by Carol Bossard 

June, the month of weddings, Father’s Day, Flag Day, making hay and weeding gardens.  Days are generally warm and nights are still fairly cool.  Grass grows overnight.  But of course, one never knows what will happen with our yoyo weather patterns.  The news that both poles have moved thirteen feet is a bit disconcerting; that’s the width of my kitchen.  I suppose, considering the size of the earth and the vastness of space that 13 feet isn’t all that much.  But it is well-known that even the most minute changes can sometimes have amazing effects.  A gentle touch on one strand of a spider’s web will shake the entire web.  I guess we will see!

On June 14th, we celebrate Flag Day which has been observed less and less as the years go by.  These sentiments were written post- Civil War after Rebel troops came marching into Frederick (Md.?), tearing down the stars and stripes wherever they saw them.  These are a few lines lifted from the poem, “Barbara Frietchie” by John Greenleaf Whittier**:

“……Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, bowed with her four score years and ten; Bravest in all of Frederick town, she took up the flag the men hauled down.  In her attic window the staff she set, to show that one heart was loyal yet.  Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.  Under his slouched hat left and right he glanced, the old flag met his sight.  ‘Halt!’ – the dust-brown ranks stood fast.  ‘Fire!’ – out blazed the rifle blast.  It shivered the window, pane and sash; it rent the banner with seam and gash.  Quick as it fell from the broken staff, Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.  She leaned far out on her window sill and shook it forth with a regal will.  ‘Shoot if you must this old gray head but spare your country’s flag’ she said.  A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, over the face of the leader came; the nobler nature within him stirred to life at that woman’s deed and word.  ‘Who touches a hair of yon gray head dies like a dog!  March on!’ he said…….”  Read the whole poem; it is a story worth reading.  And remember, on June 14^th, how many people have died for that flag and that even though there is much that needs changing in this country, it is still a good place to live and deserves both our loyalty and our willingness to make those necessary changes.  A bone-headed refusal to admit to problems keeps us from thriving and perpetuates injustice and misery.

Speaking of poetry, it is an art form that seems to be experienced less and less in these frenzied times.  I grew up on Mother Goose verses and I remember my mother reading “Hiawatha” to me.  But my first real introduction to poetry came in fourth grade.   Mrs. Powers would ask each student in her class to recite a verse at roll call.  My exposure to poetry broadened considerably that year.  In high school, we did a section on English poetry including William Shakespeare, but we never were encouraged to create verses out of our teenage heads.   I’ve always liked poetry of many kinds and I’ve tried to pass on appreciation for it by reading poems to our granddaughters when they were little and giving them their own books of poems. One of my personal treasures is a thick book of poems received on my 16^th birthday.

I think many people are afraid they won’t understand poetry ---- or think whatever is said in verse could be said as well in prose ---- or feel it is too high-brow (whatever that means) for them.  But good poetry exudes emotion; it is music, lacking only the notes to be singable, though some, I must admit, would be atonal!  Some poems tell a story that captures the imagination, as in “The Highwayman” by Alfred Noyes, or laughter at the vivid description, “When Daddy Fell Into The Pond”, also by Alfred Noyes.  Walt Whitman’s verses sing of very practical things as do those by Robert Frost.  Then there is Paul Laurence Dunbar, Langston Hughes and Billy Collins, all of whom wrote wonderfully readable poetry.  “The Lanyard” by Billy Collins is one of my favorites.  And we mustn’t forget the very young poet who captured the attention of the nation at the inaugural ceremonies.  Writing poems, as a meditative exercise, is good therapy and is a great way to express angst!  I did write a few poems in high school, but after that, I didn’t really do much writing until mid-life.  A friend once challenged me to write a poem/day.  I couldn’t keep that up for long, but I would like to send out a challenge for everyone to read a poem/week.  Think what wonderful things you could discover in a year!

