On a Winter's Day

When Bob and I first moved to our Madison County acreage 21 years ago, it was my first experience living in the country. I’d grown up in Des Moines, which—by Iowa standards—is as urban as it gets.

My high school was built on land that pastured horses when I was little. And the most popular mall in town stood on property once used for a monastery. With that in mind, the word “city” might have been an exaggeration for Des Moines at that time. Still, my country imaginings of wild animals and rail fences seemed far from our Beaverdale neighborhood home.

I spent much of my childhood outdoors with siblings and friends, roaming the neighborhood on foot and on bicycle, heading to the creeks at two parks within a few blocks of our house. We sat on the front stoop of our house to watch thunderstorms roll in from the west, and on the back stoop to watch fireflies light up the yard on sultry summer nights. 

Still, when Bob and I moved to the country, I was not familiar with the stars—not really. Or the constant change of the seasons—not marked just by snow days or the last day of school, but by daily nuances in the angle of the light or the smell of the soil. Every walk around our acreage yielded something new. A fresh pinecone. A smooth rock. The first red leaf of autumn.

When Bob and I made a list of what we wanted in a house, mine included a view of a pond, places to walk, a beautiful view, sunsets.

And that’s exactly what we found, right along with a house that had the tool bench and storage Bob was looking for, and enough land to park his tool bus—an old school bus he converted to mobile storage when he got divorced and wanted a way to save the hardware he’d needed in his previous life and would no doubt need again.

The first year we lived here, I made a promise to myself. Each day I would walk around our four acres—no matter what the weather—with our dog Wolf, and each day I would notice something new. I was training myself toward mindfulness, paying attention.

Bob gave me a pair of navy blue coveralls to keep me warm on the winter walks. In November, just weeks into our marriage after years of being single, I walked with Wolf to our neighbor’s pond and sat in the silence of the gray sky and naked trees.

I watched a lone goose fly overhead, honking mournfully. When we got back to the house, Bob was taking an afternoon nap. I slid into bed next to him, and when he stirred, I asked why the goose would have been alone.

“Something happened to its mate,” he said drowsily, gathering me into his arm. “Someone might have shot it.” I cringed before we both drifted off to sleep, sad for the goose but grateful I was no longer a lone creature making its own way in the world.

Nature is filled with surprises. Kittens get carried away by owls and coyotes. A rare indigo bunting shows up at your feeder, or you look out the window early on a June morning and see a snow-white plumed exotic bird, its appearance as odd and unexpected in rural Iowa as its raucous caw.

Before moving to the country, I didn’t know that tree branches fall. Constantly. Our yard right now is littered with branches and twigs that have blown down or been broken in winter storms and lie half buried in the snow. They’ll be there on a March day when the snow cover is gone and we begin the work of picking up sticks and loading them into a trailer so Bob can dispose of them.

But even in the face of loss, there is constant renewal. Volunteer trees grow in unexpected and sometimes ideal spots, replacing those that have succumbed to storms, insects and old age.  

The perennials we planted years ago now need yearly pruning, robust enough to take over a picture window or an entire flowerbed.

And today, icicles melt onto our deck and front porch, but no doubt more will come with a late winter snow before spring takes hold.

This life in the country is an endless show of growth, decline, dormancy, and renewal. Sometimes beautiful, sometimes ugly. Always moving forward, and somehow forgiven for its outbursts.

I want to renew my intention of circling the yard every day, although Wolf has been gone for years now, and our cats aren’t likely to walk with me when the snow is up to the tips of their ears.

I want to see nature’s latest idiosyncracies, and there’s only so much you can observe by looking out the window. Sometimes you just have to get out in it, no matter what the weather. Put on the coveralls. Pick up the sticks, give thanks for the trees that are in the latter stages of life and the ones just getting their start, spin around in circles at the 360-degree view of natural beauty and breathe into the knowing that all is well.

Years ago, I made a rattle by putting unpopped corn kernels in a small plastic container, and I walked the perimeter of the yard, shaking the rattle and chanting a song of blessing for our property and all the life residing on it. Bugs, grasses, worms, hawks, humans, pets, trees and flowers.

May this land be a safe harbor and a source of nourishment, even if it’s for a fleeting few moments for butterflies or wild birds—or human beings who pass this way, grateful and blessed on their journey.

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I’m pleased to be part of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative. Here’s the full list of columnists, in alphabetical order. 

Laura Belin: Iowa Politics with Laura Belin, Windsor Heights

Doug Burns: The Iowa Mercury, Carroll

Dave Busiek: Dave Busiek on Media, Des Moines

Art Cullen: Art Cullen’s Notebook, Storm Lake

Suzanna de Baca Dispatches from the Heartland, Huxley

Debra Engle: A Whole New World, Madison County

Julie Gammack: Julie Gammack’s Iowa Potluck, Des Moines and Okoboji

Joe Geha: Fern and Joe, Ames

Jody Gifford: Benign Inspiration, West Des Moines

Beth Hoffman: In the Dirt, Lovilla

Dana James: New Black Iowa, Des Moines

Pat Kinney: View from Cedar Valley, Waterloo

Fern Kupfer: Fern and Joe, Ames

Robert Leonard: Deep Midwest: Politics and Culture, Bussey

Tar Macias: Hola Iowa, Iowa

Kurt Meyer, Showing Up, St. Ansgar

Kyle Munson, Kyle Munson’s Main Street, Des Moines

Jane Nguyen, The Asian Iowan, West Des Moines

John Naughton: My Life, in Color, Des Moines

Chuck Offenburger: Iowa Boy Chuck Offenburger, Jefferson and Des Moines

Barry Piatt: Piatt on Politic Behind the Curtain, Washington, D.C.

Macey Spensley: The Midwest Creative, Iowa

Mary Swander: Mary Swander’s Buggy Land, Kalona

Mary Swander: Mary Swander’s Emerging Voices, Kalona

Cheryl Tevis: Unfinished Business, Boone County

Ed Tibbetts: Along the Mississippi, Davenport

Teresa Zilk: Talking Good, Des Moines

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