Questing Parson

When Spring Comes

As I write this the sun is shining brightly, yet the temperature is moderate. The wind and sun have partnered to make a perfect day. Previous rains nourished the grass pushing its green green color up in a close race with equally nourished weeds.

A male cardinal sits outside the window, perched on the wooden frame that holds the bird feeder. He's looking at me. The feeder's almost empty. My brother's a retired federal fish and wildlife enforcement officer. He tells me not to feed the birds in spring and summer. He's got a gun. I bow to his informed wisdom.

The rains have washed the yellow pollen coating from the red car. The air's clear of the allergy causing dust, having been cleansed also by the rains.

My neighbor is shooting hoops with his three children in the street. Another neighbor from the other end of the street just flew by on his skate board.

The young red tailed hawk who last year claimed dominion of the skies over my house just passed by, traveling the silent air currents. His new mate flies beside and a a bit behind. I wonder if she's pleased with her new digs. She sure seems pleased with him.

Spring has sprung in Georgia. The only thing standing between me and a glorious five months of delightful weather is Blackberry Winter. It only lasts a couple of days, a brief reminder to be grateful for what is to come. Knowing it's the harbinger of summer I'll welcome those few days of chill, embracing them for the promise they are.

The rain of which I spoke lasted two days. But the days prior were also clear and sunny, warm but not hot, a call to get up and get going. I did.

An amazing thing happened. The lawnmower cranked on the second pull on the rope. I was off. Back and forth across the lawn, leaving that neat trail of evenly trimmed grass, the mark of a true yard man, to form a pattern a well tended and truly cared for yard.

I paused at the end of the cutting. There was a bit of ache in the small of my back, a feeling, I hope, not uncommon to others my age. But it was only a bit of an ache. There was more to be done. The flower beds needed weeding.

Is it just me or have you also noticed that hoes gain weight with little use? Funny, I wasn't that conscious of the weight until I'd been at it a half hour. Is it just me or have you also noticed the length of flower beds also multiplies with disuse? The day was almost done by the time I got to the end of that bed.

The next day I awoke with a bit of an ache in the lower back. Well, it wasn't a bit; it was more than that. But with thirty minutes in a scalding shower it minimized. I set out on my appointed rounds to do the things that needed to be done. I returned home mid afternoon.

The vegetable bed needed tilling. Amazingly, the tiller cranked on the third pull. I bounced along behind it until I finished.

The next day it rained. It's the day after the rain and I'm looking out the window. I'm inside looking out the window because I'm so sore I just can't get up from this sofa.

A Visit To the Farm

The parson walked to his car. It had been an interesting visit.

Joe had entered the senior facility almost a year ago. His dementia was getting progressively worse and his wife couldn't provide adequately for him. The decision had been painful, but it had been the best one. Joe's wife was, for the first time in almost a decade, able to live without stress, worry, and fear. At first, she visited Joe seven days a week, staying almost every day. Over the course of the year, as his condition grew worse, she settled into a routine of Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. On the other days she reclaimed her life by gardening, spending time with grandchildren, and visiting the home bound members of the church.

This particular Monday, she'd not been able to visit Joe. She jumped off a small wall in the yard and sprung her ankle. The parson had volunteered to make her visit for her.

“Do I know you?” Joe had asked as the parson walked into his room.

“You do, Joe. I'm your pastor.”

Joe squinted his eyes. “You're my pastor?”

“I am?”

Joe squinted some more. “How long have you been my pastor.”

“About eight years, Joe.”

“Hmmm,” he still squinted. “You'd think they'd have run you off by now.”

“I'm still hanging around, Joe. Do you mind if I sit down?”

“You don't need my permission,” said Joe.

The parson sat. There was a moment of silence. Joe turned to stare out the window.

“What have you been doing lately, Joe?”

“I've been pondering when to harvest the crops,” Joe said. “Kind of hard to figure out the weather. I'm thinking maybe next week I should start.”

The parson waited a moment. He thought about the time he'd been in Clinical Pastoral Education training. In those days “reality therapy” had been the thing. The parson wasn't much on reality.

“What crops do you have in this year?”

