Letters From Home (11) The Storm
Dear Zoe,
It's been a busy here, not just for me, but it seemed like every
farmer was working hard yesterday harvesting soybeans as if
the beans were all about to disappear! That's not too far from being
correct, because we are expecting at least four days of rain along
with pretty stiff winds.
The beans won't disappear if they're not brought in and put to
bed in their giant bins, but it will be quite some time before
they will be dry enough for harvesting again. The dry days of
autumn will return soon enough, it's just a matter of time.
Farmers have to be patient: sometimes they're waiting for rain,
sometimes they're waiting for the rain to stop. Maybe it's not
patience, maybe it's just being realistic, things are what they
are.
The people who live here between ocean and bay are the same way,
they patiently await a storm called "Frankenstorm" by some
who want to make entertainment out of very serious business. We
wait for days of hard rain, days of constant wind. We wait for
the electricity to go off, for trees to fall under the weight of
rain and wind. We wait for the end of the storm with the
patience of the reality that it WILL end and that days will go
on afterwards. We take what is handed to us and try not to
imagine what might be handed to us.
You know, big meals are best consumed in small bites, the same
goes for storms and life.
I'm about ready for supper!
All my Love,
Uncle Roy
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Updated: 1:19 PM GMT on October 28, 2012
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The Story and The Poem
The Story:
I heard a once familiar birdcall a couple of weeks ago, from a bird
I've never seen on the farm in the 12 years I've lived here, but I
distinctly remembered that call. I also know that the year-round-
resident mockingbirds have heard it before and wouldn't hesitate
to practice it at my expense! Later in the week I was surprised and
happy to see at least three bluejays streaking back and forth through
the trees calling that same familiar, raucous call.
"Having" jays is spotty here, I remember years ago while living
just 15 miles north in a small community, a much less wild
environment than the farm, that a friend involved in the local
annual bird count asked if I'd mind his stopping by with team
members to count jays at my feeder! You either had jays or not,
and most places just didn't!
It's also the time-of-year when the oaks are throwing their fading
energies into fattening their fruit, the acorns. Plump, and still
soft-shelled, the acorns are the larder for the jays: the tree
to which the jays flew was dripping with flight food.
So, though I continue to have hopes for a winter presence of the
colorful jays, and will continue to tempt them with the sadly
deficient sunflower and safflower seeds, their somewhat annoying
"song" hasn't scolded me for the past week. Maybe this troupe
moved on farther south, maybe another will stop for the slimmer
pickings at the winter bird feeding station and stay local. In
any case, for now, both bluejays and acorns are gone.
The Poem:
Jays in the trees eat
Ripe acorns to fuel their flight;
And then they are gone.
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Updated: 10:16 AM GMT on October 14, 2012
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