Wisdom

There is a metaphor about having a black cloud hanging over you. That seems to sum up our summer in a literal sense. In the month of July our area had approximately twenty inches of rainfall. Each day we wake and peer out of the shutters in our bedroom to see if there is any sunshine. There has become something startling, euphoric about seeing that bright yellow ball in the sky. However, one can almost count on rain at some point each day.

Today I was slicing cucumbers and white onions for sweet pickles in the kitchen, I looked up periodically and enjoyed the light play on the green moss on the rocks of the stone wall that runs the length of our front yard. It seemed that I barely looked back at the knife when I heard the very familiar whoosh of heavy rain. Startled, I looked back up and sure enough the sun was still shining and yet it was, once again, raining.

I am often awakened in the middle of the night by the curtain of water running off our metal roof. I quietly get up and slide down the window, my fear appeased by the sudden silence in the darkness.

People in our capital city are heads-down working. The flood, barely a month ago, while not yet considered a thing of the past, is definitely thrown behind us. That is what we know, that is who we are. However, the continuous rainfall batters our resolution along with our gardens. It is sometimes difficult to know exactly how to keep going.

Each morning I use our ATV to give Muir a good run or, better put, Muir runs and I futiley chase him on the ATV. Today as I came over the knoll of the hill, I looked across the valley, enjoying the light of the morning sun as it lit up the conifer points and I noticed my neighbor Donald mowing his lower field. I stopped for a minute and watched him pass in and out of my viewpoint. Later that afternoon I heard a motor and he had arrived in the driveway with an empty egg carton wanting a refill. Impeccably dressed, hair neatly combed he carefully stepped out of his vehicle. We chatted for a few minutes as I handed him twelve warm eggs. At one point he leaned toward me, making it clear he was unable to hear what I was saying. Not surprising. Donald is 95.

He lives at the top of the hill and, as you pass, you most likely will see him tinkering with his tractor, or working on his vintage auto, or preparing his chainsaw for bucking up firewood, or mowing something. If the wind is right and he hears you holler “hello” he will lift an arm with a quick wave. Donald has long passed the need for small talk, preferring to save his energy for telling a joke or sharing a story.

Donald has lived here most of his life. The old cemetery up above us, near Josh’s house, is filled with his ancestors. Across the road and up the dirt hill lived his uncle who had no electricity or running water. He tended a large garden in front of his house and sold vegetables to make money. Early when we moved here, when he was a mere lad of seventy five,Donald had some minor surgery. I made a pie and dropped a piece off to him. He took the paper plate from me with a quiet smile and closed the door. I returned a few days later with cookies- this time he laughed and said, “What have you got now​?”. Message received. Don is a giver, not a great taker. He does not want your pity or your pie, he wants your respect.

Donald is the go-to on our road. He still has complete command of his big tractor and bucket and was the hero of our chicken coop construction when he deftly placed the top of our coop in place. For years he drove his antique tractor (he is a John Deere guy) to the Labor Day parade in nearby Northfield. This year Josh found an enormous flat stone, perfect for his hearth and impossible to be moved by people alone. Having known Don since he was a child, he knew who to go to and knocked on Don’s door. The next weekend we heard the tractor roar to life and Don drove the distance from his house to Josh’s new house and taught that stone, and all of us, a lesson. When finished he lifted that arm again, gave a wave and quietly drove off.

We don’t see a lot of Donald in the winter. Arthritis flares up and if you walk by you can see him sitting in his recliner, lamp lit, reading his paper or watching TV. I wave as pass, but I do not bring pie.

When I am taking the dogs for a walk and the rain starts, again-spurring talk of another flood, I wonder, sometimes aloud, how to keep going and then I think of Donald who happily lives his life, rain or shine, as hard as he can, for as long as he can.