A Quiet Dawn

It's been so wicked cloudy in the last few weeks that, when there is a sunrise, I go for it. I want to see that light spread across the sky and land, across the houses and barns and the backs of black cattle. I want to see it light up the ponds, make sky-holes of them. I keep checking the sky as 7 AM approaches. If there are breaks in the clouds, I know I may have a show to enjoy.

I remember going to Sanibel Island and Siesta Key in Florida and being completely charmed by the fact that sunrise and sunset are community events. People deliberately take time out of their day to go witness what, for them and for me, are miraculous, if daily, events. They lug lawnchairs to the beach and sit and watch.

Rarely content to sit, I like moving around under a beginning sky. The turn of the seasons, and the prospect of a long, mostly dreary cloud-socked MOV** winter,  pushes me to savor what I'm given. Don't get me wrong: clouds are among my favorite things. But I like to see light play on them, so a few breaks in the cover are what I'm after.

**Mid-Ohio-Valley
 Very funny story...Facebook discussion revealed many are wondering what an MOV winter is. Harma pointed out that the Google is no help; tells you it stands for MOV (metal oxide varistor, a type of movie file). The other thing Urban Dictionary will tell you MOV is an abbreviation for mother***** aaaaaaaaaccck! These winters get me down but not that much! Anyway, sorry to be obtuse. Or even obliquely profane, which I try not to be, at least here in my shiny blog living room. I briefly considered defining the acronym as I wrote this post, then thought, ahh, people can Google that if they don't know what MOV means...well...back to our originally scheduled programming.

Some sunrises are a slow bleed of color into a pure blue sky. Those are fine, too. Rare, and fine.

I hurried to see the sun peek over the hills. These heifers are always curious about me, as young things are.

The sun lights the side of a barn, and teases a pond out of a dark hollow. The pond gazes up at the sky. That's all it can see.

 

A Rose of Sharon bush has thrown its seeds and become a wild hedge of them, in particolors of pink, red and white. I just finished shearing my beautiful Satin series "Bluebird" before the 1.2 million seed pods it has set are able to dry out, burst open, and shake their progeny all over my flower beds. The things you don't think about when you're smitten with a Rose of Sharon at the nursery! I've learned through hard experience to do this. If I don't, I get to pull 1.2 million woody seedlings the next fall.

Phoebe came back from a run asking about these flowers she'd seen back in August. She's the reason I headed out the ridge in this unaccustomed direction. I don't know why I get so set in my ways, and only run the paths I'm accustomed to. But I'm glad I followed her lead, this time and so many others. 

 

 

 A new mother comes to the fence to tell me her calf is off-limits. She lowers her head and tosses it in an unmistakable threat. It's awfully late for a wee calf. He'd better eat up, put some weight and hair on before the winds turn biting cold.

 

Another look at this lovely scene, the one that got me hooked. This time, there's no drama in the sky, just the slow bleed of color that I love as well. A few starlings on the wire, singing their wandering song of fall.

Further on, I hear something like a lion roaring, and I realize it's an Angus bull, calling to his herd. 

Some young heifers have been moved across the road, to fresh pastures, and probably to be out of his...sphere of influence, and he doesn't like it one bit. Turn your sound up, and see if his low moans  transport you to the veldt.

            

I turn for home with the sun high in the September sky.
 By the time I'm done watching the cattle and headed back, the barn with the star on it looks like this:



I chug along, headed to the drawing table to get to work.

In the field along my road, I see a sign of the times. All its leaves have fallen, and the milkweed is letting go.

How to Start a Good Day

It's taken Liam awhile to get into the swing of summer training for cross-country, but I can see him starting to look forward to his morning run. It helps that it's been miraculously cool here, overcast but bright. It helps that the fields smell absolutely Elysian after the recent haying. Like his mother, he is a creature of the senses. 

We left together, but it wasn't long before I had to stop for a bouquet. He kept going, saving the music I find obnoxious for when he was out of earshot. He's a considerate boy. I can't imagine having any music but the birds and insects when I'm running. I am in the minority, I know, but I'd as soon run blindfolded as stick plugs in my ears that would drown out the hum, buzz and rattle, the warbles and twitters; the music of the summer fields. 

It wasn't long before Liam was but a red dot on the hill. Thanks to their superior speed and youth, I've never actually been able to run "with" my kids. That's OK. I'm good alone. If I need to talk, I'll talk to the dog. 

Or the cattle. I am very taken with this year's crop of calves. This is such a handsome and unusual boy with his white face and rich brown body. 

I love getting to know the new calves. The little bull on the right has just gotten up and is stretching. See his dropped chin and raised tail?

The cow I call Whitey (I know, not very creative) has an all-brown calf this year! How do you get an all-brown calf out of such a flashy, beautifully marked mother and the classically marked Hereford father?

This is Bully, the putative father.  I don't know. Maybe Bully isn't this calf's father. I need to ask Bob. I love the little white rings around the base of both Bully's ears. He is a very nice bull in every way. He's steady and kind. Bulls always look so round, so firm, so fully packed. They haven't got calves draining them dry all day, after all.

I go a little farther and see Liam hunkered down well ahead in the road. I wonder if he's looking at an interesting roadkill, and decide not. He's way too squeamish to hunker down next to one the way I do.

I figure out what he was up to when I get closer.

These kids, they light up my life. No boy could be sweeter than Liam. In an answer for him to find on the return trip, I send an arrow through his heart with pebbles. By the time he comes back, though, the Sunday morning church traffic has smooshed and scattered our correspondence. It's the thought that counts.

Thrilled to see Bob has let the milkweed meadow go this year. I'm unused to seeing such ripe hay around here. Then again, it's been so wet he may not have gotten a chance to cut it.

We have our own little Fourth of July fireworks going on.

