They've Cut Silage on Jonathan Creek
It seems like it was just yesterday that I watched the guy plant that field. I suppose it must have been May. I can only conclude that it must be autumn. The sumac and the Virginia Creeper seem to agree. As does the political yard art.
Since last the sumac turned red on the side of the road, I've managed to burn and resurrect a tractor, watch most of my crops get eaten by deer, build a deer fence around (so far) about 80% of the farm, and pile up a mountain of greenhouse pieces in my front yard.
I stopped, months ago, telling people that it's been a a challenging year. I no longer delude myself so. No, it's been a year just about like any other. That's my conclusion as this growing season draws to a close: This is it. I cannot, indeed would be foolish to, expect anything better than this. It's always gonna be like this: broken equipment, ravished crops, and more projects started than completed. The question becomes: Can I accept that, or shall I forever battle against the present state of things and expect them to become my idea of better?
No, the guys were probably not thinking similar things when they were cutting that field, but they probably were hoping than none of the equipment broke and that the livestock made it through the winter. And they probably felt they couldn't be sure of either.
The perfect year is a dream of youth, and I am well beyond that. Weedless fields and bumper crops and hard-working employees and shiny equipment are elements of a fairy tale that I still, at times, wish that I lived with-in, but am slowly learning will never be.
This is as good as it gets, I say to myself as I stand near the barn and gaze out over my vast land holdings. And the true measure of my dementia is that that is fine and dandy with me. I'm just as happy here as anywhere else.
I'll watch them plant corn again on Jonathan Creek next year, and the equipment will be down or there will be a drought or a flood or a swarm of locusts or a tomato blight. Then they'll cut silage again and the sumac will decorate the sides of the roads. And then it'll all happen again the next year.
By next spring, I'll have another greenhouse built.
Since last the sumac turned red on the side of the road, I've managed to burn and resurrect a tractor, watch most of my crops get eaten by deer, build a deer fence around (so far) about 80% of the farm, and pile up a mountain of greenhouse pieces in my front yard.
I stopped, months ago, telling people that it's been a a challenging year. I no longer delude myself so. No, it's been a year just about like any other. That's my conclusion as this growing season draws to a close: This is it. I cannot, indeed would be foolish to, expect anything better than this. It's always gonna be like this: broken equipment, ravished crops, and more projects started than completed. The question becomes: Can I accept that, or shall I forever battle against the present state of things and expect them to become my idea of better?
No, the guys were probably not thinking similar things when they were cutting that field, but they probably were hoping than none of the equipment broke and that the livestock made it through the winter. And they probably felt they couldn't be sure of either.
The perfect year is a dream of youth, and I am well beyond that. Weedless fields and bumper crops and hard-working employees and shiny equipment are elements of a fairy tale that I still, at times, wish that I lived with-in, but am slowly learning will never be.
This is as good as it gets, I say to myself as I stand near the barn and gaze out over my vast land holdings. And the true measure of my dementia is that that is fine and dandy with me. I'm just as happy here as anywhere else.
I'll watch them plant corn again on Jonathan Creek next year, and the equipment will be down or there will be a drought or a flood or a swarm of locusts or a tomato blight. Then they'll cut silage again and the sumac will decorate the sides of the roads. And then it'll all happen again the next year.
By next spring, I'll have another greenhouse built.
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