and the turkeys will be taken care of by late November. Winter is our high time, and we simply don't have the time and resources to take care of a large assortment of animals during the season.
Yet, before we know it, spring will be here again with its inevitable bipolar weather. We'll be another year older, with more silver in our hair and fine lines deepening their etching around my eyes. We'll continue to haul water, build out our garden, and swear at the weeds. We'll listen to the coyotes sing up the moon and settle further into our hillside home, noting the seasons as they pass us by and leave their mark on our lives.
Even when I am off time, out of balance, and stumbling, I wouldn't trade this for anything.
RSS Feed