In the Fall, the Birds Come

In the Fall, the Birds Come

 

The coldest morning so far this Fall greets me, and I answer back with smoky breath coming from my hooded head.  Fingers stiff in the leather gloves frozen in the shape of clenched hands.  Trees stoic and creaking, a slow ratcheting in the wind. 

The 3 dogs follow me closely waiting to see which path we will take to the barns.  We go the middle route,  through the fenced garden, still hairy and unkempt from August’s heated and aggressive growth.  It is a monument to the struggle to keep up, this farmer slowing in the heat and the weeds seemingly sprinting ahead and lapping me.  The frost evens the race, both weeds and farmer slow.

the barn "door"

We turn the corner and see the 8 barn doors latched closed, hear the ducks complaining, demanding to be released.  Pushing the low loose cinderblock into the barn, our liability turned door, the chickens and ducks pour out as if in a pressurized system.   The ducks quack happily looking for puddles, or bugs, or both.  The chickens mill about, curious and blinking in the daylight.

I open the top toors of the chicken barn only to close them again after seeing the shifting wind battering the wood.  It  is then that the wind squawks and flaps a rhythmic beating.  Above, a wave of birds ebb and flow, swirling, climbing and falling; the sky eddies made visible.  Thousands of starlings overhead charge South blocking daylight and casting an eerie shadow.

At once, my Son’s Fall art project from 10 years prior flutters to memory.  It says at the top:  “In the Fall______.”  My son writes “the birds come.”  I see it in indents and broken erased lines.  Written over his erased work is the teacher’s handwriting, “The leaves fall.”  This one memory, still wounding.  He always sees things differently.  He was right.  In the Fall, the birds come.

I fight regret, casting it aside as unproductive, but my heart aches from the scrape.  That battered part of me unsettled; the years of fighting for my son, the years of being treated as if I wanted him to be different, the doubts that always surfaced.  Am I a good parent?  Do I love my child enough?  Why can’t I fix this?  Please God, help me fix him.  Over and over this mantra resounded.

My son is different.  School, and grades, and expectations that he could not meet (ours included) almost kept him in the pit of depression.  It laid us low too.  As we tried to pull him out of that pit, we’d get suck there as well.  Worse yet, trying to escape the pit in our angered struggle, we would lash out at the one clinging to our legs trying deliberately, it seemed, to pull us back down.

By age 9, our insightful, quiet, and exceptionally introverted boy was repeatedly telling us, “I hate myself.  I hate my life.”  He started to fixate on dying asking me repeatedly whether he could live with God if he killed himself.  I always assured him that God is merciful and would love him no matter what, but that I felt strongly that God wanted him to stay here with us.  

One cold Winter’s day, he locked himself in our minivan announcing that he would freeze himself so that he could die.  The pit so deep, and I completely unprepared for this small boy’s spiraling despair, I called the doctor.

Our pediatrician prescribes Prozac.  I cried angry tears.  How could I put my 9 year old on Prozac?  How could I not?  My own pit whispered “Bad mother” over and over so softly and steadily, another heartbeat, my self doubt alive.  The shadow of that time still so present, but I shake myself back to farm work.

The birds, their dark cloud once enveloping, lighted in the near orchard.  Their language happy and flitting. Urgency gone for only seconds, they leave in a whoosh as quickly as they descended.  The only evidence of their arrival and departure are these words.

I stand in awe, wiping away a tear and give thanks to the God of bright clouds, and bird clouds.  I thank Him that today, my son lives well and I don’t wonder at how I can fix him.  That deep pit he lived in is being remade.  Fluffy pillows of self-confidence raise him up enough so that he, himself can climb out.  We cheer him on!

It took 6 years of fighting, 2 years of homeschooling, and 1 diagnosis of Autism to get here.

Where is here?

 

Here is a place of thankfulness for every place we went and for every place we are going.  Here is a place where “Bad Mother” has been erased and overwritten by faithful mother, thankful mother, hopeful mother.  My son is different, there is no doubt.  Now, I am fortunate to be that mother that wants him to be so.

 Note:  My son no longer takes Prozac but is on Zoloft.  According to our doctor, Prozac is a stimulant and many people on the autism spectrum have mood swings when given a stimulant.  We definitely experienced mood swings, but now are sailing at a much more even keel.

The first post- sort of

My first official post on this page!  This is monumental for this technologically challenged farmgirl.  In a scene from "Men Who Stare at Goats," a man walks past a row of computers and the computers blow up sequentially as he passes by.  Computers don't blow up in my presence, but I have developed a habit of  standing far away from cash registers and the like just to ensure that they work properly.  I get a lot of odd glances from the employees.  I digress...

My first blog ever debuted on http://whatthehellisrosedoingnow.  It is a story called 1-800-dead-cow.  It is a true story about a difficult Spring on our farm, and the beauty of people who are kind and who work in jobs that we would like to forget about.  Please read Rose's posts too.  She is quite amazing and funny! 

