Spring has Sprung
Spring has finally, finally arrived at the Farmhouse. My little back-of-the-house flower garden is looking healthy, save for a big bare spot where the hollyhocks succumbed to some fungus last year. I know that hollyhocks are biennials, but supposedly they self-sow, which means after they are established there always should be some blooms each year. Looks like I will be starting over. The native poppies are taking up the slack, though, full of yellow flowers.
Apple and cherry trees were in full bloom from Shelby to Frankfort this past week, an ephemeral event to be sure. I thought I would stop on the way back to get a picture of clouds of white blossoms against the dark green hills, but the blooms had already dropped.
The other notable crop in the region is asparagus, which is at peak harvest. Asparagus, if you’ve never seen it in the field, is a strange crop all around. Tumescent stalks shove up through the soil, only to be emasculated by field hands scooting along on low tractor seat contraptions festooned with plastic tubs for the cut stems. (I’m sorry, but it really does look like a field of green penises.) The farmhands will repeat this process two or three times until the stalks become too woody (sorry), after which they are left alone for the rest of the year. An asparagus field in late summer is covered with frothy green foliage about 5 feet high.
Asparagus: you either love it or hate it. And who figured out it was edible? And were they shunned from the tribe afterward because their pee smelled funny?
The Farmhouse has a large fireplace and a great brick chimney. Last fall we had the chimney sweepers out, as we did not know when the flue had last been cleaned, which they narrowed down to never. In the process, they managed to dislodge whatever accretion of creosote and rust was holding the old damper together. We managed to make it through the winter with the help of a twisted-up coat hanger, but the sweeps were out on Friday to install a proper chimney-top damper with a chain down to the firebox. It works better in all respects, including eliminating the faint, persistent smell of campfire inside the house. They sealed some large cracks in the brickwork, and we are good to go for the next few years.
Three AM at the farmhouse, and I am up, for some reason, and notice how truly quiet the world is. I step out on the porch and at first hear nothing, there is no breeze to rustle the new leaves. Eventually I can hear the soft lapping of tiny waves against the lakeshore down below.
A lone peeper begins peeping, slowly at first, then with increasing enthusiasm for perhaps a minute, until he feels the unspoken opprobrium of frogkind and quiets down. But he is thinking “It is spring, finally, and I cannot contain my joy.”
Then I am left with only the stratospheric tinnitus in my years, refusing to go silent for even a moment. It is so high that I cannot even figure out the pitch. K-sharp, maybe?
Morning comes and the birds fill the silent spaces again. And I am off to the city until the next time, when we will sit on the porch and watch boaters on the lake and drink tea with fruit in it and have grilled steaks for dinner, hold the asparagus.