Optimism: A Homesteader's Take

Today was the first time in three or four years that I realized that, when Andy and I go to the Addison County Fair and Field Days, we pay $10 a piece to look at sheep, ducks, chickens, prize zucchini, campers, tractors, trucks, and other implements and critters. Somehow, the tradition outweighs the lack of sense it makes for us to walk around looking at things that we already own. Also worth noting about our Field Days excursions is that we always get caught in the rain. Today was no exception.

The foreboding clouds swept in over the fairgrounds right on schedule, after Andy had downed the last bite of his cheesesteak (we can usually make it to lunchtime before the weather turns traitor on us). Fair goers were looking up at the sky in much the same way the citizens of Oz bustled around when the Wicked Witch of the West circled overhead spelling out her message of doom to Dorothy, so we knew it was our cue to take off. On the way home, I realized that I was in a race against time with this storm; I had left the roof vents of the camper open when I left the house! I needed to get there in time to close them lest there the kitchen table (aka, my office) and the back bed get drenched (I speak from experience). We had come in two cars and Andy was ahead of me, having started out at a good clip and giving me confidence that we would make it home in time. What I saw next changed all of that.

Three cars ahead of us was a Buick.

I don't think you need me to explain what being at the mercy of someone driving the official pace car of the AARP parade (with impending clouds of doom overhead, no less) did to our timetable. By the time we hit Ireland Road, the storm was in full rager mode and, as we cleared the last corner, I spied piles and piles of white. Too soon for snow, yes, but not too soon for devastating hail. The camper and yard looked like they had been on-lot for the first day of shooting a Jerry Bruckheimer-esque cautionary tale about climate change. Take a look:

Everything was devastated. I felt the urge to look around the blackened basil, smushed lamb's ear, destroyed squash, hacked hydrangea, and sorry little sunflowers for the giant or witch that had come fee-fi-fo-ing through my summer pride and joy and crushed it. I couldn't even muster anger or tears, it was just a letting out of breath as I walked through the detritus, knowing that there was no way we were going to make a full recovery in the month we have of reasonable growing season left. It'd take something close to a miracle to salvage everything after a whalloping like this. It felt a lot like defeat.

The sun popped back out and began to warm the air, but the temperature had tumbled from near 80 degrees to just above 50 in less than half an hour. In other words, it has a big job to do. As I began to trim away the squash leaves that were beyond saving--it was the only thing I could think of doing that seemed remotely productive--I heard two familiar sounds. One was the buzz of the bees who make their living in our gardens. They are ever-busy and particularly in love with the salvia that is slowly taking over certain parts of the garden (fine by me!). The other sound was these two chuckleheads trotting through the pasture, happy as clams at the sudden boon of fresh, fast, frigid water and all that it brings.

I'll need to see a little bit of a rebound in the raised beds and surrounding environs before I'm as happy as the ducks or am able to just get back at it like the bees, but they helped me realize two things about this flash storm, or anything that doesn't quite go our way here on Hell Mountain (which happens a lot, as it turns out). The first is that you've got to dust yourself off and remember why you're here. The second is that pausing for a moment to remember how wonderful it is that you're not doing this on such a scale as to make it your livelihood is every bit of perspective that you need to take when you're feeling crushed. And then the long-gone (but not forgotten) copywriter in me decided that it was time for a new motto:

"Hell Mountain Farm: Could Be Worse"

Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?