The Price

As I walk the dogs, the sunlight cuts across in front of me and I can see dandelion seeds lift and gently blow into the trees: it is magical, like hundreds of miniature hot air balloons rising into the sky. I pause to watch them while Sam sloshes around in the stream.

Outside our kitchen window I have been watching a pair of robins go through the process of building a nest under the cover of our roof, sit the nest and then, a week ago, I saw the mother squashed into her little home surrounded by three rather plump babies. Her head tucked with a bit of a grumpy look on her face. While teaching I could see, from a different window, Dad coming and going with meals. Yesterday I stood on tiptoe and looked toward the nest only to find it emptied.

In the back of our garage is our make-shift brooder. A big cello box filled with wood shavings and a light hung over the top is home to four chicks. They arrived in late April as peeping, downy balls on legs. Now, almost fully feathered, they chase each other round their box, scratch, scattering their shavings and tilting their heads to look up, as if to heaven, for the voice speaking to them. Another week and I’ll put them into one of the chicken coops to begin the process of integration with the hens.

On the way back up from bringing the sheep down to pasture in the mornings, I peer through the garden fence and watch the sprinkler arc back and forth over the beds darkening the soil making shiny puddles. Tiny carrot fronds, like the unshaven whiskers on Paul’s chin, are barely visible. Peas twist around our bamboo fencing, hanging on with delicate, curly fingers. The pre-scape stalks of garlic plants tower over the bed and crooked rows of green beans begin to tentatively appear. On the corner, mounds of pumpkin leaves pop up and spread out, dominating their hill. In the middle an experiment; a tiny watermelon plant holds its own.

When the snow finally leaves for real, we people and animals relish the higher sun and begin preparing for summer. As we move into the middle of June we are seeing the fruits of that labor. I begin thinking tomato thoughts and entertain the possibility of swimming in the river, sitting on wet towels with sandwiches in wax paper between our knees for dinner. I see the last of my socks as I move permanently into flip-flops.

But there is a price to pay for long days of summer; we held our spring student recital this weekend and Paul and I flopped down on the couch exhausted when we got home. I had a series of five solo concerts in May requiring constant, intense practice making my brain, and sometimes my thumbs,weary. Budding plants and blooming flowers are the result of hours of hauling soil and manure in our rusty wheelbarrow. It seems there cannot be one without the other and maybe the only way I can fully appreciate my hammock is to appreciate the time it took to haul it out and hang the darn thing.

Summer schedules, like dinners, are lighter. We build in time for doing nothing but eating ice cream. The longer hours of daylight feel luxurious and stretch our limbs in the rays of the late afternoon sun. For a time.

Sitting having tea at the counter this week I heard our ATV come up the hill: actually it wasn’t the ATV that I heard but Muir, racing along beside it barking. I turned to look out the window and saw Paul pulling the wood splitter into place next to the shed. He climbed off and noticed me watching him. We looked at each other and nodded. Summer is, after all, one long preparation for winter.