I Adore Late Spring

The fields are full of growing lambs, weary ewes, and the snip, snip sounds of grazing on bright green spring grass. Within the first hour of birth, lambs learn to walk, nurse, sleep, and then immediately begin to play. Inside the barn they bounce like popcorn in a skillet; once outside they join into large flocks of 50 to 60, racing and bucking up and down the hills, weaving through trees, surging over rocks, stumps, and piles.

They butt, push and pause, sides heaving, mouths open, panting. They find the correct mom, and nurse violently, lifting her hind legs off the ground, kneeling beneath pendulous udders. Dozing in the sunshine, their heads face up following the light across the sky, like sunflowers in a field, blossoming and growing.

Spring also brings the long-awaited calf crop, stealthily emerging one by one. The mums slink off into hidden coverts of huckleberries, cedar and salal, giving birth in the private, dappled solitude. Cows are incredibly clever in hiding newborns, pretending with great nonchalance that they don’t even have a calf. Who, me? Yet within a few days, the calves are ready for more. Each one joins and engages with the herd, meeting and playing with siblings. They run with zeal, tails straight up like bovine antennae, chasing the farm dogs in mutually enjoyed games of tag. Nursing alongside warm flanks, milk froth whitens their muzzles and soaks the ground beneath.

As the soil warms, the garden begins its call, “Come weed me, come plant me, come till me.” Sprouts in greenhouses beg to be freed into the wilds of outdoor ground. Potatoes eye to escape dark cellars, sending pale stalks of new life reaching to find the sunlight.

Rhubarb plants push through deep layers of mulch, each leaf straining in a ball of green determination, the red stem tantalizing beneath. Buds form and explode in a halo of fair-smelling radiant beauty, rendering gnarled fruit matriarchs into blushing brides.

Feed stores are serenaded by “cheep” music from tanks of chicks, while new plants revive nurseries with anticipation. I gaze in wonder at all this, sigh, and sort through my garden seeds, again. The seeds I ordered in February, chosen from multiple shiny catalogs of perfect produce and promises. Gardeners eye seed packets with resolve, performing meticulous predictions based on almanacs, moon cycles, pH levels, maturation dates, inoculant, and fertilizer requirements. Is it too soon to plant? Will the seeds sprout? Will it still be cool enough to enjoy the crop, or will it bolt to seed in a day?

We envision the crop growing strong without blight, without pests, perfectly pollinated and untainted by inclement weather as pictured in the seed catalog. We mentally harvest, taste, and feel the contentment of sharing the produce with others. Despite all the things that could go wrong, we persevere. With resolve, we saunter to the garden’s edge, dip the hoe into the soil, making a perfect furrow, and then smooth the bottom by hand before ripping open that precious packet, placing each seed at the perfect depth and spacing. Carefully covering and tamping down the soft, stone-free soil, we stand back and admire our work. Then we hope for things outside of our control: perfect temperatures, moisture level, seed viability, and strength. We are confident that each seed will find germination, nutrition, and a way up and out into the light to play and thrive and grow. Then we rehome the displaced earthworm, with care.

Spring reminds me to appreciate these essential and fundamental life principles: confidence, perseverance, good nutrition, playful exercise, and quality companionship. Farmers and ranchers practice the dogma, confident in a positive future: the sheep will conceive, the calves will thrive, crops will produce a harvest, prices will support the effort. Yet, they remain vigilant, prepared to adapt and overcome, ready to assist with a birth, raise an orphan, protect a young seedling from frost, find an alternative market.

This practical understanding of risk, peril and potential is practiced daily. Success demands that change is a norm, not an exception. Confident perseverance is the means we in agriculture address change in our world, our political environment, and our personal lives.

How might you utilize these lessons to your own benefit to address changes that seem overwhelming? For me, it’s easy: the garden calls. It’s time to persevere and replant my peas, again. This time, I know they’ll sprout, and I can’t wait to share that crunchy, sweet goodness with my friends.

Janice Bryant is a repurposed Navy program manager and livestock rancher. She lives in Longbranch.