One of those discoveries that no one wants to experience is the realization of waning strength and energy; when tasks that were formerly easy become nearly impossible to manage.  I now spend more time resting between tasks than I do in working at them.  This is a common problem with gardeners or so I’ve heard.  When they achieve the wonderful collections of plants on which they have built dreams, they suddenly find it’s time to down-size.  And down-sizing is not so easy as it might sound.  How does one explain to the irises that you can no longer pamper their knobbly rhizomes, to the roses that their perfect petals are too labor-intensive and worst of all ---- to the weeds, admitting they’ve won!  I’m grateful that Kerm’s efforts to weed and mulch have been making up for my negligence.  The flowers have been just beautiful this spring.  But, of course, downsizing still looms for the future.

I always think of June as the month of haying but now-a-days, many farmers have done much of their first cutting in May.  Currently the hay is often chopped and made into silage instead of bales.  When grass is drying in the field before baling, it sends out an aroma nearly good enough to be made into a perfume.  Chopped crops not so much!   But whichever method is used, I like knowing that food is being laid away for the winter meals of hungry cows.  One of our sons has Angus cows enjoying his green fields, and the bales he stores for the winter are immense, dwarfing the bales I used to help lift onto a hay elevator for a trip to the hay mow.  No one puts bales of the current size into a mow/loft.  They are stored at ground level in a shed perhaps or tightly wrapped in plastic to withstand weather, and then dragged to where the cows await their dinner.  A fork-lift is now useful equipment for farming.  Farming methods may change, but cows everywhere await the succulent juices stored in that preserved alfalfa/clover.

There aren’t so many farms in our region as there were when we moved here forty years ago.  I miss seeing fields full of cows or sheep.   When I was a child, once the grass began growing, our cows were released from their winter quarters in the barn to the meadows.  There isn’t a prettier sight than a green hill dotted with fawn and white Guernsey cows.  (I’m sure those with Holsteins, Jerseys or Brown Swiss would argue that point ----- but in this time of fewer farms, I’d like to see any breed of cows grazing the fields.)  I’m sad when we drive by barns that are standing empty, some even falling in on themselves and see fields sprouting housing developments.

At home, I was accustomed to fresh milk, so my first experience with skim milk in college was something of a shock.  Very early in my life, I can remember round milk pans about 4 inches deep and 14 inches across, sliding into the refrigerator.  By morning, rich golden cream would have formed on top, which was then skimmed off, leaving just the milk, which then was funneled into glass jugs.  And I would report here that the “skimmed” milk remaining was probably as rich as today’s homogenized whole milk.  When we had sweetened whipped Guernsey cream on strawberry shortcake, that cream was, I’m sure, the ambrosia one hears about in Greek mythology.

All things change; that’s just part of life.  I have visited barns where the milking and feeding are directed from a computer, sending robots to fill mangers with just the right amount of grain for that particular cow, robots that sweep up after milking the 2000 or so cows.  I’ve seen hydroponic facilities able to grow far more greens than one could in the fields.  And just a few days ago, I drove by a drag so large it could have stirred up a breadth of soil wide as an interstate, or so it looked.  With so many people, world-wide, to feed, perhaps these huge operations are necessary.  But I hope that there will always be some few inspired individuals who choose family farming; who name their cows, who inhale the fresh air with gratitude and who care about nurturing the soil and the planet with safe and good food.

Meanwhile, we need to look with discerning eyes at change --- being careful when we shake the spider’s web ----whether it is for good or ill.  Of course, often it could be both.

“When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe.”  John Muir***

Carol may be reached at: carol42wilde@htva.net.

*James Russell Lowell---American romantic poet, editor, critic and diplomat.  He is associated with the “Fireside Poets”.  1819 - 1891

**John Greenleaf Whittier ---American Quaker, poet, advocate for abolition of slavery.  One of the “Fireside Poets”.  1807-1892

***John Muir -----Scottish-American naturalist, author and advocate for conservation.  He is often called the “Father of National Parks” because he worked to persistently to have the lands so designated.  He began the Sierra Club and the National Audubon Society.  1838-1914.