Remember what I said about our new goats? To my kids: "You want the goats? They're on you. I'm not gonna trudge through two feet of snow to feed them. Not my job, man". So much for standing firm. "Dad, I'm gonna be late. Can you put the goats back in their pen? Dad! I gotta go out. Fresh water. They eat about six. Dad!!" I know, you get it, or will get it soon enough. But it is fun to watch my grandson chase them around. Of course, when isn't it fun to watch him do...anything, anything at all?
It's still August but we can sense winter on its way. Evenings are a bit cooler. Colors have begun to fade, something you might not notice unless you lived here. We actually began preparing for Winter in May - four cords of firewood which would take us weeks to stack, and we're still collecting kindling. Another month or so we should have the chinks and leaks caulked, new curtains to keep the south wind at bay, insulated shades to the west with a go at a piece of the roof.
Apples and pears, a few minutes from ripe, but still delicious. Fresh garden tomatoes cooked in ratatouille. My grandson traipses up the farm road plucking every blackberry in sight, and, Joe, my goof of a dog, runs a hundred yards up and a hundred yards back with an occasional leap over a stone fence and a splash in the creek, technically, a brook as a brook empties into a creek. Deer are still in velvet. I spotted a button buck just back of the wood line. He didn't bolt, looked up but continued grazing. He'd best learn a thing or two before the season opens. Golden Years? Yes, but not in the prescribed way. Peace and quiet and settle back in that "old rockin' chair got me" mode? No, thank you. Golden? If you say so, but, as far as I'm concerned, there is nothing quiet about these years, and I don't want there to be. My son has a girlfriend who is respectful, helpful, quite nice, ready to wrangle the goats, really good with the baby, and here. My Goddaughter and her Other are here putting the final touches on Goat Hill along with my daughter and her Other. They'll winter here. The bunch of them converted an ancient wooden smoke house into a shed for the goats who have names I can't remember and who cares anyway?
But, it's not just dancing barefoot around the garden "honoring life" or the moon. "T'ain't easy, MgGee," said Molly MgGee, a character on a favorite old radio show - Fibber MgGee and Molly. We rented a thirty foot dumpster and tossed 1.9 tons of domestic detritus aka crap that had been accumulating for decades, and unearthed a couple of treasures long ago given up as lost. Now, um, what were they? Um. This is getting serious. What is? Getting serious? Huh? Anyway, we're tossing and building and planting and organizing, thanks to my daughter's lead, a whiz at all four. So, there are transitions galore going on daily.
As for me, it's taken my lifetime to get here. When I was a young writer I believed my stuff came from a sense of anger and revenge, and, no doubt, it did. What did I know? Lots of anger. Reams of revenge. However, not long after he bought my first script, the producer and I were talking, and I was kvelling about my ability to write action scenes, to which he snarled,"I didn't buy your script for the action. I bought it for the love story." Um, what? Again, what did I know? Even though, as I look back on my work over the years, the most effective stuff came from some sense of love. Actually, I think every script I've ever written has a love story driving it, not maudlin, kissy kissy stuff, but the peril and passion of flawed, deeply committed people at crossroads in their lives. It's taken a lifetime to sink in. I've written three novels, each of which features passionate characters determined to ride their destinies out to the end. Everything I'm writing now fits that description. Tell the truth, it's a lot more gratifying than sitting around thinking about novel ways to blow things up. More fun, too. Surprise.
Something's been sneaking up on me for some time now, like any good sneak, without giving notice. It's an odd feeling, one which took some time to surface and more time to grasp. Dorian Alexander and I blow soap bubbles on the front stone stoop. Try to grab one. It's there. No hallucination. Bright. Sparkling. There! But, you can't quite get it, and it goes away. I may have gotten glimpses over the years of this sensation, but then it went away. What I didn't know was that it would sink into my synapses and stew there and stew there and...At some point, it would seep to the surface. Allow me a digression.
My mother had a mantra, actually, two versions of one: A). Only idiots are happy. B). Happiness is for idiots. Grow up with that one. Lizzie Hermanson was one very angry woman. My guess is, growing up, true moments of happiness, although kind of fun, were not considered as such, only candy, a temporary respite from real life, and then they went away. My view of myself - a Russian Jewish intellectual manque' - not a formula for kicking up your heels, more like serious, somber, smart, skeptical, depressed. One more minor digression.
I love to plant trees and do so each year, always but not only on special occasions - anniversary, birthdays, Earth Day, summer equinox, births, no deaths yet - name the event. This year one of my plantings was an oak tree for my grandson. It became part of a grove I've planted over the years for the family: a pear tree for J and me; an apple for Sevi; a crab apple for Madden, and, now, an oak for Dorian. There are also a birch, another apple, and one weeping peaseblossom. It's peaceful and comfortable and safe. I'm planning on more. Recently, I planted blueberry bushes in the grove. I'm wondering whether it's too late to plant lavender? I bought what I thought was a bench for the grove - a really good price - but that didn't turn out to be the issue. I blew it. It was a child's bench, beautiful but way down there low within kissing distance of the ground. Low. Low. Low. If I could sit on it, which I doubt, it would take a crane to hoist me up again. I'm bound to get the proper size when they go on sale. My daughter set the bench on a special path she built leading up to her Hobbit House pen on Goat Hill. So, it goes.
While planting the blueberry bushes, totally focused on what I was doing, it suddenly hit me, "Jesus Christ, I'm happy? Huh? Where'd that come from? Don't worry. It'll go away". But, it didn't, and it hasn't. Don't mistake me. This isn't Hari Krishna-touchy feely-ommmmm-all you need is love - bells aren't ringing - lights aren't brighter - colors no more vibrant than usual, but it can be recalled at will. That's the nice thing about it. It hasn't gone away. Sorry, Mom. I like this a lot better. I don't feel stupid or that I've betrayed my intellectual heritage or that I'm a wuss or any kind of existential fool, although I do expect some might throw up if I talked about it. Except, why would I talk about it, although I seem to be doing it right now? But, I haven't button-holed you at a party, have I? Anyway, writing and in-your-face are two different approaches. One is an exploration. The other is a challenge. I'm not an evangelical out to convert you to my world view. Do your own thing, amigo. What I know is that after decades of looking, even when I didn't know I was looking for anything in particular, this happy pilgrim (thank you, John Wayne) finally tracked it down. Do I walk around with glazed eyes, a smile that makes you want to smack me, humming space music? Of course, not. I get pissed off, impatient, short tempered, snarly, but, normally, I manage to bail in time. Mostly, leave it alone. Do I really care? My favorite state these days - Focus - Knowing what you don't have to do. Shuck the excess. Get on with it.
That grove will survive long after I will. It'll be a place that brings peace and fruit and colors and soothing air to any one who wanders there, knowledge that tells me, yes, I am happy. What else to call it? It's not a soap bubble. I am quietly happy, and, if it leaves, it's been there, and so have I.
