Back Pasture

Post 4

Sunday, February 10, 2013

2:33 PM

My back is against the red siding of the arena, the sun against my cheek as it starts to set. The shadows are stark under my pen. The snow is bringing back the edges, making little brown oases that from the air, must look like pockmarks on the face of each property.

The rushing sound is not water. Instead of a current through liquid, the hushing is through air, metal and rubber hurtling on and above asphalt. I’m familiar with the sounds of the road, even if I can't see the vehicles from the house. I can hear the thick diesel engine of the mail truck as it rumbles past the fence and pauses in front of our black mail box at the end of the driveway. The yellow school buses have a distinctive growl as they slow and pull into the parking area of the township building across the street. I can tell when my mother drives her Ford truck down the driveway, especially in autumn when her departure stirs the fallen leaves. The ice on the driveway that has persisted after Saturday’s storm makes for good security, the crackling an announcement of visitors.

But in the trees, the sounds give over to the warmth of the day and the presence of the sun. The ice slowly gives way and stains the tree limbs darker, the excess water dripping slowly down to the snow in the shadows on the ground. I love this back pasture and its fortress of trees. I have always thought of it as the moonlight pasture, although that is my private name for it. In the summer, tiny speckles of light pop and fade against the wall of trees behind the fence, the fireflies congregating in the deep darkness behind our biggest outbuilding. We pasture horses here rarely, for the grass is rich and quickly mown down to nubs by their teeth. The ground has rolls in it, like an unmade bed, and in the fall, these striations are covered by a thick layer of dusky, aubergine leaves. Today, the quirks of the field are hidden under the whiteness of the snow persisting in its shaded location.

A brief moment of quiet on the road. The silence is peaceful and then deconstructed by the twittering of birds. I hear an owl with its lowly hooing. The shadows of the grey-brown trees are long and distinct on the white ground. What makes a ground holy, I think. What dictates respect and awe for a place? I think if someone else were to sit as I am, on this worn railroad tie with their face to the sun, they would not find these muddy, wet fields to be extraordinary. They would simply be sitting in a backyard with run down fences and some horses grazing a few fields over. As with people, beauty is not the only assessment of worth. The Alaskan tundra is breathtaking but the beauty contains hidden and not so hidden dangers for humans, the same with desert and the sea. There is something to be said for veiled loveliness, something I've also found occasion to celebrate in people. When I was a teacher, I always found the quieter students to be the ones I kept my eye on, their smiles when everyone else was finished laughing, their occasional quick blinking or fixed stare when everyone else was dull and day-dreaming. 

This spot of ground is like that for me. I find this backyard beautiful because it is mine and I know the memories it holds, concealed significance. It’s a muddy, occasionally dilapidated section of land, but I find it worthwhile. I wonder if part of the reason we are able to destroy whole swaths of land is because our perception of its value is limited to our own experience there. If it can give us gas or oil now, then what matters its value to the tenants years ago? I find this to be disrespectful and short-sighted, but I’m sentimental. My mother has the choice to preserve this land because to her, it’s a place to watch wild turkeys and count the deer. It matters to her because of the wildlife she loves. She wants to protect their habitat and in a way, she is preserving the life she made for herself here even though it’s time for her to leave. It’s a small gesture in some respects, but it’s the right choice for our family. Our honorable, visible road.