I put on my slicker and big hat and head out to feed and water, and to bring in a load of firewood.
The cold mist drifts in the air this day at the Chicken Ranch. Fog has draped around us like a thin grey curtain. Water drips from tree branches on to the backs of tiny birds, and they shake their feathers and shiver against the cold wetness. It is the kind of dampness that settles in a old cowboys bones, and offers an achy reminder that he has used his body for a machine too many times over the years. Knees and shoulders telling me I should've used a tractor to move things, or to carry loads that were too punishing on joints and cartilage. Young, impetuous, and impatient once. Not young any longer that’s for sure, not impetuous either. Impatient? Yeah, afraid I’m still there.
The sounds are few and muffled in the watery air. There is little activity around here this winter morn. Many of the chickens have decided to stay in their houses where it is dry, and wait for the cracked corn to come to the yard.
Hershey, the Chocolate Labrador Canine Security System (his official title), peeks his head out of the dog house as if to say, “Miserable ain‘t it?” “Some sentinel you are” I tell him. He reluctantly leaves his warm, dry bed of straw, and runs along while I carry water. He lets me know that a hen is out, and chases her until she gets to the edge of the fence and flies over. He has never hurt them, but just herded them all these years. It figures I’d have a labrador retriever that hates water, and thinks he’s a Border Collie.
A fox squirrel sits on a tree branch above the chicken yard. He’d give his back teeth for a nibble of the corn being tossed to the hens. But, after calculating the risks, i.e. big rooster, dog, and me, he decides to just move on and forage in the nearby woods.
After I feed the rabbit, our resident free loader that is my grandsons’ pet, I turn to head up to the woodshed. The smell of oak, hickory, and other woods fills my senses as I enter it. Happiness is a large wood pile, that’s one of the many things me and old Davy Thoreau agree on. I never tire of that split wood bouquet. I have appreciated that smell all of my life. My earliest childhood memories are of wood stoves and wood piles on the farms of Armstrong Valley and Shelby County, Kentucky. Two places that are the base of my DNA, down there in Gods country.
I gather up an armload of firewood, and head to the house. Won’t need but a low fire today. Just enough to dry the air a bit, and provide some visual comfort while I sip a cup of strong black coffee. May do a little writing today, or watch an old John Wayne western. May set up the lighted ceramic village for Patty that we put out each winter. May take a good winters nap in my leather recliner that I love.
I’ll probably do all these things as the day progresses. After all, it’s gonna be a wet weekend, and all these happy things can be done inside…where its cozy, warm, and dry.
The temperature was an unusual 63 degrees. I decided to take a drive along the narrow country back roads near the Chicken Ranch. I rolled the window down, and drifted along at a leisurely 25 miles an hour. I didn’t want to hurry through this winter reprieve. I wanted to feel the wind, smell the woodland air, and soak in the atmosphere of peace.
The roads rose and lowered like ocean swells, and the little red truck responded like a sailboat in the wind. Narrow ribbons of blacktop and gravel flowed through field and forest, just like the watery creeks on either side of them. Some dirt roads led through fields and woods, and then out of sight, making me wish that I could explore each one to solve the mystery of where they went. Did they lead to a pond or stream? Was there an old barn or abandoned house to explore at the end?
I could make a life of following roads, gravel and grass and dirt, just to see where they lead. Just to discover what secret things lie waiting at the roads conclusion.
The wind was blowing strong from the south, and danced hop-scotch across the prairie grass, leaving its ghostly imprint first here, then there, until the vegetation was released and rose to height again. Occasionally a gust would strike the truck and loosen my cowboy hat a bit. I just pushed it tighter to my head, and enjoyed the fresh air on my skin. Tree branches, with only a leaf or two intact, rose and dipped in the southerly breeze.The few leaves that fell blew briskly across my path. Corn husks, blown from un-plowed fields, skipped in front of the truck, like so many tan seahorses on parade.
A few red and copper colored leaves were nearly all that remained on the trees around me. The faded green leaves and red berries of bushes along the fence rows, stood out against the darker green of the cedar trees. Golden brown grasses lined the bottoms of rusty barbed wire fence, which clung to sentinels of gray weathered posts. Here and there, weary wooden gates stood guard, sagging under the weight of time and season.
Crows noisily peppered a harvested cornfield, while a flock of wild turkeys scratched for what was left in a bean field on the opposite side of the road. Occasionally, a red fox squirrel would scamper across the road. He needn't hurry, he was in no danger as I putted slowly along . The cattle dotted the knobs and valleys, grazing contentedly. Only the cows close to the fences raised their heads as I passed, then went back to feeding on the tough winter grasses. Birds flitted from bush to bush and limb to limb. A multi colored pheasant stood by one road, and watched cautiously as I rolled by. A honking gaggle of geese glided slowly down to a farm pond. It was time to rest from their journey south.
