The Daily Slog – February 2020

Groundhog Day – February 1

This morning was glorious. We went up to the barn around 6:30 to feed, and the sun was just rising over the hills, the horizon shone pink and orange, and the sky overhead gradually faded from cobalt to azure to swimming pool blue. It was the first morning in weeks that wasn’t covered in clouds and mist and threatening rain, more rain. It was cold, in the mid-thirties, but clear. That made all the difference.

First thing I did was climb up into the loft to get down two bales of hay (alfalfa for the all the girls–goats and sheep–and orchard grass for the boys). While I was there, I did a quick count and some math–it looks like we have enough of both varieties to last until the first of April, at which point we should be switching over to pasture. Another sign that spring is coming.

The feed lots are a mess, to be sure. Giant mud pits. The part of the pasture where we feed the sheep is the worst–imagine an area the size of a basketball court, gently sloping, covered with three or four inches of mud. Every step comes with a slip-n-slide, most with a slosh. Because the mud pit is near the gates, I have to walk through it to get anywhere else in the pasture. It could be worse, though, I got a note from a friend up north who raises horses, and she says her mud gets to be eight or ten inches deep. Deep enough to suck the boot right off your foot as you slog your way across. That’s material for bad dreams.

Groundhog day is my favorite day of winter: the half-way point. I know it’s not exactly the half-way point, but it’s close enough, especially given that January just lasted eleven weeks. Even if Punxsutawney Phil sees his shadow later this morning, there are only six weeks to go. Forty-two days. I can do forty-two days.

In January, I daydream about escaping to the beach, to Mexico, to New Zealand. Anywhere that’s not muddy and gray. I have two sets of friends right now enjoying vacations Down Under. One couple is touring Australia and New Zealand, posting pictures of back-stage passes of the Sydney Opera House, and the other couple is in New Zealand visiting their daughter and her family who have migrated there. Imagine migrating from Portland, Tennessee, to New Zealand. Wow.

I am not all jealous of my friends and their trips to Warmer Climes. Though I have long wanted to see New Zealand, I can wait. We’ve always planned to sell the farm and start traveling three or four years after I retire, which is coming soon. A couple of weeks ago, miserable in January, I wanted to hurry that process up, maybe call the realtor right after breakfast. But today I feel differently. The sun is out, it’s warming up, and though winter is still a force to be reckoned with, it will eventually grow old and whither away, just like a certain political party.

Life is not really like Groundhog Day, the movie. It’s not the same thing over and over, though at times it appears that way. Beneath the surface, just below our awareness, things are changing. The sun marches slowly north, degree by degree, bulbs long buried in soil, awaken and begin to sprout, the early grasses begin to green, winter’s tight-fisted hold on forsythia bushes, dogwood and redbud trees begins to loosen. Blossoms are coming.