It’s a quiet Sunday afternoon, the snow is gently falling and has covered the ground once again. I love the quiet that comes with snow; sounds are muffled, and the world seems a little less hectic. Fewer cars are on the road today, and except for the noise of the snowplow, I can pretend like I am in my own little world. When I attempted to fix my hair and put on makeup, Mike asked me if it was a special occasion. I laughed and told him I had an interactive Zoom Meeting from 3-5 pm, a writing class sponsored by The Carl Sandburg Home. Of course, my internet probably won’t support my use of all the Zoom features, and I will probably have to drop back to just audio for the class. Such is life with rural internet service and bad weather. I had to smile, realizing that it has been three weeks since I was last away from the farm. I haven’t seen anyone in person other than Mike and a friend through the window when she dropped off a plate of food for us. There hasn’t been any reason to “gussy up” as the old timers use to say.
My throat is scratchy today and my eyes feel like I can hardly hold them open as they water and feel “goopy”. The dry residual cough still nags me, and my chest feels tight. I am optimistic and feel far less of the brain fog, although I still tire quickly. A trip to the lab in Mt. Airy to have my annual blood work, and the subsequent trip to the pharmacy, along with some grocery shopping, evidently resulted in my contracting Covid and Strep throat simultaneously. It was bound to happen eventually. I suppose everyone, vaccinated or not, will contract the Covid virus at some point. It’s such an odd thing to contemplate, that I was able to sit for three days with my grandmother who was dying of Covid pneumonia, hold her hand, and spend time on the designated memory care wing of a senior living facility without contracting the virus. Most of the memory care wing passed away from the virus. Yet, I walked away with no issues. Not quite a year and half later, I went to get blood drawn and a small bit of shopping, wore a mask, sanitized my hands over and over throughout the day and came home with the virus.
I will admit to being angry some during the last few weeks, not that I contracted the virus, but just because the virus has been so divisive, and I am just tired of it. All of it. Aren’t we all? Maybe it’s because I have been sick and my head isn’t sorting things out correctly, or maybe it was just time for the anger to come out. I’m tired of illness, death, and most of all I am tired of all the ugliness. I contemplated not even journaling about the virus, but it’s a part of our lives and I suppose bears mentioning. Down the road, if my grandkids read my words, I am guessing it’s a part of history they wish to know. They will have their own memories and perspectives which may in fact be different from that of adults. Children view things differently, with more hope it seems, but their lives are so greatly influenced by the decisions adults make. The three grandkids who are homeschooled will remember that they started having school at home with Mom because of Covid and that when other kids returned, they did not. They are happy at home and their SAT scores are advanced for their ages. They have done well with academics, but I know being more isolated for a long period of time came with difficulties. The two who did return to school will remember being constantly cautioned to keep their hands from their face; wash, wash, wash and don’t forget your mask. Their beautiful faces are always covered. I’m fortunate enough to see pictures of them taken at school by their teachers and posted to a private page. Their bright eyes are almost always smiling above those masks. It’s a new normal for them and they don’t seem to mind. It’s just I miss seeing their youthful faces; because we remember the freedoms of our childhood, we wish the same for them.
I didn’t journal for two weeks because I just couldn’t. The brain fog for me has been debilitating. I am already so conscious of the fact that my grandmother suffered from Alzheimer’s disease, and I work hard to keep my mind active. I am always trying to exercise my brain. A sudden and severe drop in my thyroid levels affected me just prior to my covid diagnosis and had me struggling to remember things and put my words together. Then, when I contracted Covid I felt as if some grotesque packman like creature was sitting on my frontal lobe and gnawing away at my brain, one chomp at a time. I would sit down to try to put two sentences together in response to a message and interminably stare at the screen searching for words. Once I had managed to put something together, I would wonder if it even made sense. The oddest part was that normally I am so sensitive and empathetic, but I felt foreign to myself. My thoughts were raw; sadness and anger were instantaneous and without filters during the two weeks I was the sickest.
I lost my sense of taste for a while but gained it back quite quickly, for which I am thankful. Mostly my symptoms were just a nuisance except for the excruciating sore throat due to strep. With my throat covered in puss filled blisters for a period of about five days, I could do little more than sip hot tea to keep from dehydrating. I instinctively tried not to swallow, as it hurt too badly to do so. Five days I was miserable with the severe strep before the antibiotics brought relief.
