We humans are attuned, whether we admit it or not, to nature’s recurring progressions—the regular cycles, long and short, of our world. That bond makes sense of phenomena like jetlag, and the depression that affects people during the diminished light of Winter. Even in a city-bound area with little or no greenery, we pick up the telltales of seasonal change without checking the calendar. It’s often the length of the day that tells us that the year is moving on. We can see the passage of time in the quality of the light.
The visual clues of days and seasons are many and varied in the country. The gradually melting snow as Winter loosens its grip is an obvious one; this year, I took optimistic note of the vegetation slowly emerging around my home site. But the subtle changes—the signs not always available elsewhere—still fascinate me after two years of living amongst fields and pastures and farms. It’s obvious now why those living on and working closely with the land and animals of our farms, must have a different connection, a different perception of nature and her cycles, than those who do not. One cannot—dare not—miss the clues and changes; such awareness is vital to the success of the crops, and the safety of both human and animal. Even just living among farms, it would take the denying of one’s own senses to not see clearly the passage of time.
My first sign of Spring this year was not a robin, but the first field I passed that was turned from its Winter sleep. That happened before the snow was gone; I’m not sure how the farmer knew it was time. The field standing out richly brown against the white sweep of the landscape was a sign of hope for which I’d not looked. The impact on my Winter-weary thoughts was strong—these folks were getting ready to plant; Winter was actually ending. I mentally blessed the farmers as they uncovered a field here and a field there, making their determined statement that there was hope—that Spring was coming. In between fields, the men broke the earth for the home gardens as well, and the women began their preparations there.
I soon began to look for the first growth of planted crops. In many fields, that couldn’t be seen, because many of the farmers here start early crops under covers that stretch the length of each row. But even those made it clear that Winter was ending. The first time I drove past a field with tiny sprouts of corn showing green against the brown, I literally cheered out loud, praising those farmers, and their faith in the passage of time and the change of seasons.
The young crops and the young animals are the signs of Spring here. The farm children as they make their way to school are as well—you can see the transition from boots and hand-drawn sleds to shoes and scooters. Then the animals celebrate their return to the fields and the sun. The horses didn’t surprise me as much as the cows—I didn’t realize until I moved here that a cow can frisk; it’s quite a sight. Watching a foal playing hide-and-seek with the elders of its herd, or lambs playing follow-the-leader under the watchful eyes of their dams, fills you with energy and makes you want to frisk a bit yourself. None of this happens all at once; it’s a gradual growth of relaxation and warmth.
And through it all, the colors change. The white and seared-earth fields become richly brown; then the brown gradually becomes fuzzy, indistinct, overtaken with the astounding variations of green. The asparagus, one of the earliest harbingers in the gardens, goes from sturdy green spears in Spring to a frothy, overgrown laciness in Summer that often stretches to four feet. The corn is six inches, then knee-high, then six feet or more. The protection for the early plantings come off—row covers or hot frames or gallon jugs looking like unlit luminaries—and the green beneath them reaches upwards, burgeoning toward the sun, growing more and more rapidly to spill out of rows with the promise of freshness and abundance.
Each month has its colors, its changes, its crops and harvests. The season moves from the brilliant green of asparagus to the rich green of a corn field to the deep, dark green of cabbage. It’s August—we have peaches and apples now, gold and red; the orange of pumpkins is visible in the fields. The smaller melons and lima beans are almost gone—the plants removed, the ground already smoothed. But sturdy heads of garlic and big, round onions, squash and cucumbers, enormous cabbages and an abundance of tomatoes… all are available to eat or preserve.
The corn has been tall, and some of it is still reaching harvest, because my neighbors plant to extend through the season, but its time is soon—the harvest of the plants themselves has already begun, to store as winter feed for the animals. The summer hay has been cut and recut at least twice. Cabbage, cauliflower and broccoli stand tall, and the tobacco is turning golden, field by field. Much of the work is done by hand here, with basic machines to do some of the cutting and pack the silage to store in the barnyards. It takes time to cut and bundle the cornstalks by hand, and by October, it will be too late. The patience of the farmer is no more apparent to me than as he bends and cuts, bends and cuts, then bundles and stacks his corn.
The trees have only begun to drop a few leaves here and there; their color is yet to come. But the fields have changed, as surely as they did in the transition from Winter to Spring to Summer. The greens are more subdued, deeper, and in some places tinted with brown; they are getting close to harvest. The animals are quieter, and graze more thoughtfully than they did a few months ago. Not all of them will be alive come Spring; that is a reality of farm life. There are turkeys in the fields now, and the lambs are almost the size of their elders. The tiny animals that ran and played have grown into adolescence, although there are still younger ones, born in the summer. The children are back in school, for now in bare feet.
And so, as I watch, time moves on. It’s a little sadder to see in some ways than it was earlier in the year, I admit. I don’t look forward as much to the cold and white as I do to the warmth and green. But it’s all a part of the cycle; it moves around us as we ourselves move through the cycles of our lives. The year moves towards its time of rest here in the North; it will be a good time for me to rest, and to reflect. Someday, I’ll not see Spring come in this world, but that needn’t be a depressing thought. Winter always has a Spring, even though its coming may not be evident—even though you have to look hard for the clues. Seeing the farmers turning fields still covered with Winter’s snow reminded me of that. So I’ll join the folks around me now, with thanks for their patient wisdom—I’ll keep my faith, let the Winter come, and patiently watch for the early signs of Spring. Because I know that there will always be a Spring.
Panther's Lair 