By Betty Miller Conway
It’s December, and the wind is howling on Willett Miller Road. As usual. We don’t get much of a break from the wind during the winter here on the farm. It starts at the top of Old Field Bald, gathers up momentum as it hurtles down the side of the mountain, and then hits the sides of our house and barn with a reverberating wallop. It is not unusual to have gusts in excess of fifty miles per hour on our side of the mountain!
I’m not a big fan of winter wind. Life on the farm is challenging on blustery days. The wind spooks the horses when we are herding them into their stalls at night. It blows over our cages and coops in addition to crashing trees and branches across the fences and roads. It rips the tin off our barn roof. Not to mention it is cold--barn chores are no fun when you are fighting sub-zero wind chills as you make your way around the barnyard, trying to water chickens, rabbits, and pig before the water in the bucket freezes. During these times, I long for summer when it is warm enough to sit in a rocking chair on the porch and watch the fireflies light up the sky. No hope of that in December: the chairs are put away so that they that don’t go cartwheeling over the yard. And the fireflies disappeared along with the last summer dew.
After dark, it all gets more personal. The wind screams down the ridge of Black Mountain, then moans and sighs as it licks around our windowsills and door frames, trying to get in. I lie awake listening to this night train and remembering the beech branch that fell straight down though the donkey shed roof like a spear and stuck deep in the ground beside where Solomon slept. (The old fellow survived without a scratch) Although I am grateful for my own warm, safe house, I worry about all frail creatures, human and animal alike, who have no shelter from the wind. On the worst of nights, I sleep in the basement bedroom so that I can’t hear the rush of noise outside.
Walton is not nearly as bothered by the wind as I am. He reminds me that it blows the leaves out of our yard so that we don’t have to rake in the fall. (With the first big wind of the season, the leaves are blown into the next county in one “big hair warning” afternoon.) Fortunately, he finds a brisk breeze invigorating. He doesn’t mind if I stay fireside and let him attend to the barn chores on days I’d be chilled to the bone. On bitter snowy days, I watch from the window, peering through the frosty glass to make sure the wind does not blow him to wherever it blew the leaves before he makes it to the barn. Of course, that has never happened, but one time it ripped the big Russian fur hat from his head and took it all the way to the ponds! Heidi and Lucky chased it like a rabbit through the field and eventually returned it, only shy a few tufts of fur.
Wind is an integral part of life in the mountains— it ushers in each season while purging the remains of the last one. This change is natural; nevertheless, I struggle with the sound of it as it howls outside my bedroom. Winter winds may be necessary, but they do not invigorate me in any way!
But by March, the wind becomes a welcome harbinger of spring. Its rhetoric softens as it helps dry up the mud on the farm and carries the sounds of new life across the fields: blue birds singing, Walton’s saw buzzing in the far distance as he prunes trees off in the orchard, and eventually the sound of a lawn mower from our neighbor’s yard down the road as the first spring grass emerges and flourishes.
And later, in the hot days of summer, the warm breezes swish gently though the meadows making the smell of the fresh hay overwhelmingly sweet. And the murmur of the wind in the treetops is one of the best things about an early evening walk on the farm. In summer, even the fierce winds that escort thunderstorms are welcome. Afterwards, the air is clean and fresh, and the heat is purged.
But when fall comes with his fiery burst of colors, the wind becomes intense again. It flings untethered leaves from their anchoring branches and fills the forest floors with crimson, golds, and peachy oranges. Fall is beautiful, but I know what is coming! As we get closer and closer to the dark winter solstice, the hens stop laying, and the horses grow their warm winter coats. I know that soon it will be time to hunker down against the wind and the cold. Eventually the branches will be bare against the bright blue sky, and we will all rummage around the dark corners of the closet to find our own winter clothes.
It seems to me that fall rushed by far too quickly this year. Almost before I realized it, Thanksgiving came and went, along with the turkey leftovers and sweet potato pie. Afterwards, walking our new collie pup, Piper, in the woods behind our house, I felt a little low. Although I was grateful that we had all been able to gather as a family over Thanksgiving, I knew that not all my daughters would be able to come back for Christmas. I remembered the days when they were little and didn’t have to go back to college or their adult jobs. Then we would have excitedly been picking out the farm Christmas tree and making lists of fun holiday activities to enjoy.
2020 has been a year of change and loss for many people—our family included—and the prospect of a bleak winter to come seemed especially palpable that day. The farm felt lonely even though the roosters were crowing in the distance and Penelope, the donkey, was munching her hay nearby. As the little dog and I walked on the path through the fairy garden, I noticed that many of the tiny houses and statues were buried in leaves despite my best efforts to keep them unearthed.
It was chilly, and the woods were covered with a carpet of brown that crunched under my feet. Undeterred, Piper rolled in the leaves, her sable coat blending in with the forest floor, her white-tipped tail wagging furiously. I couldn’t help but smile at her puppy exuberance as the leaves popped and crackled. The trees seemed to smile too as they bent toward the path, their newly bare branches weaving an intricate pattern against the silvery horizon. I was reminded that sometimes the wind evokes its own unique kind of beauty.
A sudden gust of wind rushed down the path, and the leaves whirled and twirled in the air forming their own impromptu ballet. Mesmerized by the swirl of air and leaves, Piper barked with excitement as she leaped to join them like a young prima ballerina. The air was suddenly filled with joy as brown leaves and brown dog danced together for one brief, precious moment in time.
