The night was black as black, the kind of black where you can’t see the hand in front of your face.
I swung from rope swings in the hay barn that burned my hands, which somehow, I never gave a thought to.
I scraped a lot of shit down the isles of the cow stalls into the propelling gutter, quickly and carefully getting back to the far edge, to not be hit by the large stream of urine that would erupt without warning.
I had cat families, that I sat, surrounded by, on the worn wooden steps of the ancient barn, the straw on the steps was warm. I would name them all and pretend they were a family.
Good ole Rock-n-Roll played in the background, on the dust-worn, straw-covered stereo that I could barely reach. (Not that I would consider touching it).
I would fill the giant rectangle baby bottles, donning the hugest nipples, with fresh milk from the enormous steel milk tank and tried not to drop the slippery things as I fed the ravenous baby calves, maneuvering and adjusting, as each suck propelled the “bottle” one way or the other.
It was warm in the barn.
It was also an escape.
I watched in true amazement (and a little disgust) as a calf was birthed, sometimes, “helped” out through a giant plastic arm sleeve (that was necessary) as I squinted, not wanting to watch, but so desperately not wanting to miss, the calf being pulled out through the back end of its mother, to flounder on the cold wet dirty slippery floor; often and hopefully to take its first breath.
I would sit for hours in the grass, relishing in it’s cold and fresh feeling, looking for clovers, because I was sure I’d find one if I was persistent enough.
When the spirit struck me, I would run out into the field, always close to stay more than at least 100 yards away until he saw me, waving my hands, he would stop and I knew I could approach. I would run as fast as I could and climb up into the cab, up the steps, with those sharp spikes, I’d find my place, seated next to him and watch the beauty all around. I could feel the thrust of the apparatus attached at each movement and felt a rhythm that allowed me to get lost in nature, very few words were spoken because they weren’t necessary, or maybe there was too much to say.
I spent my winters in the frigid “back room” putting on a snowmobile suit, laying on the ground, 1 foot in and then the other, awkwardly standing to zip it up, so much anticipation awaiting me as I frantically pulled on my boots, losing balance and fighting with my gloves. Exhaling, I raced out to the snowmobile, that was just my size. Getting it started was always a difficult feat, but when it did, I had to control myself. Trails needed to be made, a delayed reward, and then throttle wide open, riding until my thumb was numb or until dark and even sometimes, in the dark, because the Kitty Cat did have a light.
I will never regret this upbringing in all its chaos.
It’s physical endurance testing me.
It’s surroundings creating curiosity in me.
It’s affections making me soft.
It’s experience making me aware.
While there was much more going on in the adult world that I didn’t need to know, I did find recluse in this place.
He was there.
He was there in the little things that are much bigger to me now.
The weeds faded.
The little things grew, like plants and flowers always somehow do.
They called to be noticed.
They are the beauty of this world.
Carrying us forward.
I hope you see them too.
always unfinished 