Here is the original story:
 
Spring is busting out all over and my friend Mimi lays dead.  A black 2000lb mass in the field, nature trying to absorb her.  So still, and I know that she is gone by the weight in my chest.  Soul, shedding carcass-gone weightless leaving her heavy black burden all goo and juice.

I cry as if a bit of my soul has been torn away.

The scientist in me calculates.  I have roughly 24 hours in this weather before she starts falling to pieces - not in the Patsy Cline way - much much more messy.  I envision our 3 dogs rolling in the morbidity and then the work of copious amounts of bathing.   What is the solution: burial, hauling, God forbid cutting her up into manageable pieces and carting her bag by bag to the dump?

Barely composed, ruse paper thin, I call the farmer neighbor.  He's a real farmer - big equipment - doesn't cry when cows die, doesn't name them, keeps perspective.  Might I pay him to bury a cow?  He reminds me of all the slate on our land and politely tells me that the job is too big.

I call the state lab.  Sure, they will take her but I will need to pay for an autopsy.  This on top of the expense of the vet who just put her down.  I call another farmer friend who agrees to haul her, but only if all other options fail.  In other words, "Your emergency cannot be my emergency right now."

Twenty two hours until fragmentation, loss of integrity.  It is Sunday night at 5:00 pm.  There are no others to call until tomorrow.  Besides, tears squeeze out all resolve.  Sleep is elusive, held captive by worry and the prednisone the doc gave me only hours before Mimi died.  Turned out the poison ivy on my forehead was really shingles.

The sun finally rose, a relief from attempted sleep.  I walk to the pasture to tend the living, and pray for a Lazarus moment. She lay unmoved, a massive black pock like the entrance to a cave amidst a field of tufty soft grass.  Ugh!  T minus 8 hours until the bloating and peeling.  Morning clings to my boots as I head back to our house.

I call numbers from the phone book and ask questions.  The answers are all "Sorry, and can't, and wish I could help."   

One suggests a number called 1-800 DEAD COW. Really? A solution to the 2000 lb dilemma?   
 
I call.  A woman answers and I inform her of the dead COW and ask how much for removal and especially how soon?  She transfers me to another woman who transfers me to the man who hauls.  Each person hears that I have a dead cow.  Each person is kind.  They tell me they will be at my farm in 2 hours, but that I have to get Mimi's body moved from the pasture to the gravel pad at my barn.
 
My farmer neighbor agrees to move her body.  He drives his massive tractor to her, hooks a chain to one leg and lifts her effortlessly.  As he drives to the gravel, I pray that she holds.  I pray that I hold, keep the shameful tears pressed back.

She lays now on gravel.  Tractor trails lead the farmer home.  In a few hours Mimi's 8 year old dead self will be gone.

With a Ziploc bag in hand and a $250 check for COW removal,  I head out the door to place payment near the remains of Mimi.  The phone rings and I scurry back into the house.  It's a woman from  1-800-DEAD-COW.  She starts out by apologizing but not apologizing.  Sort of like a "Whatever gave you the impression that you could hire us to remove a dead cow?  I'm sorry that you are not savvy enough to realize that we are not affiliated with the cow industry."  

My response is simply, "What?  I spoke to 3 people.  I wasn't trying to trick you.  I have a dead cow plain and simple.  Your number is 1-800-DEAD-COW!  What is it that you do?" The angry employee asked questions like, "Why do you have cows if you can't transport them?", and "Why don't you just let the cow decompose naturally on your land?"  At this point I started weeping, and I may have snorted into the phone.  The woman on the other side countered with an unemotional encyclopedia answer regarding mad cow disease and laws and your cow problem is not my problem.

I called the state lab for suggestions.  Uncle Al's towing was a possibility.  Uncle Al hauled dead things and had a bone to pick with 1-800-DEAD-COW.  My farm was too far outside his work zone and he earnestly wanted to help me just to get back at the dead cow folks. Uncle Al suggested that I call the dump to see if they would even take Mimi's carcass.

I called.  The number in the phone book was wrong.  Another exercise in futility it seemed.  The lady who answered sounded like Aunt Bea and I anticipated more Southern charm, but no solutions.  She put me on hold, but when she answered, she had answers. She had contacted the dump herself and yes they would take the body!  She also told me about a good man who hauled all of the road kill in Culpeper. 
  
It was as if I had gotten a wish from Glenda the good witch. Clicking my muck boots together, I wanted to chant, "There's no place like the dump for a rotting carcass."

I still shake my head in disbelief at her kindness- sheer mercy really. I was so sick from shingles and also heart warped by Mimi's death and her impending decomposition. A town employee saving the day-a miracle indeed.

The good man she recommended did not disappoint. He drove to our farm that night and hauled Mimi away. I watched him load her mass carefully, then drive off. I stood, the dusty cloud from his tires settling over me.

Only 8 days later, I called that good man again to remove another still mass lying heavy in the pasture. Our oldest cow, Mama died at 25. Her head tucked inward as if she were peacefully asleep.

A month later, my farmer friend bought the last two cows. The pasture is empty now, echoing the way a house's wall's do when the last box is put on the moving truck. Eerie still, lonely-scarred, and deeper than empty. Who do I hire to haul that away?