All the time I was driving, clouds had rolled steadily in. They now covered the sky from horizon to horizon like a blue/gray veil. The air began to cool with the departure of the sun. Day mellowed softly into night, and the smell of rain was on the wind. I rolled down my shirt sleeves and cranked the window some, but couldn’t bare to put it all the way up just yet. With the sun lowering into the western sky, I reluctantly turned the truck down a black narrow thread of road that headed off to the west.
There was no mystery in this particular stretch of oil and gravel. This curvy country road offered a hot cup of coffee, a warm fireplace, and supper on the stove. It wound its way through the woods and fields, through knobs and hollows, and ended right where I needed it to. This country back road led the way home.
Patty and I spent a balmy evening with Jody and Jodie Mauck, dear friends we have known since we were teens. We all met in the Mississippi river town of Hannibal Missouri, the hometown of Mark Twain. The annual Christmas Parade was this night. And the town was all atwitter.We browsed a local antique shop and waited for the parade to begin. After perusing a shop or two and dining at a local grille, someone on the street announced to all that the parade was under way.
It was like any small town parade. Fancy convertibles with pretty Queens and Princesses of one association or another, all dressed in their best, and with glittering tiaras on their heads. There were fire trucks and police cruisers honking loud horns and sirens. Many gaily adorned floats were seen (one even showered the street with artificial snow) and, of course, Santa and his elves. Yes, it presented all the Christmas flare of a typical December night. The difference was that everyone was in their shirt sleeves. Many of the parades' pretty girls were in their best summer attire and I think poor Santa was roasting in his suit. With temperatures in the sixties, it seemed more like Easter Parade weather than a December event. However, though the temps were spring-like, the atmosphere was all North Pole and Christmas.
The streets were alive with excited children, some with red stocking caps, holding bags in great anticipation of candy and other gifts. They shouted in delight when they heard “HO HO HO”, and a jolly white-bearded man in a red suit rounded the corner, in the company of green and red clad little folks with pointy ears. The many Christmas lights in the shop windows lit up the night in a dazzling display of color. Garland hung from the old style street lamps and red bow adorned wreaths hung on nearly every restaurant and shop door. Shopkeepers took a break from their tasks to stand in their doorways to watch the happy event. Some would even tell the few disinterested customers “Take a look around, I’ll be right outside the door when you want to check out.” This was an event not to be missed.
We stood outside one of the many antique shops along the riverfront area, and watched the folks waving and smiling, enjoying the evening. I was struck by the thought that, in front of these same old buildings, Samuel Clemens himself had similarly witnessed the arrival of Christmases 150 years ago. One of the floats even carried the winners of the Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher contest, both wearing period dress. Cute kids for sure. They smiled and waved merrily to the crowd. Yes, the night was filled with cheery folks and goodwill.
The waitresses at the cafe where we dined were extra congenial this night. Store owners did not seem as weary at seven o’clock in the evening as they usually would. In fact, one owner stayed open past her usual closing time while we browsed, and as I struggled with my desire for an antique rocking chair. I wanted it. It was exactly like the one I remember my great grandmother kept in her bedroom to sit in. But I ultimately decided against buying it.
As we checked out with the small purchases our friends had made, the owners smiled brightly, and in passing conversation only, did we find that we had gone past closing time and that these poor folks hadn’t had their supper yet. We apologized and hurried out, even though I still had a longing for that chair.
Every shop had their best Christmas displays in the windows, and besides the usual bistro aromas, the street smelled of peppermint, cinnamon, and pine from the food and items presented for the holidays. Nearly everyone we met smiled and said hello, and remarked on the beauty of the evening. Feeling generous myself, I paid for the dinner with our friends. It was a bargain price for a grand evening of great weather, laughter, food, and friendship. And we ended the evening back at our friends house for desert. A wonderful beginning to the Holidays. And if I had held any doubt that the Christmas Spirit was alive and well last night, it would have been gone today.
I awoke this morning and thought about that oak rocking chair with the big thick cushion. As I poured my coffee, I said to Patty “ I would like to go back to Hannibal after Sunday Meetin' and buy that old chair.” She looked up from her cooking and smiled, but shook her head no.
“We can’t”. Oh, okay. She grinned and said “ I have already talked to Jodie and she is picking it up for you today after they finish dinner.” Really? Well...Merry Christmas to me. And to you as well, Sam Clemens... say hello to Tom and Huck for me.
