Now that we’re a week into autumn, I’m beginning to
get the seasonal spirit. Today I saw the grain truck go into the cornfield
across the road. It brings back memories of my “ride-along” with Ivan several
years ago in our cornfield.
My soybeans have taken on a golden hue. Early
mornings on the farm offer a preview of autumn although mid-day seems more like
the sweaty time of summer.
This has been a year of learning for Farmer
Grandma. Thank goodness for Harold’s cousins and their years of experience and
expertise. They plant the crops and harvest them. My job is to buy the seed and
fertilizer and sell the grain. Simple? Oh, yeah, there’s also crop insurance,
filling out forms for FSA, setting up the farm account, monitoring grain
prices, praying for rain (but not flooding in the bottomland), and updating
Quickbooks. For the past ten years, Harold has prepared me for the day when it
would be my job to manage the farm. His confidence in me bolstered my
confidence in myself.
I once knew a guy who often said, “You can take
the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy.” The
same goes for girls. When you are raised country, living in town may not set
well with your soul. At least that’s been my story.
When Jim first traveled the long and winding road
to my house, he said, “You live so far back in the sticks that they need to
pipe in sunshine.”
Unlike Jim, I grew up in one home. His family
traveled across country on a spur of the moment whim. He lived in several homes
in multiple states throughout his youth.
After Jim and I married, we lived in four
different towns. We lived in Manhattan, Kansas while he was stationed at Fort
Riley. We moved to Redmond, Oregon, because Jim was homesick for Oregon until
he became more homesick for Missouri. I was not happy in Sedalia for reasons
too numerous to mention. The last town we lived in was Versailles, Missouri,
where at that time, grocery stores closed so early that by the time I needed
something, I was out of luck.
These towns weren’t big, but they all had other
people living within spitting distance. To Jim’s credit, he didn’t like town
life anymore than I did. Once we moved to the country, we both agreed that we
were never moving to town again. Rural life is for me and here I’ll stay,
unless someday I’m hauled kicking and screaming to a nursing home.
I’m looking forward to the days of autumn when the
weather has that slight chill that makes a flannel shirt feel just right. I
want to sit on my wrought iron chair, drink a cup of hot coffee, and watch the
Ream brothers harvest my soybeans.
I want to enjoy the wildflowers that pop up in the
road ditches, and along the edges of the yard. I want to watch the trees turn
to vibrant colors of orange, golden yellow, red, or copper. Some years are more
spectacular that others, but the colors of autumn are nature’s last hurrah.
When we lived in drafty houses, I spent too much
of autumn dreading winter. Now, I savor the season. I guess if you compared
life to the seasons, I’m in the winter of my life, but I haven’t forgotten
autumn when I was younger and, most likely, more colorful.
The important thing with the seasons—just like
life—is that time passes too swiftly. If we close our eyes to the beauty around
us, it will be gone, and be replaced with a different scene.
Now, autumn is just beginning. We are in baby
autumn, waiting for it to mature and become the pumpkin spice of a full-fledged
season. I’m no longer a country “girl” but I appreciate the beauty of God’s
brushstrokes with the eyes of the girl that once was.
Copyright © September 2025 by L. S.
Fisher
http://earlyonset.blogspot.com
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