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March 2005 Fly Flanagan has six available inches left to fill in the green chair by the fireplace. He can grow, therefore, six inches in length before he spills out of it. Sometimes he is squeezed next to me. And sometimes he sits on my lap. A wiggling mass of squirming, lapping puppy, taking an inordinate amount of time to understand the concept of "steady, steady." I try, evenings, to sit with him awhile, my little Mr. Big. He is growing into his ears. And his tail. Every few days he has to readjust to exactly what cozy means to him. He changes in proportion so quickly that balancing his head on my knee to gaze into the fire means a very different balancing act today from just a day or two ago. He's settled now. But am I? Will I move to put another log on the fire and risk disturbing him? He is balanced, chin on my momentarily bad leg, as I reluctantly try to shift him. Sweet Fly Flanagan. The room begins to grow cold. "Down, stay," I said. And he did, Fly Flanagan, so I could draw a log or two to the fire. March brings blue windswept skies to these mountains, and fluffy white clouds. "In March the wind blows through the door", reads a poem turned into song that I sang to my children when they were little. March brings snow. And winds. And hope. It wakens dreams of growing things. Early. Far too early. But dreams are meant to be awakened. A given that I am never adverse to. February was a failure for me. A failure of hope to win over adversity. Adversity won. It took the form of relentless, even handed cold. A cold that freezes the mind and keeps right action at bay. My woodstove, the new one, has been broken for six weeks. And shall not be rebuilt for probably a month or more. My firewood for the fireplace has been damp and, therefore, as the supply has seemed to melt away, has never heated very well. I stagger in from the barn in wet clothes, milk replacer spilled, as well as water, and never seem to dry off or get warm enough. But tonight I put on all clean clothes before I went to the barn, and didn't get too wet, although the snow was falling, thick and heavy on my face. The fire has dried what it could and there are no spears of hay to torment me between the three or four sweaters I am wearing. And March is almost here. I know better than to hasten the day's departure, but there is some comfort in that. March is almost here. I've bought some books that soon shall arrive to help me pass through the last nights of winter. And a lamp to read by. Tomorrow I shall buy some chocolate to eat while reading the books. And soon shall have new eyeglasses, no scratches to cloud my vision. Clear lenses to brighten my perception. On Saturday, a new supply of wood shall arrive. Wet, of course, but seasoned. But it is the blue of March skies that shall awaken the heart and give me hope again. And the thought of beginning to train this puppy more intensely. And the sight of the new lambs being born this month. May they all be ewes to keep for they shall never be big enough to sell for Easter. Perhaps even the wood stove shall be repaired. I've picked up my head from looking at the broom and the hay that decorate the living room floor. All from my sweaters and boots and corduroys. For a moment I saw beyond it. I used my farm office for some years as the way in from the barn, leaving boots and straw and dirt behind me before going to the house. I used to love that tiny room so. I painted it a rich deep cream with olive and its original maroon trim. Made a sliver of a desk on which to write my lambing records. There was and is a tiny lidded tin where I kept some change for when I sold lambs and shelves where medicines and hinges and ear tags were kept, also in metal tins. Some years it was very neat. With hooks for a raincoat (which I often forget I own) and a shelf for boots. I started to make it neat again this fall and then forgot. When I made the wood room perfect for the arrival of twenty-one face cords of wood, and flawlessly perfect it was, I also made the little inner entryway that is leading from the farm office to the house proper perfectly neat as well. I even pasted gold notary seals on the edge of the door, to show how high the woodpile was. One per foot. And so, today, when I picked my head up from the sight of the straw once more on the living room floor, and asked myself why, I thought of the farm office, went in and finished cleaning it. Perhaps I'll use it again as an ante-room and leave it all on that floor and not in the house. Except, of course, on days like this. Too raw and cold to be borne. Inside that is. The thought of taking off even an outdoor sweater can be daunting beyond imagination. I'm going to town tomorrow to buy pieces of my future, and perhaps something for my present. I shall buy milk replacer of course, and a shade for the new lamp, and worming medicine for the sheep, and chocolate. Yes, I shall buy chocolate on which to nibble when the books arrive. But perhaps what I really should buy, and that is very much for the present, is a chicken. "In March the wind blows through the door. It blows my soup upon the floor. Blowing once, blowing twice, blowing chicken soup with rice." Sylvia Jorrín Farm Stories Interview Photo Album Bookshop Appearances |
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