Beginning in late May my world starts tilting downward and everything begins moving faster. April is the awakening and, as with all good awakenings, we roll out of things slower. May on a farm might as well have a green flag waving. We are brooding new chickens in a large cardboard box in our garage. Each day requires several climbs on a milk crate to peer into the box watching small fuzzy balls on sticks racing back and forth under the heat light sunshine. I feel like a deity as my head slowly appears over the cardboard horizon. I watch the thermometer to make daily adjustments to the height of the lamp, their survival dependent on my accuracy.
Our garden needs planting and, despite the numerous conversations regarding organized seeding, it is crunch time when I am finally crawling around the potato beds, a bucket of snow white seedling potatoes cut into odd shapes around the eyes plopped next to me, the knees of my overalls caked with manure. I take a handful of dirt, mix it with carrot seeds and toss it to the wind in the general vicinity of the garden as if I am a guest throwing rice at a wedding.
As the sun sets I finally finish tucking everyone in, drag myself to my feet listening to my knees groan, stand, look over my work and say a silent prayer.
Paul pulls rolls of electro-net around the perimeter of the newly-mowed field, jams posts into place, and soaks grounding rods for maximum hit. We open the gate of the winter paddock and let our newly-shorn sheep tear down the road to their summer digs. Bronte delightedly weaves behind them.
There are flowers to pile into pots, a new barn extension to finish and a spring student recital to put together.
The music ends and family arrives the following week. I haul bag after bag of groceries down the stone walkway into the house, remembering what flavor of coffee creamer our son likes and forgetting how much he eats.
For almost three weeks work halts for me and we all adventure through Vermont. As the days quickly reach broil, we spend hours at the river on our foam floaties and eating Travel-Center sandwiches wrapped in white paper. We take a train to Bellows Falls where my father and mother were raised. It pours and my shoes become soaked as we wander. We find an open pizza place, sit and order wings and pizza, our faces smeared with red sauce as we laugh together.
More family flies in and I find it hard to keep up with the extra laundry. Midnight finds me folding clothes to be ready to head out again the next day. Paul holds down the work fort and we fall into bed like planks each night.
The last week we all prepare to head for the lake together and once again I hit the grocery store, bagging orange balls of clementines, seeded loaves of bread, crinkly bags of pasta, marshmallows, chocolate and graham crackers. I’m brain-tired, and I find myself unable to think of appropriate words or make good lists for packing. I’m in a gray place where I am happy to have everyone at the house but feel overwhelmed by the preparations.
We pull into the dirt driveway of the old farmhouse at the lake, Paul and I using two vehicles ourselves. Automobiles line up like a car dealership. Like ants, we make lines back and forth to the kitchen, our arms full as we can make them.
Later as Paul and I unpack our hastily thrown-together suitcases, I discover I have only packed two pairs of socks, no dental floss or shoes other than Crocs. The overalls that I wore straight from farm work to grocery store to lake will have to do if I need long pants this week. We feel fatigued and my fuzzy brain attests to that.
We sleep the sleep of the dead the first night and wake up, astonished, at nine the next morning. We loll, delighting in the lack of responsibilities. I get up and spoon yogurt into a bowl, slice fresh strawberries into it and cover the whole thing with maple granola. While Paul takes a run I sit at the picnic table overlooking the lake and eat my breakfast in relative silence.
The next day is hot and we all swim, take dogs on the paddle board, and eat. Paul and I sit, elbow to elbow in the Adirondack chairs overlooking everyone and everything. My brain begins to wake and I finish my first book eating trail mix.
We circle chairs round the fire each evening, listen to coyotes call, roast marshmallows and watch the sun set.
Paul and I walk up the road in the late afternoon sunshine, Bronte trotting beside us with her tongue hanging out. We are honest about how hard it is to do all of this and we talk about how important it is to do all of this. We know without saying that at the end of it all, being here, really being present, is what will matter. The money I don’t make while adventuring, the money we spend on the piles of food, the exhaustion, the lack of cello practice, none of it will imprint.
In this moment I’m sitting at the top of the hill with a glass of wine, watching Rufio pace back and forth hunting pumpkin-seed fish, watching our sons kayaking in tandem, inhaling the scent of homemade pizza baking in the oven for dinner, and Paul dozing in the chair beside me.
Sounds enchanting