 I can hardly run for all the things I'm seeing. I enjoy it all so. I got to thinking this morning that my life would seem impossibly austere to many people. I don't drink, alter myself with any substance, go out at night, go to movies, go to malls; I don't hang out at bars unless we're playing in one. I wear 25-year-old clothes, supplemented by the occasional Eddie Bauer outlet binge. I go to the grocery store and the bank once a week.  I don't go much of anywhere unless I'm giving a talk or leading a field trip.

 My life is geared to have the maximum opportunity

 to do 

exactly

this.

I think about the last shot I took, sort of hard and spiritless, and swing around to get some sidelight on the same milkweed plant. That's better.

I see a spiny cucumber vine climbing the ShadowBarn, something that never would have been allowed to happen when Lester and Linda lived there. My neighbors have both long gone to their rewards, too early. Both of them chainsmoked, and I saw it coming probably long before they did.

It feels funny to have outlived anyone, but that's what happens when you live somewhere for 22 years.

Such a pretty vine. I rip spiny cucumber vines off my raspberries every day. It grows a mile a minute, throwing curly tendrils on everything.

Looks like it went into the barn for a few days and then thought better of that.

Came back out into the light, it did.

Around the side, I find the same plant climbing a hapless chicory. Chet bombs the photo, pauses while I shoot. Atta boy. At this point he knows I want him in every shot. Of course I do.

I don't know what I'll find around the south side of the barn until I round the corner. 

And it takes my breath away.

Sure, chicory and field daisies came here from Europe, but so did my grandparents. 

Today, we're all true blue Americans.

I'm so deep in my right brain I have no idea I've just shot a red, white and blue tableau until several people point it out to me on Facebook. Oh! Aren't I clever. Not. All I am is dazzled by the perfection of these rough-sawn boards, the paint weathered away everywhere but the saw grooves, and this impossible, shivery blue lavender flower that I love more than almost any other. And barn red? The perfect backdrop. Is it any wonder we painted our house exactly this hue?

Today, the rose of Sharon "Satin Blue" is out full as full can be. 

I love this plant so, so much. Even though it throws leggy babies all through my gardens. Look at those deep green leaves, those thickly clustered blossoms, that growth habit. It's a real improvement on the old-fashioned plant. That color!! It's almost as nice as chicory blue.

When we were deciding on the house color I put color chips behind this plant and picked the one that set it off best. Think I got it right this time. 

Another alien gone native, another perfect summer bouquet. 

Someone has planted little cemetery flags on the corner of Best Hollow Road. I approve.

When they get old and tattered and faded I gather them up and bring them home and hang them in my studio. I think they're so much more beautiful that way. Maybe it's because I'm getting a bit weathered too.

We go to the old farmstead, and find the wet year has made a bumper crop of crabapples. These are delicious little things when ripe, yellow with a red blush. I love sour things and eat them by the handful in September.

The well gives up its coolness to us. The water's still moving from Chet's lapping, but he doesn't let me catch him drinking.

I inspect the Concord grape that feeds me so well in autumn. Oh my gosh there are banquets everywhere a-coming! I've never seen such a year, fruit hanging heavy everywhere I look.

The vine clambers over stacks of pipe in the mouth of an old shed.

I can't wait to photograph these when the grapes are blue and the leaves are yellow.

The open window of the old house beckons, but I won't be shinnying in there to explore today. 

I like to have company for such a venture.

The last time I went in I found the most marvelous things. I placed an old dinette chair just inside the window to ease my passage for the next time, so I won't have to land on my hands on broken glass and nails.

I'll tell you about that excellent adventure soon. Please note awesome 40's wallpaper.

A wild turkey tailfeather. I always find turkey tracks, feathers and poop on this unusued lane. 

I stop to examine it, and it tells me things.

This feather came from a year-old bird. Not this year's poult, but 2014's.  I can tell it's a young bird by the uncertain and indistinct black barring. The little white fault marks on the shaft mark interruptions and surges in growth, typical of young birds. Perhaps there are those who could tell the sex of the bird from this feather, but I'm not one of them. This bird is molting its central tail feathers in the late-summer molt. New longer ones will grow in, and that will give its fanned tail a distinctive uneven outline--a bump out--at the apex of the fan. That will persist through its next spring and summer. You can age a wild turkey that way. Young birds have protruding central feathers in the fanned tail. When the bird molts and replaces all its tail feathers, the fanned tail will have an even outline, so you'll know it's older than two.

We move down the hill and I find the mystery slip has slipped further down the face of The Toothless Lady.

If I really wanted to, it's low enough now that I could snag it and try it on. I might just take it one of these days, when it falls. I don't understand how it's still hanging on after all these months, but it hasn't been a very windy summer.

I laugh to think of how I'll look in it, and whether I'll be bold enough to post a photo.

Something to look forward to for the easily amused.

Headed home now, and there's that chicory again. The light is hard now, but it's not getting too hot. This summer is a gift.

Chet stretches out in the shade on our road, and I sit down beside him to let him rest. He notices the scabs on my legs from all the brush clearing I've been doing, and tenderly cleans me up.

I always think of how Gomez kissed Morticia up and down her arms on The Addams Family when Chet does this.
He has this special lick he does when he finds a bleeding scratch that's very soft and tentative, very tender. I just love the notion that a dog could empathize, be so careful, and know what hurts. His breeder Jane Streett used to tell me stories about Chet Baker as a little puppy before we came to pick him up. She said he used to chew on her toes as she worked at her computer. When he bit too hard with his tiny milk teeth, Jane would yelp, and Chet would immediately switch to licking her toes.

Ten years later, he is still the sweet boy.

Waiting in a nest box along the driveway: new bluebirds. The cycle comes around again.

This is how we start a good day.