“Corn, got about ten acres of corn. It's that hybrid kind. Supposed to be really resistant. Don't know what got into me but I planted a huge field of watermelons. I think we got just about enough rain. They should be sweet, I mean reaaalll sweet. And I've got the usual, beans, okra, tomatoes. I'm planning to have a little stall up by the strip mall and sell a good bit of the produce. Should bring in a little nest egg for the rest of the year.”

“Sounds like you've been busy.”

“I have. Hey, you wanna see the crops?” Joe rose and headed toward the door while motioning the parson to follow him.

The parson got up from his chair and began to follow. “Where are we going?” the parson asked.

By now they were even with the nurses' station. Joe pointed out the large picture window in the waiting area. “Out there; the farm.”

The parson looked to the nurse. “Just stay in the garden, Parson,” she said. “Don't take him off the property.”

The parson followed Joe. They walked around the circular path of the flower garden now showing its winter drab. “Look at this corn,” Joe said. “Have you ever seen corn stalks this tall. I mean this is going to be a bumper crop.”

They continued walking around the circular path. Joe pointed out all the other parts of his farm, where each vegetable was planted, where the hogs were kept, and the milk cows. The walk lasted the better part of an hour. Finally, the parson suggested they go back inside. Joe agreed and turned toward the door. The parson followed him through the little waiting room, past the nurses' desk, down the hall and into his room.

Joe walked over to the window. He put his hands on the sill and looked out intently. Then he turned his head to look back over his shoulder. “Thanks for walking with me, Parson.”

The parson, startled, started to respond but Joe continued. “I'm not ever going back to the farm, am I?”

The parson sat in the chair. “No, Joe, I don't think you are. I'm sorry.”

Joe turned from the window and sat opposite the parson. He looked at the paper on the side table, picked it up and seemed to be studying one of the articles. A good ten minutes passed with no words spoken. Then Joe folded the paper, placed it back on the table, looked at the parson and said, “Do I know you?”

A Springlike Day

Last Saturday was a gift. It came wrapped in the frigid cold of dawn, but that quickly gave way to the warmth of a spring day caressed by a gentle breeze. It was not a day to remain inside.

There's an art to propelling leaves across the yard under the influence of a powerful leaf blower, especially when those leaves have been collecting for months. One must determine the proper angle to direct the wind from the blower. Too small an angle and only the top of the pile gets moved. To steep an angle and determined and maintained the leaves are blasted in front of you and toward your intended destination.

Even with that there's the mystery of leaf movement that always frustrates. The mystery is in two parts. The first part concerns the direction of the wind which was blowing from west to east as the project began. But two thirds of the progress across the yard the wind always changes direction and blows from east to west. The second part concerns the mystery of velocity. When blowing leaves at the leaf blower held at exactly the proper angle the force of the wind can be up to 300 mpg. But that gentle breeze defies the greater force and propels the leaves back in the direction they have been driven.

Yard cleared of leaves the day still made progress toward being glorious. To go inside would be a sin. There, in the storage been, they lay. It was too late to plant bulbs. But all 250 of them stared at me through the mesh of the bag. They'd been given to me after the season. The merchant thought it too late to plant also. But the day was good. How knows?

The soil was loosened and then the tiller brought out, checked and serviced, cranked and directed toward the intended target. The ground was no match for it's frenzied churning. Softened then, the holes were dug, precisely four inches deep. Into each was dropped the bulb with its promise of beauty, pointed end up. Hands and knees crawled down the rows as dirt was scraped back into the holes, covering the promise of flowers to come.

Pants were brushed off yet stains of freshly ground in soil remained. The day came to a pause as a beverage was sipped and the handiwork of the day's effort, so far, surveyed. The day was now warm but still young.

The buckets of compost collected over months were emptied onto the area reserved for the growing of tomatoes and cucumbers and other such necessities of genteel Southern cuisine. The tiller was re cranked and churned the material into the ground ensuring a rich bed where such vegetables will be grown.

There was a soreness in the shoulders. Muscles unused for an extended period demanded their presence be acknowledged. The posterior was deposited on the newly tilled soil and a break was enjoyed.

Overhead two cranes made their way down avenues of air currents announcing spring was truly coming behind them. In a moment the Canadian geese passed over in their “V” formation honking their arrival and search for a birthing place for their young.

Mid afternoon the shrubs were trimmed, a rose bush cut back. The tools then were hung in their proper place. The tiller and blower were put away. The day ended with a pause, a pause to savor the smell of springtime dirt.