Mike kept repeating that he was not going to get sick, and we tried hard to make that a reality. He slept in the living room on the couch, and I camped out in the bedroom. Eventually he succumbed. How could he not? Where I never had congestion in my chest, the illness went straight to his chest, and he was administered antibiotics for a sinus and bronchial infection. Both too weary for more than the basics, we worked together to keep the animals fed, eggs gathered, barns cleaned, and Buddy walked. I argued that the fresh air outside was better for me than the stale air indoors and pushed myself to go up the steep hills walking the dog even if it were an abbreviated version of our regular walks. Always in the back of my mind was just how fortunate we are that things were not worse, that we did not get severely ill, and that we did not have to try to find someone to come in and help us with the animals. I was also very thankful that the older calves were keeping their dams milked out so that I did not have to milk every day. We ran out of milk for the table, but I had some that I had canned in 2019. I started opening the quart jars and using it for cooking. When we had about half a pound of butter left from what I had stored away, not willing to buy butter from the store, I said it was time to pull the calves even if we were not back to one hundred percent health. And that’s it. We took care of each other, kept the fire going for warmth, cared for the animals, spent two weeks in a brain fog, and have slowly immerged to take hold and resume the responsibilities of milking and processing the milk into dairy products. We both have residual symptoms, and I am still struggling with mental sharpness, but we are thankful to be past the worst of things and moving forward once again.
February 14, 2022
These mountain hollows present their own difficulties to those who wish to farm. I guess every type of terrain has its own challenges, but flat, open land is certainly more conducive to traditional farming than the steep terrain of the Blue Ridge. I believe I am genetically predisposition to be drawn to the mountains. Flat land makes me feel like I am suffocating. I remember driving through some of the flat ranchlands out west where there was nothing to obstruct my view as far as I could see, and thinking to myself, “How could anyone want to live here?” Of course, those flatlands hold their own beauty, but there is something almost physical in my need to breathe mountain air. The last few weeks have brought home to me that eventually we will not be able to farm this land. We will run out of steam as we age and just the walk to the barn will become too difficult. And there is the danger that comes with farming such steep terrain.
Mike decided to clean the barn and spread some manure. He knew he needed to get it done before the morning progressed because the ground would thaw, and the hills would be come slick and unmanageable. As much as we realize this fact, it’s difficult to know just the moment when the ground becomes no longer navigable. I was in the house working when Mike asked me if I could come to help him. He didn’t say anything to make me think something was wrong, but I heard something in his voice and demanded to know the details. The tractor had slid down a steep bank and the manure spreader was jack-knifed. The fence had kept the tractor from going completely over the bank. Then, when Mike had tried to get the front loader in position to pull the tractor, the front loader had also slid and hooked itself on the fence. Now, he was requesting that I bring the ATV and try to pull him out. My anxiety level was maxed. I knew there were a dozen things that could go wrong, that we were both still not feeling well, and I, for one, was not processing things quicky enough to be playing this game. After about 15 minutes of various attempts to use the ATV to pull the loader (an impossible feat because the ATV could hardly pull itself up the steep and slick incline), we resorted to going to get a load of gravel to throw under the tracks of the loader. Fortunately, the loader walked right out with the added traction.
There were more moments of me catching my breath and praying for mercy as Mike attempted to use the loader to straighten the manure spreader from its jack-knifed position and then pull the tractor from the fence. Once the tractor and spreader were back on less of an incline, I began to breathe a little easier. Well, until I saw Mike getting in the loader which was still on the steep bank, and when I realized that it was starting to slide, and that he had absolutely no control over it. All I could do was stand at the bottom of the hill, my hands over my mouth to keep from screaming, and pray that he would make it in one piece to the bottom. He did. When he said he was putting the equipment away for the day, I sighed with relief.
Mike always dreams of flat land and no trees, and I feel like I will suffocate with the thought. But maybe, we will have to compromise someday and find something not so steep as the banks at Maple Lawn Farm. I don’t think my heart can survive the drama of his working this land in the years to come as he begins to age even more.
February 21, 2022
Winter’s brown is pronounced. There have been winters here in the mountain when the cows could graze on a green tinged pasture. This is not one of those years. At least we are surrounded by an abundance of evergreens. The grove of pines beside the house and the Mountain Laurel along the stream give some color to an otherwise stark landscape. I should be ready for spring, and in many ways, I am. The thought of the forsythia bushes bursting with color and the brave crocus bloom exploding from the earth are enough to make my heart lurch!
“Slow down”, I say. “There’s time for all of that."
" Once Spring begins its elaborate display, your workload will at least double if not triple," I remind myself.
I cling to the months that others are ready to discard. Soon enough the weather will be pleasant, and I will bask in the glory of it. It will, however, come with a price. I will leave behind the extra time I have had to rest and write. My body will strain under the physical labor of the additional outdoor work. I will be trying to find enough time to make cheese and preserve the harvest. Instead of a manageable routine, we will be stressed to determine how to accomplish it all. Mike will spend hours on the road traveling back and forth to Augusta County. I will worry about him being on the interstate. He will need to work like a twenty-year-old to get the hay made, and I will remind him that he is going to be sixty-two. Mike will complain that the grass needs to be mowed again, that the dog has dug holes in the yard over the winter, and that the mower tires fall into the holes and threaten to throw him off as he traverses the incline. We will be too hot, and we will sweat too much, and we will revel in all the goodness and bounty of another season while at the same time looking forward to fall.
Isn’t that what we do as humans? We are always looking forward or backward and never really enjoying what we have right now. So, I am determined to be satisfied with the winter browns that remain and the temperatures that still dip into the teens at night. I am thankful for the current slower pace. Spring will come in its own time.