If I’m not up by 7 in the morning, the bed shakes and a paw rakes my arm. The clock in Peaches’ stomach has gone off, and she is keen to alert me to that fact. If I wake earlier and stretch, or make any sound at all, she’s on me with the paw, and it becomes a game we play — I try to roll over as quietly as possible while she alerts to any sign that I’m actually awake. Sometimes I win and get to snooze a bit longer. Usually she wins. It’s not a fair competition because she keeps the rules of the game to herself, or makes them up as she goes.
Once we’re both up, we have the wardrobe inspection. My choice of attire lets her know whether she gets to go-with or stay home and wait. The old blue jeans are always a cause for celebration. The next challenge is to exit the bedroom without waking Tracey, and that means moving the celebration of the morning down the hall or into the kitchen where the bowl awaits. If humans could begin the day with such joy, many of the world’s ills would simply disappear.
The morning routine unfolds with a sweet sameness. Feed Peaches. Start the coffee. Feed the cats. Carry food and water to the chickens while Peaches performs her morning constitutional. Return to extract Max from the bedroom as quietly as possible. Follow and herd Max during his constitutional to make sure he doesn’t offer himself as breakfast for a passing coyote. Pour the coffee and boot the computer to start work.
Rain or shine, the path is the same, and when you have walked the same path for decades, memories collect along the way like the dust that falls on the sides of a road. Often I walk with my ancestors and share their memories. Some places are memory-rich for obvious reasons, and some are unexpected. I often see my dad standing in front of the old smokehouse on his last Christmas visit — the smokehouse his grandfather built from black locust and hornbeam, which his father relocated and rebuilt after it fell down, and which I relocated and rebuilt after a bear partially disassembled it to search the ashes for the ghost of a ham long departed.
Just past the barn is a memory garden where the remains of all the four‑legged critters who ever shined their light on this place are buried. We never intended a pet cemetery, but it grew into that over the years. An iron cross made by a friend stands guard over it, and though the remains of the furry ones have long been accepted by the earth, every new critter friend has always lingered there on our walks in a kind of unconscious reverence or curiosity.
The artist Hao Liang once reflected on the love we have for our furred companions and the inevitable heartbreak that occurs every decade or so as we say goodbye to them. He says that the sadness is the tax we pay for a decade of the purest frequency of unconditional love we’ll ever encounter this side of heaven. Do not fear the shattered heart, he says, because that’s the only way the light gets in.
There is abundant light here this morning, though the sky is dark and the rain is falling. Tracey is sipping her coffee while Max gazes at her adoringly. Peaches is in perfect repose, dreaming of our next walk and her next meal. The hummingbirds are dodging raindrops to feed under the eave of the deck while Biscuit the Cat eyes them sleepily. Georgia and Samantha are snoozing after being up all night on cat business. I hear the sound of a rooster from the barnyard taking credit for the cooler weather.
When the rain lets up, I’ll put on my boots and walk. I’ve got a long list of things I need to thank the Creator for, and we haven’t talked enough lately. It occurs to me that this entire farm is a memory garden, and it’s not because of what’s buried here. It is the memories that are alive here.
Outside The Box 