Why Get Up Early?
Mornings on the farm are indescribably peaceful in the fall, like skating on the smoothest ice after the zamboni has crossed or drinking a cool glass of water when you are so thirsty you can’t stand it another minute. Unlike the rock concert of summer, it’s a quiet that makes you remember how much your soul yearns for stillness, a stillness of the last remaining crickets and the not-so-far-away birds. A stillness that feels in your bones like ease and grace.
Mornings and I have not been good friends. My body resists getting out of bed, a cranky affect taking over my core, awaiting the rebirth that only comes with the entrance of caffeine into my veins. But there are animals to feed—oh so many hungry animals now—and unfortunately for me, Mother Nature is one dang early-bird.
By the time I arrive at the old wooden building, there is a ruckus behind the closed door of the chicken house, a West Side Story playing out between the ducks and the chickens, with the melodies and acrobatics worthy of a Broadway run. I open the door and they spill out, a cacophony of birds, some waddling (the ducks), others flying with frighteningly bad precision off their perches (the chickens), the lot trying to mow me down in their frenzy for food. The ducks jab at the crumble fast and furiously like a 1950s secretary in a legal office skillfully taking dictation. The chickens wander a bit stunned, pecking this way and that at the ground and each other, more concerned with who is getting more food, like a five-year old at an ice cream shop, than they are worried about their own intake.
A Mama Duck sits on her eggs, not budging from the nestled-in spot she has created for herself between a the wall of the chicken house and a piece of reflective granite destined for the barn-house but never made the cut. She will starve herself out for these eggs, a motherly dedication of heroic proportions, only coming out late in the day for a quick bath and snack before heading back into her cave.
A new Red Heeler puppy was dropped off on the gravel road with his two siblings about a week ago. (Yes, people drop dogs and cats off at farms often. Don’t do it. It’s lame.) We adopted Rudi (short for Rutabaga), a wiggly delight, one you must catch early in the morning to be sure he does not pee in the house. Rudi is so excited about life he can’t figure out how to both greet the day and eat food at the same time, his elaborate tap dance repeatedly knocking over the food bowl and scattering the kibble across the floor. Snooks—the two year old Border Collie—looks at him askew, clearly wondering in her smart-dog way why Rudi can’t get it together, walking past him gracefully with her food eaten and bladder well under control. The two cats waltz by too unfazed by Rudi’s antics, headed to their bowl.
There is the new calf too to feed, born three days ago, whose mother has mastitis and is not able to produce milk. John and I are now “mom” to this creature with skinny legs and whale eyes, bringing out bottles to her two to three times a day and making her follow us across the yard to be sure she stretches her legs and gets them moving. We know it’s a bad idea to have her chase us, the fact that she will be larger—and stronger—than me within a week or two a looming reality.
And this morning too there is an extra bonus, my visiting mother still sleeping in the barn-house as I feed these animals, the new building now a cozy place for humans. The various woods of its frame and walls feel warm and comforting, a building material that feels like it was intended to bring out creativity and peace in those who stay within.
Finally my mother awakens and the cats head back out, the ducks settle in to their day of preening and the calf is sound asleep under the tree. The stillness has passed and the school bus passes along the dirt road, kicking up dust in its wake. A new day has fully arrived.
Please join me on the farm October 14th for a day of thinking and writing about the beautiful rolling-hills, farms and towns of our rural Iowa landscape!
I am offering $20 off to the first five people that read this Substack column and sign up. Email me at bethaudio@gmail.com with any questions and to make your reservation.
And if you’d like to book a time to stay at the barn-house, let me know. Here are a few photos to entice you…
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You describe the early morning so well, Beth, as well as the sacrifice needed to experience it. Like many great things that come at a price, they are often worth it. Milking by hand early on a cold morning on the farm and tucking your chilly head into the warm flank of the cow -- it almost made up for the 5:30 awakening.
I like reading about your life, which is so different than this city boy’s life. I enjoy the perspective.