BND columnist reflects on spending Autumn life on the farm in Missouri
Once, Autumn on the farm in Missouri was a time of tradition.
There was the annual wiener roast, often with a brush pile fire so hot no one had to (or could) go within 20 feet of the fire to warm any hot dogs.
There always was too much food, even potato chips. That also was true on Thanksgiving when the leftovers would pack a larger refrigerator and spill over into two deep freezes in the basement.
Even if there were still enough of the old crowd to have these rituals we couldn’t this year because of the pandemic. It is masks and social distancing, even out here close to the middle of nowhere in Montgomery County, Missouri. Even in this sparsely populated county, cases of COVID-19 are popping up and people are taking warnings a little more seriously.
But things change. Traditions morph to fit circumstances.
The garden, with its fresh produce, was one of Grandpa’s passions. He is gone and so is it. No longer does he do battle with wily raccoons stealing sweet corn. No more miniature electric fences around the garden and dogs penned up nearby.
Retirement means instead of rushed weekend visits to the farm, we can stay pretty much as long as we like now in a rustic cabin we built on an old trailer frame. No more vying for space in the house.
Instead of watching our son, Matthew, help his grandpa, now we watch him farm on his own. We raised and ate some milo-fed turkeys for a few years and collected eggs from a few chickens. Now there are peacocks in the coop and we try to keep them safe from the yipping coyotes we hear at night and from the prowling raccoons. Those animals are equal opportunity predators.
More on the horizon
Cattle still roam the pastures and feedlot and Matthew was off cutting soybeans last week. We drive around large bales of hay which are stacked all over waiting to be fed later this winter. The umpteenth generation of barn cats wait by the tractor shed for the old woman to bring out their dinner.
But sometimes, aching joints, limbs and other parts have us driving up and down the road in the John Deer Gator instead of walking with the dogs. Luckily it doesn’t matter to them how we get around as long as they get to sniff in all the ditches, dig up field mouse holes, dash into ponds and just generally have a wonderful country dog time.
On this day the sun has disappeared behind gray clouds and the wind out of the southwest has gotten colder. Sprinkles of rain threaten but over to the north, a short piece of a rainbow disappears into the low layer of gray clouds.
The dogs roam freely under an outdated fence which is just one strand of barbed wire strung from crooked wooden posts. They run through paths trampled into the weeds by any number of animals who leave behind tempting delicious smells. A wren of some type flits from post to post, waiting for us to catch up before flying ahead until it apparently tires of the gamer and darts off.
Blues skies, an arthritic dog and bare fields
The fields are bare now and you can see your neighbors’ places for miles around if there were any neighbors left along this barren stretch of gravel road.
As we come back along the road, driving at a creeping pace so one old arthritic dog can keep up, to the west, blue skies are peeking through the clouds and the sun pops out annoyingly bright in my face even as I am holding up a hand to shield my eyeglasses from a few blowing droplets of rain.
Still, it is comforting to know that no matter what changes the future holds, one tradition that will never change is the unpredictable weather.