Leaving

Leaving the farm is never easy for me. For one thing, it’s usually the case that many projects are underway, which all have to be stopped or stalled. Then there are chickens to consider – providing them with enough food, water (and these nights, heat) to survive their keeper’s absence. There are lists to make and complete: things to pack, to bring, to give to others; things to do here and enroute. And the house must be shut down, which is not as simple as locking the door. It involves checking all the windows and the doors, making sure enough heat is left on to protect the pipes if it’s going to be very cold, leaving lights on strategically, closing curtains. The mice are never far away so extra care is taken to remove little bits of temptation such as crumbs on counters and floors.

Chores aside, departure often feels to me as if I were a plant being pulled out of soil. It’s an uprooting, unsettling kind of feeling that seems to disturb deep and ancient instincts. I am of the Farm and it is of me. Leaving, even for short trips, is something like leaving a trusted friend behind.

The Farm is a dynamic system, with interconnections of many kinds that require tending and if not monitoring, at least awareness. Some of these are alive, some are elemental, some are mechanical. Chickens and streams and chimneys.

When I’m away, there’s always a nagging sense of worry, of not knowing if something is going wrong while I’m gone, and the corresponding potential frustration of not being able to fix the problem, or mend the damage. Part of this worry stems from past experience. Take the flood this Spring. I’d gone down to Virginia for a few days, and came back the day after a torrential and truly unusual downpour, which dumped four and five inches of rain in less than an hour onto the farm and the mountain behind.

The memory of turning off the county road into the farm lane, and seeing an almost impassable washout, with 2-foot deep ruts cut by rushing water is still nearby and in color. The sense of dread that flavors the memory is also alive: it water could cut this deep so close to the road, what on earth will I find at the top next to or in the house? The story of The Flood will be told another time, but I can say that it took most of the summer to clear the immediate damage. Had I been there at the time it might have been possible to divert the stream sufficiently to avoid the worst of it.

I’m away visiting at the moment. There had been high wind and heavy thunderstorm advisories the day I left, so before leaving I moved some of the rocks in the stream to divert the water away from the house if the rain was torrential.

Tonight I see by the local weather report that night temperatures are down very low – in the mid-20’s. The 7-day forecast predicts three more such nights. I fear for the chickens should their heat lamp burn out. I feel relieved that just the day before I left, I’d been able to drain all the outside water lines, blow them out with compressed air and fill the main line with antifreeze. It takes only 3 freezing nights to form ice in plumbing. I hope the fireplace will draft properly when I get back – it will take days to warm the rocks.

Chickens and streams and chimneys.