(Re)birth

In order to transfer everything we will need, we travelled to NC this past weekend, taking a truck-full of items. Outdoor chairs, a fire pit, cornhole boards. You know, the basics. We arrived around 11 pm Friday night and, as has become custom, shared a beer with Tim and his wife Sonia before calling it a night.

 

We woke to a crisp Saturday morning, the sunshine leaking through the windows and the lattice framing of the yurt, spilling diamond-shaped beams of light onto the floor. I walked outside to watch the morning come to life, watch the sun rise above the hill and the trees in the distance and shine a subtle reflection on Lucinda. It was the easiest I had woken up in years. I couldn’t wait to get outside.

 

My wife, Kelli, made coffee on the propane stove, and then we walked with Annabel over the hill and towards the field down below. The hill and the field are so green, so full of life. We check the blueberry trees and they are full of ripening berries. I wanted so badly to pick one and eat it, but they are still just babies and are not quite ready. Kelli checks the pear tree and shouts her excitement when she spots a couple baby pears, thankful the late frost didn’t kill the flowers before they bloomed into fruit. Annabel had run ahead of us and into the fenced in area where the chicken coops are. The gate was opened for they are allowed to roam the farm as they wish, and Annabel yells, “Daddy, Mommy. Look!” She runs to the edge of the fence where we were standing and holds out her hands. She is holding two chicken eggs, and smiling her little girl smile.
 

Further down the field where the turkeys live, we spot the new additions to the farm we had not yet met. There are several American Blackbelly sheep babies and a beautiful new dog. Her name is Elsie, a ten week-old Maremma puppy bred to protect the turkeys. They have lost many turkeys over the years, mainly by the claw of a relentless bobcat. But the hope is that Elsie will change this. She is snow white, and though still a baby it is obvious she will be a very large dog. She must live in the field to bond with the turkeys, that way she knows that they are hers, and that they are her job. But, oh, how sweet is she. She rubbed noses with Sairy, our Schnauzer, hopped around and let us pet her and rub her belly.
 

Until she heard a turkey gobble. Then, it was as if we disappeared. Her focus was fierce, her attention unwavering.

I think she is going to do just fine.

 

We walked back to the house and into the mud room, and we find even more babies. There’s an incubator with baby turkeys. They are four days old. Such furry little klutzes, they are. Sometimes as they walk, they lose their balance and fall over like they are drunk. They lay on their back and try to flop back over like a turtle on its shell. The ones that don’t make it back to their feet, we pick up and right them again, and then watch as it goes to peck the eyes of another little chick. They are such strange little beings, but are so precious. But we rounded Annabel back up and headed to the yurt, not wanting to disturb Tim, Sonia, and the kids so early. There was work to do on the yurt, anyway.
 

While Kelli was cleaning inside the yurt, I weed-eated until the thing ran out of gas. When it did, we could hear a ruckus going on down by the house, so we went down to check it out. There is a shed outside where they keep the incubator, and more baby turkeys have hatched. But as they tried to move the baby turkeys around, a whole flock of chicks get lose. How, I don’t know, but the four of them are digging themselves around underneath the shed that only their arms can fit under, trying to round up these loose and distraught turkey chicks. We get down to help the and, suddenly, there are seven of us with really long sticks trying to herd a shitload of loose baby turkeys out from under the shed. Their cries are echoing in the beams that form the foundation of the shed, their mouths wide open as they run aimlessly around. We’d push one close to the edge, then the little bastard would hop the stick and go hide again where we couldn’t reach him. Kaleb yells, “I got one!” and I look up just in time to see him yank one by the tiny ankle and pull it out from under the shed. “There’s still three more, guys!” said Kaleb in his sweet little high-pitched voice. “We have to get them. Hurry, hurry!” Annabel falls in a bed of poison ivy, so I tell her to hit the showers and the game is now down to six players.
 

I grab a bigger stick and I start to hit my groove. I guide one chick straight over to Kelli, who reaches her hand as far as she can and pulls the chick to safety. Oh yeah. We got this, I say. The next one is rescued just as easily, but the last little bird jumps up into those framework beams and disappears. We can’t get our hands there, and the beams block the sticks. I take my stick and try to bang the beams, trying to scare the little chick out. But I’ve completely lost sight of him. “Where is he?” I say. “I don’t know!” said Kaleb. “I can’t see him!” Then, as if magically, the damn thing just walks out and into Sonia’s hands as she says, casually, “I got him.” Saved at last.
 

We all walk to the front and look at the chicks that are once again nestled all snug in their beds, and then I said, “So had did that happen again?”

 

No one answered me.

 

Annabel is out of the shower by this point, so we take her up to the yurt for a change of clothes and more work. I refill the weed eater and, just as I start, Tim drives by in his little pickup and drives it up toward the hill where the tractor sits. I run up to see if he needs help. It won’t start, so he was going to push it down the hill but a gentleman I’ve never met before hops on and suddenly the thing starts rolling backwards. Tim and I did the only thing we knew to do: push. Slowly, it picks up momentum and as it does the hill is looking steeper and steeper. I became nervous. It started rolling faster and faster and so instead of pushing we tried to pull but, as manly as we are, we are no match for a tractor with a head of steam.

 

“Tim,” I said, “I’m not sure we can stop this thing.”
 

“Max,” said Tim, “this is beyond our ability to stop it now.”
 

“Ok,” said Max. “Let me throw it into gear.”

 

So he does and the tractor comes to a screeching halt, but I don’t. I slam into the tractor belly-first, but I can’t show any signs of pain. But it is at this point where I think, Good Lord, and we don’t even officially live here yet!
 

The tractor finally makes it to the bottom of the hill and we help Max load it onto his trailer. At this point, I realize that the tractor is now Max’s, and I get sad a little. The tractor was such a beautiful part of our view, and I had planned on sitting atop it with my laptop, writing, allowing the silence of the field to overcome me and take me wherever my writing wanted to go. But, I’m also happy that Max will either restore the old thing or use its part for another. Either way, there will be at least one more tractor in this world that will again come to life.

And yet, the craziest moment of the day was when Tim said we had to hurry to get to the dump before they closed at 2 pm. I thought, it’s not even 2 yet? It felt like at least 6. I look at my phone for the first time that day, and the time said 12:28. Holy shit, I thought. Time goes by so slow here. And I took in this deep breath and stood still for a moment. I stood still. Peacefully. While I stood still, I wondered how time could actually change the rate in which it passes, simply because of where you are.

 

That night, after dinner, the whole clan came up to the yurt and we built a small fire. Tim, with beer in hand, lifts it up and says, “The yurt lives again.” He seems grateful, and so do I. Being the literalist that I am, I wondered how a yurt could ‘live.’ But then I thought about the babies everywhere, I thought about the blooming fruit and the growing puppy, the feathery turkey chicks and the eggs Annabel carried. And then I thought, how could there be anything here that isn’t living.  
 

It was such a peaceful thought. And maybe, just maybe, this yurt will teach me how to live again, too.