Small History
January 3, 2013 § 6 Comments
It was twelve below this morning, an even dozen degrees to the underside of zero, and I couldn’t quite get the image of a full carton of eggs out of my mind. Ridiculous, I know, but there you have it. In any case, it was the coldest its been in a good long while, although apparently not cold enough to keep Penny from opening the bedroom window before we turned in for the night. Don’t get me wrong: I’m generally grateful to be married to a woman who insists on sleeping beneath an open window 365 nights per year, but I can’t quite stop thinking about all those waves of hard fought heat radiating off the woodstove, only to funnel out that two-inch gap and into the frigid expanse. But damned if I don’t know when to pick a battle and when to simply burrow deeper into the covers and try to remember that I actually enjoy splitting firewood.
During the summer and fall Penny milks, but in winter, when it comes to feel like something that approaches a chore, we split milking duties, alternating days. Today was mine. I waited until 7:40 or so, knowing that at about 7:45, the first slanting rays of sun would pop over the small rise to the immediate east of the “milk room” (which is to say, the corner of the pole barn allocated for said task) and bask me in their glow. Cold or no, there ain’t much better than milking in the morning’s first sun, the warmth of which releases the soft smells of hay and cow. When my hands started stinging from the cold, I balled them up and tucked them into my jacket pockets for a moment, and watched the sun rise another inch or two over the horizon. I could hear the boys down in the woods, already deep into some game of imagination or another, and I had to grin. Twelve below and my children were playing in the woods. It occurred to me, and not for the first time, that they have much to teach me.
I don’t write much about the little day-in, day-out rituals of home and farm, and I’m not sure why. In part, I think it’s because I’m afraid of this space becoming little more than a journal our days, and while there’s nothing particularly wrong with that, it’s not how I want to spend my time. And in part, I think it’s because I feel incredibly protective of these moments. Like most people who share snapshots of their life in public, I pick and choose which moments to share. Usually they are the ones that provoke some thought or another that feels to me as if it connects to a larger truth. Or, at the very least, a larger truth to me. Self-centered? Perhaps. But then, I’ve never claimed to be anything but.
Is there a larger truth lurking in the small, private moments I generally keep to myself? I sit there in the milk room, fists burning cold in my pockets, face tilted to the small heat of the early sun, the boys’ shrieks carrying through the woods, up across the field, and into the barn. Penny, I know, is down at the pigs, knocking the frozen remnants of last evening’s milk rations from the edges of their bowl. It’s all so goddamn familiar to me I can feel it in my gut, like the sliver of cold air sliding through the window cracked open by the woman you’ve slept beside for 20 years. A knowing that is deeper than intellectualized knowledge.
Eh, I fear I’m not saying this too well. I guess my point is this: Yes, I believe there are larger truths lurking in these moments. But I wonder if one of those truths is knowing when to go looking for them, and when to simply let the moment pass into the small history of my life.
Be careful Ben. Some do gooder may report you for allowing your children out in sub zero temps. Children aren’t allowed to do that anymore. I used to walk a mile to school in all weather and we had to go out at recess. Now kids sit at the bus stop in a car, get out to get on the bus and then get off the bus in front of the school door. They aren’t allowed out for recess and repeat the performance in reverse. Very few ever venture into the woods to play on a cold day.
Thanks for the warning, Jennifer. Now I’m glad I didn’t mention the hungry bears.
I love your posts, Ben. I live in Tokyo and they’re like a travel log from another planet! I think what you’re getting at — the difficulty expressing — is something my teacher, Martha Beck, calls wordlessness. You live your life deeply enmeshed in nature, which is wordless. It’s sacred, too, though it might look mundane (to milk or feed pigs, for example), and talking about it (in words) maybe feels profane. There are moments that pop to the surface that connect this wordlessness beyond your world, and that’s what you write about.
Thank you, Allison.
This post makes my heart sing. I believe in the magic of small moments and could never have put that in to words as well as you have. Ironing my husbands shirts when we were first starting out in our married life together, nursing my babes in the middle of a warm summer night in front of the open window, hanging laundry on a summer morning, on my knees in the dirt smelling the sun and planting my garden of dreams, seeing my first grandchild for the first time: all moments so exquisite and delicious. Please don’t ever stop sharing what you can-it is so beautiful.
Great post, and I can’t blame you either for being protective of your families treasured moments. I myself think it’s the small moments that make us who we are. I also think that when we die, we leave behind a trail of small moments like a connect the dots forming the picture of our lives. By sharing some of your day-to-day stories with us, you’re sharing a partial picture of who you are. It wouldn’t be half as interesting if you didn’t write so darn well. Here’s to hoping you don’t stop sharing.