Here is another picture from last week's sudden snowfall that left us bemused and the sheep in search of any bare patch of grass. One ewe, bottle-raised and still convinced that we are her flock, stood by the door befuddled by the change and loudly complaining. The snow left as quickly as it came, followed by a succession of Indian Summer days, the slanting light on the newly green grass somehow reminiscent of Spring in spite of the fall colors around us. We know though that Winter is on its way and soon enough Spring will be both a hope and a distant memory.

Here is a poem from Wendell Berry's latest collection in praise of the lushness that this last week has been an echo of:

The woods and pasture are joyous
in their abundance now
in a season of warmth and much rain.
We walk amidst foliage, amidst
song. The sheep and cattle graze
like souls in bliss (except for flies)
and lie down satisfied. Who now
can believe in winter? In winter
who could have hoped for this?

Saturday afternoon with the flock

Saturday morning; mist, cloud, and a little fall color

After experiencing an onslaught of comment spam, I have reluctantly switched on the "word verification" feature in the hope that I will have fewer messages left by machines that want to sell me something or leave links salted on the page. I apologize to you real people out there for the inconvenience.

A sudden snowfall took us by surprise this morning. Cold air that was supposed to bring us frost met wet air from the hurricane here by our mountains. It will be gone by evening, turned to rain as the day warms slightly.

This morning's forecast from the National Weather Service makes it official, summer is over:

FROST OR FREEZE CONDITIONS ARE EXPECTED TO OCCUR TUESDAY THROUGH FRIDAY MORNINGS...MAINLY ACROSS THE OUTLYING SUBURBS AND LOCATIONS WEST OF THE BLUE RIDGE. AS A REFERENCE...THE GROWING SEASON WILL BE OVER WEST OF THE BLUE RIDGE BY WEDNESDAY MORNING

The late rains these last few weeks brought the pastures back to life after a dry summer. I was hoping the frosts would hold off and allow a little more late grownth before we head into the winter. The more forage left in the field, the less hay we have to feed through the winter. One of the first signs that you are thinking like a farmer is realizing that there is direct link between the weather and your wallet. Sun and rain are, of course, beyond our control, which builds in a certain level of uncertainty into even as small a farming operation as ours. Being dependent on forces beyond one's control can have a salutary effect on a modern such as myself. I am not by nature a pious person and, left to myself, would agree with the old cowboy in a Tom T. Hall song who said "it don't do men no good to pray for peace and rain. Peace and rain is just a way to say prosperity, and buffalo chips is all it means to me." Nonetheless, there is something about the sight of the flock content on good pasture that brings pleasure apart from the economic reward. It leads almost inevitably to prayers of thanksgiving. Likewise, thinking of fields turned brown by drought, and the prospect of winter snows, I find myself praying the words of intercession from the Sunday liturgy: "For favorable weather, an abundance of the fruits of the earth, and temperate seasons" with an unaccustomed fervency.

My apologies to those faithful few readers who have been stopping by this past month in the expectation of seeing new material. When I wrote last it was the end of Summer. We are now well into Autumn; leaves beginning to turn and a noticible chill in the morning air. With the change in season, perhaps I can have a change in habit and return to daily updates. In the meantime, here is the view from our hillside farm on an October Sunday morning. 

Morning shadows, mist and cloud.

We get up early out here and, as the days get shorter, easily beat the sunrise. Here is another of Susan's pictures looking from our house over across the fields last friday as the first light comes through the morning mist.

Lines in the landscape. (Picture taken one morning this week by Susan)

A llama comes calling.

Crossing Lines

Up sleepless a few nights back, I pulled a book by my friend Jonathan Chaves out of the bedside stack and read this translation of a poem by the Sung Dynasty poet Yang Wan-Li:

Crossing Jun-p'o Bridge

I started to walk over Jun-p'o Bridge,
wondering when I will reach Chiang-tung.
Suddenly I notice a marker in the middle of the bridge
and realize that half my foot is already there.

I have always loved boundaries and that odd feeling of accomplishment that comes from crossing a state or even a county line. It is a kind of game we humans play with ourselves: Draw an imaginary line across a piece of the world and live as if it were as real as the landscape. But nonetheless, I never tire of the idea that, with the first step you are one place, with the second you are someplace else entirely. In the poem cited above, a twelfth-century Chinese scholar-bureaucrat amuses himself with the same thought, showing that my observation is neither new nor original.

It brings to mind an old joke about a man in his late 90's who has lived all his life on what he thought was the Canadian side of the U.S./Canadian border. As the joke goes, a survey crew stops by and tells him that, with their new instruments, they have determined that he is actually an American citizen and ask how he feels about it all. The old man considers it for a moment and says he is greatly relieved, because he really didn't think he could survive another Canadian winter. I know; it is not that funny, but it's always been a favorite of mine and seems to capture exactly the oddness of our habit of drawing lines on maps.

A friend told me that once, at Four Corners New Mexico, starting at the point where the map lines came together, she danced through Colorado, New Mexico, Utah, Arizona and back.

It seems that I am not quite back to daily updates yet. The lawyer part of my life has been demanding more time lately, and like everyone else, I have been glued to computer and tv screens following the events in Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama. The hierarchs of the different Orthodox jurisdictions in America have called for the faithful to give sacrificially to the relief effort. You can donate on-line to the Greek Archdiocese Hurricane Relief Fund by going here. The Orthodox Church in America is requesting that money be funneled through International Orthodox Christian Charities. Online donations to the IOCC are being accepted here. The Antiochian Archdiocese is taking special collections the next two Sundays in all their parishes for Katrina relief.

The appeal from Metropolitan Philip of the Antiochian Archdiocese can be read here. Metropolitan Herman of the Orthodox Church in America writes here and the encyclical sent to his parishes by Archbishop Demetrios of the Greek Archdiocese can be read here.

Update: Metropolitan Nicholas of the Carpatho-Russian Orthodox Diocese has called for a collection from his parishes. The text of his appeal can be found here.

In the country, everybody loves a pick-up truck.

Things I have braked for this month

Doe
Fawn
Buck
Box Turtle
Bear
Buzzard
Rabbit
Fox
Possum
Sheep (many, many Sheep)

End of the day, looking out towards Hogback Mountain.

No, we have not opened a gyro stand here on the farm. The picture above is from the Greek Festival this weekend at the Orthodox Church in Winchester, Virginia I attend as an alternative to the long drive down into the city. For those of you who check in regularly, my apologies for the lack of updates this past month and a half. The press of work, a bit of travel and the odd bout of illness have all contributed to my blog holiday. Nonetheless, I am back, and regular farm blogging will resume shortly.

Here is your blogger doing his anglo best to master the art of Greek fast food. Who says an old dog can't learn a new trick?

Sheep stops by for a chat after breakfast.

This afternoon older son and I went down to the Browntown 4th of July celebration. The festivities are kicked off with a small but enthusiastic parade through metropolitan Browntown, followed by food, games and fireworks at the old Browntown School, now a "Community Center."

Peacock on a Sunday Afternoon