February, Fourth Week

Although it's the end of February, it feels like spring. The daytime temperatures, in the mid-seventies, impel me to start in on springtime projects. I love to garden. I love the process. I love to dig in the earth, to plant the seeds, then watch them sprout and uncurl their tender leaves, as they jump for joy at the touch of sun. It's the simplest way I know to participate in miracles.

First, I have to fence the garden plot and prepare the soil for planting. Billy loosens the soil with a rotor-tiller, but some of the grass roots are so deep that I will have to dig them out manually. One morning he phones to tell me that Joe said we could borrow his tractor to plow my garden plot-that should get the deeper roots. Billy has a vested interest; we have designated a large plot in the east pasture for his watermelon patch. I jump in the car and race over to Joe's to thank him for the use of his tractor.

When I pull up in front of a neat brick house, I find Joe home alone, just back from putting out hay for his cows. We sit in a couple of chairs in the shade of a large shady oak and begin to discuss problems unique to country life while we wait for Billy to arrive. I mention that Nathan and Rusty, a couple of local boys, were out hunting hogs, but I'm not sure if they had any luck. Better informed then I, Joe tells me that Nathan had trapped a big male hog for him. This is my chance to pop the question, “And what do you do with a trapped hog?”

“Oh, you can't eat a big hog like that,” he replies, shaking his head. Then he goes on to explain. “If it's a young sow or a piglet, they are good to eat, so you can shoot them. But not the tough old males, you sell them.”

“But who would buy it?” I query cautiously.

“Oh, there's places where people pay to go in and hunt. Those businesses buy them to release, so there's something for the city dudes to shoot at.” He must have noticed a bleak look on my face, for he continues, “You probably think it's cruel, but this is the way in the country. Animals that aren't useful get killed.”

Before I get a chance to put my foot in my mouth, Billy pulls up. When he joins us, the conversation turns to the pursuit of a great garden. Joe has had lots of experience; he already has his peas and potatoes in. He insists I don't need a fence; he's never used one. Based on my gardening experience in both Vermont and Arizona, I don't think anyone can have a garden in the country without one.

“But I'm sure we have raccoons, deer and armadillo. They are all plant eaters,” I interject.

“The raccoons won't hurt anything. Oh, they may go for your corn. So will the deer. The coyotes don't do any damage. The most they will eat is a watermelon, but only one or two, that's all. But the armadillo, yes, they can do a lot of damage digging around for grubs. You've got armadillo over there?”

“Yes, under the house. I've seen several; one is a young adult. Yesterday morning I startled a big mature one carrying a clump of clover in his mouth. I thought I would have Billy trap him, then I could move it down to that old barn.”

“That won't help. He'll come right back; they can travel a long way. Just put a .22 to his head.”
You can imagine the look that crossed my face because he continues, “You think that's mean, huh?”

“I don't think he has hurt anything. After all he was my only companion all winter long.”

“Well, you are sure hard up, aren't you?” he arched back in a spell of hearty laughter.

“Guess you've got that right,” I laugh with him. “But at least I'm loyal to my downstairs housemate.”

After the chuckling over my armored companion settles down, Joe continues, “I have no idea what bait you could use to trap it. We used vanilla wafers to get those raccoons.”

The subject then revolves back to the garden. What we can plant now; what needs to wait for warmer weather; what will surely burn up when the July sun hits. Concerned to help keep us on schedule, Joe kindly volunteers to come over and do the discing himself.

“You'll see, we'll make a country girl out of you yet,” ventures Joe.

“You may be right about that,” I muse as I look down at my stubby black fingernails, peeping out of chipped red nail polish. “But I better keep my nail polish ready for when I have to work in the city. There doesn't seem to be any money in farming,” I add.

“Well, you sure figured that out fast. I've been at it all my life and haven't been able to make any money yet.”

The next morning when Billy delivers another load of horse manure to spread over the plowed garden plot, I grab a shovel to help him move it off the back of his pickup.

“No, that's okay. You don't need to do that. You may hurt yourself.”

“So what do you think I am-a city girl-or what?” I tease him.

He belts out in laugher, then repeats “city girl” and roars with laughter again.

After working at sorting my notes and ideas all morning, I have crammed my brain with so much information that it feels as if it is going to split. I decide it's time to take a long walk, so I can organize my thoughts mentally. I head out to the back pasture where Caney Creek meanders through. Gary keeps cows in it in the summer, but in the winter they are kept in a feed lot up on the Grissom place. I decide to follow the creek, which is a challenge because it has so many tributaries with steep banks to cross.

As I'm strolling along, enjoying looking for signs of wildflowers, or maybe an early morel mushroom, suddenly a cow starts mooing at me from across the way. Having lived in India, where you always encounter a cow or two when out on a walk, I don't give it any particular attention. Soon I notice that the cow is approaching me. Then we square off; I stand watching it and it stands watching me. It makes the first move—it starts trotting toward me. As it comes closer, I realize that it looks more like a bull than an ordinary cow.

“No, no, don't come this way. I'm a city girl; I don't know anything about you guys. You just take another route,” I admonish it. I totally recant any pretensions to knowing anything about country life. “Just because I can shovel manure does not mean I can deal with bulls!” I declare as I pick up speed.

But he still continues to follow me, not really in a rush, but definitely at a brisk trot. Suddenly the jacket I have put on to cut the chill of the breeze is making me sweat. Quickly, I disappear into the trees that line the creek to try to find a place to cross it. I figure that trying to get across the creek with its steep banks will definitely slow down, if not deter, my assailant. However, I can't even find a spot narrow enough to jump across. Finally, I just jump in and splash across, shoes and all, leaving the bull safely behind.

In the safety of the opposite shore, I find the environment quite inviting. Since it is sparsely wooded, a sprinkling of grass is poking up through the sand. I decide it is definitely morel territory, so I am soon preoccupied with looking in every nook and cranny. Finding several fallen dead trees, I also poke around investigating woodpecker's nests. From my small sampling, I find that woodpeckers do not use any grass or leaves to line their nests. They appear to use only a big hollow hole. However, I find no mushrooms.

When I turn to follow the creek back home, I see a black blob through the trees ahead. Yes, it is the bull; I had totally forgotten about him. Finally, I find a log where I can cross the creek and cut across the meadow in the general direction of home. I'm hoping the bull has stayed preoccupied at the creekside and will not notice me. To be sure I look over my shoulder occasionally to see if the black hulk is tailing me.

The bull is not in sight, but I have heard it roar a couple of times. . . yes, this bull roars. Finally, I spot the gate that is right at the intersection to the pond meadow. With haste, I clamber over the fence and I'm in home territory. After all, there are many varieties of encounters with nature, I calm myself.

As I return home through the familiar pond meadow, I look up to see that the clouds overhead have opened up to reveal the stars-bright and clear. Right away I recognize Orion, then from his belt I find Taurus. I wonder what being born when the sun was lighting up this part of the sky has meant in my life. Of course, there's the bull part, which considering my recent encounter, I may not have totally integrated. Aside from the ferocious aspect, Taurus certainly bestows my love of nature. Maybe that love has something to do with my propensity to spread out and expand in the world and embrace life, rather than fold myself inward in traditional meditation. My God is in and through everyone and everything as much as s/he is in me. I adore the incredible beneficence of Life in every shape, every shadow, every star—even a bull, if it is at a distance.