Not like a lamb did March go out, snow falling steadily the last three days and temperatures in the twenties. April so far is cool and damp, but the simple turning over to the page for April in the calendar is a reassuring act. The two baby bulls in the white barn reassure us that spring, while she may choose her own moment, can only delay her arrival just so long. The sunlight strikes our valley more directly each day, and little curls of green are unfolding on the hill where the manure pack was lifted with pitchforks last week, to be spread over the rocky pasture.
Up in the clearing the men have hauled aside many of the logs and there, too, the green grass is just beginning to come out. The banks in front of the house look surprised, spikes of daffodils poking up everywhere like exclamation points; prickly clumps of poppies and the red curls of wild geranium show us where not to put the stones Mom’s sense of artistry require to be placed in the border. The bees have been out; we are feeding them intermittently, and wonder whether the sugar syrup will ferment before they have eaten it all. What does an intoxicated bee look like?
Isabel is up to four and a half gallons per day after her down episode. The calves require two of them, and we are struggling on as well as we can on the remainder; what wealth, when two and a half gallons of milk seems scarcely adequate. Now that Hamlet is closed, we should be getting Shawn back, but he has gone into rehearsal for Antigone, and we can only hope that he leaves Creon at the theatre; weeks of hearing him practice his lines has left us all with a well-defined dislike for that autocrat. Classical theatre and mud-farming make a piquant combination. Add bluegrass and country music, latin low mass and the St. Matthew Passion and you have a cultural creole that is, at least, not boring.