Chapter 16: A Lark in the Meadow

     "Lark":  "a merry or hilarious adventure."
     The "history" of the back of Iten's Acres is more involved than the front of the property.  Out front, I just picked a spot I liked, put in a flower bed, added flowers, and started looking for another spot.  No big deal.
     But when I bought the Acres, I didn't have the slightest idea what was in the back.  No clue.  From the trees right behind the house to the back of the property--and I wasn't even sure where that was--it was an overgrown tangle.  My first weekend here I forged my way through the tangle to see what I could find.  A lark in the meadow so to speak, though it wasn't really a meadow yet--just wild.  Yet, my first trek didn't uncover anything amazing--no trees of significance, no hidden pond, no Eldorado, no cool giant huge boulders, nothing to conquer.  My dreams of being the next conquistador quashed.  Not that anyone with a conscience would want to be a conquistador.  All I found was a small hill--the property slopes down toward the back of the Acres, and a wire fence that I assumed was the line between my land and the neighbor's land behind me.  I also discovered  that it was a haven for the neighborhood deer herd.  They fled like bouncing super balls when I came thrashing through the wilderness.  It was fairly obvious that they were not very brave.  I mean, they had me outnumbered a dozen to one, but away they bounced.  Obviously, this was not the "home of the brave" (at least not for the last two centuries anyway).  So the first foray into the wildness, though enjoyable, uncovered nothing mind-boggling, except that the deer obviously considered it their home, not mine.
     After Daniel Boone-ing my way back up to the house, the next course of action was obvious.  Clear away the tangles.  I asked my neighbor Aaron if he thought I could just mow it down with my old riding mower.  He told me not to try because the land was probably covered with large stones.  That did not prove to be true.   The stones out there proved no threat to my riding mower.  I honestly doubt, however, if my old mower could have handled all that brush.  Not to mention that it probably would have disappeared into one of the myriad of groundhog holes that were uncovered once the area was mowed.  So, good advice.  Wrong reasoning, but good advice.  I wonder how many times I've been guilty of that!
     Anyway, the solution to clearing away the tangles was to hire someone with a bush hog.  It took me a month, until September, to find someone.  It took him several hours to clear it.  For some reason he left two small circular areas claiming that he had seen evidence of birds there.  Really?  Birds living in a thicket in the country.  Who knew?  He also started to cut into my trees behind the house even though I had specifically told him not to do that.  Fortunately, I had gone out to check on his progress and caught him in the act before too much damage was done.  "It's hard to find good help these days."  I guess the power of the machine went to his head?
     Once cleared, the next step was to decide what to do with the area.  It was undeniably a much bigger space than out front.  There was the hill.  There was the deer herd and the groundhogs who would no doubt appreciate me planting flowers and small trees that they could munch on.  (And they have done that on occasion, but not all the things I've planted.  Some they eat.  Some they ignore.  A matter of taste I guess.)  Anyway, decisions to be made.  I knew I wanted a wild flower area.  I knew I wanted to begin an orchard. As mentioned, I was leery of putting actual flower beds out there because of the beasts.  Although, at Mom's suggestion I was considering a rock garden on a barren hill side.  In addition, I wanted to put some larger trees in the area.  Decisions.  Decisions.
     So that's a little introduction to the history of the back acres.  I wish I could tell you that the meadow larks have moved in each spring to nest.  They haven't.  They nest down the road a little bit.  Beautiful birds with a beautiful song.  What I have done with my "meadow"?  I'll tell you next time--fill in the details.  That will probably be the last chapter in the History of Iten's Acres.  Hope the journey through the last six years of this little patch of the world hasn't been too boring.  But for these six years of eternity this has been my place on earth, loaned to me by the God who created it all.  And it has indeed been a lark.
 

First Snowfall

     On a day like today--a beautiful snowfall--I always think of a poem I used to teach in my American Literature classes.  It's not a poetic masterpiece in a technical sense, but I don't worry about that stuff anyway.  I suppose that as someone who taught literature for thirty years that those things should matter to me, but they don't.  Not at all.  I don't care if it's iambic pentameter or whatever it is.  I don't care what the rhyme scheme is or even if it has one.  I prize a poem if I can see the imagery and if I can feel the emotion of the poet.  So, here's a poem for you.  Stand by my window with me, watch the falling snow on the trees and field, read, and feel the pathos--the moments in our lives when beauty, sorrow, and love are intertwined.  (If it doesn't, that's fine.  I'll enjoy it for you.)

                                              The First Snowfall by James Russell Lowell

                            The snow had begun in the gloaming,
                                 And busily all the night
                            Had been heaping field and highway
                                 With a silence deep and white.

                            Every pine and fir and hemlock
                                 Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
                            And the poorest twig on the elm tree
                                 Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

                             From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
                                  Came Chanticleer's muffled crow,
                             The stiff rails softened to swan's-down,
                                  And still fluttered down the snow.

                             I stood and watched by the window
                                  The noiseless work of the sky,
                             And the sudden flurries of snowbirds,
                                   Like brown leaves whirling by.

                             I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
                                  Where a little headstone stood;
                             How the flakes were folding it gently,
                                   As did robins the babes in the wood.

                             Up spoke our own little Mabel,
                                   Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?"
                             And I told of the good All-Father
                                    Who cares for us here below.

                             Again I looked at the snowfall,
                                    And thought of the leaden sky
                             That arched o'er our first great sorrow,
                                    When that mound was heaped so high.

                              I remember the gradual patience
                                    That fell from that cloud like snow,
                              Flake by flake, healing and hiding
                                    The scar that renewed our woe.

                              And again to the child I whispered,
                                    "The snow that husheth all,
                              Darling, the merciful Father
                                    Alone can make it fall!"

                              Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her
                                     And she, kissing back, could not know
                               That my kiss was given to her sister,
                                      Folded deep under deepening snow.