days of grace
His day job, like mine, is in a sanitized office. We work for the same company. Despite his proximity to toner cartridges and shiny professional title, he’ll never look at home in a conference room to me. No one does that knows more about tensile fencing than Excel databases. His circumstances have changed but the honesty’s the same.
Paul told me something one autumn afternoon that made me believe he never turned in his canvas for tweed. On a wet, depressing, post-foliage day in early November we were in a conference room waiting for a meeting to start. It was gray outside, the wind moving wet leaves around the precisely manicured lawn. He looked past the bleak weather on the other side of the windows and said with a nostalgic smile that these were the Days of Grace. I asked him what he meant by that?
He said the Days of Grace was what the farmers in our area called the time of year between fall’s fireworks and the first snowfall; a window of reverent preparation. The Days were filled with tasks like stacking cordwood and repairing tractors. Grain and hay were loaded in barns. The snow blower was oiled and ready to growl. Farmers who had sold their corn, composted over their vegetable fields, or had meat hanging in the walk-in had most of their work behind them. In a life that forces constant vigilance and resourcefulness, this was the time of year to finally relax. Weeds were long dead. Cash crops were sold. Wallets were fatter and mornings started a little later.
The Days of Grace were a holiday season, though you won’t find any cards at your local Hallmark store sporting greased cultivators whilst wishing you A Wicked Muzzloader Season. No, instead of twinkle lights and gift registries; the Days were a series of quiet thrills. Work completed, homestead prepared, hunkering-down may commence. The region takes on the calm veil of the shoulder season. And the initiated sigh. That secret sigh of their people.
This brick and soil holiday Paul spoke about suited me. It didn’t require belief in any particular verse, instead it demanded virtues I desperately wanted in my adult life: presence, belief, and devotion. Farming lit up and fueled a dim and hungry part of me. I was part of something again, a necessary tradition of growing food. Food is more than sustenance and recipes. It’s the one faith all humans belong too. When you wrap your life around the production instead of consumption, worlds open.
I wanted to be a part of these secret celebrations. I clamored for them. Hearing about them stirred painful cravings for the things I grew up with but no longer held onto: organized religion, the company of animals, and spending whole days outdoors instead of my relatively useless career spent in a swivel chair. If there was any doubt that I wanted to become a farmer, it melted away at that moment of conversation.
When November comes now, I sigh.