At the farm we generate at least a few animal stories every year.  That would be appropriate given our out of town location that is both woodsy and wide open and of course wild.  There are a lot of observations—such as that the pair of fawns along the driveway is certainly growing up quickly; all their spots are already gone.  Or those darn hawks; they have been flying around for months now shrieking and sounding a lot like gulls at a far off beach.  Or it has sure been nice to have joyful Madeleine around this summer for relocating the occasional snakes that have appeared; her technique with the reptiles twining around her arm is much friendlier than one of us grim-faced with a shovel in hand.  Only every now and then do observations turn into stories.

Not all of our animal stories involve native wild animals.  As in a lot of rural areas a surprising number of cats inhabit this locale.  While hunting for deer quietly ensconced in deer stands which are like tree houses or are metal tower arrangements with a platform up near the top, hunters often report seeing more cats than deer.  Cats can have a very negative influence on the song bird population which is already under challenge in rural areas from shrinking habitat (think of disappearing fence lines) and resurgent raptors.  Where do all these cats come from?  We haven’t seen any authoritative studies, but a lot of people around here think they are continually dumped on us by city and townsfolk believing that their no longer cherished pets might salvage some kind of life, perhaps as mousers on somebody’s farm.

It is an early December morning.  Thus far winter has not really appeared, still the mornings are frosty and there have been snow squalls and periods of cold with bitter winds.  As Nancy replenishes the display of festive branches (the kind that give an outdoor Christmas/Winter container needed height and maybe texture and color, too), she hears a cat’s “meow, meow.”  Before she can determine where the sound is coming from, she feels a persistent caress of her right leg just above her boot top.  She looks down at the cute upturned face of a calico cat, its tawny and black patches smartly splotched with milky white.  Nancy asks pleasantly, “And where did your come from?” to which the cat warmly gushes, “meow, meow, meow.”   

As the day unfolds the cat hangs around meowing and brushing against stationary legs.  It so closely follows Nancy that she is afraid she will accidentally step on it.  Just before dusk Karen, the Farm’s prime wreath and roping maker appears.  Not only is Karen highly skilled with conifer branches (and a myriad of other artistic endeavors) she loves cats, has cats and cat-loving friends.  The year before, when another cute feline appeared, Karen quickly found it a new home.  As she gets down to clipping Fraser Fir tips, she begins thinking about adoptees for the cat.

The next morning dawns cloudy and rainy.  From where Nancy is working on some big arrangements for a commercial customer in wood stove heated Acorn Hall, she suddenly spies the calico cat tracking prey in the rain garden area.  Amazingly, despite being “declawed” the cat seems to have captured a mouse.

Later on Karen reports that she has fed the cat and so far there are “no takers.”  By midafternoon the cat is back with Nancy, chatty and affectionate as before.  Mary, the seamstress who creates so many of the Farm’s lovely textiles (table runners, towels, aprons to name a few) drives in, then arms loaded with newly constructed merchandise, ponderously negotiates her way on to the porch and up to the south door of the Big Barn.  Mary is a genuine character, grizzled, mobility-impaired, yet the creator of delicate objects, some so colorful and cute that they can almost fly.  For years she was a traveling hospice nurse before nearly being killed in a terrible auto accident.  Though her manner is often gruff with a husky voice to match, she is truly a sweet soul with a designer’s eye and deft fingers.  She is also a cat owner.  The cute calico approaches Mary meowing and brushing Mary’s swollen, permanently injured leg.  As Nancy relates the cat’s tale Mary looks pensive.  She is thinking of a friend and neighbor whose long time calico companion recently died.

Before the copious number of Mary’s newest offerings can be attractively added to the displays in the Big Barn, Mary is calling.  Yes her friend’s calico curiosity has been piqued and a get-acquainted meeting has been scheduled for tomorrow.

Grabbing a clip board with the new orders for pine products, Nancy trudges over to see Karen in Greenhouse Number 6.  Sniffing the ultimate “up North” pine scent from all the cut Fraser, balsam and white pine in process, Nancy walks over to Karen who is constructing a wreath on one of the wreath crimping machines.  The cat is sitting on the table where stacks of clipped Fraser tips repose.  Nancy updates Karen about new orders and then tells her about Mary’s friend who wants the cat.  Almost in response to the conversation the animal jumps from the table into Nancy’s arms and rests its head on her shoulder like a baby.  What an unbelievable cat.

Mary and her friend arrive around noon of the following day.  The friend falls in love with the cat in about thirty seconds.  And we thought that was the end of the story; a kind of feline version of Holly and Ivy right at Redbud Creek Farm.

But we heard from Mary’s friend the other day and there are a few post scripts.  Initially the cat is named Chatty Cathy, an apropos moniker but…  After further consideration the cat is named the more alluring Pandora.  One hopes the boxes opened in this lady’s life are bringing happiness.

Finally there was a semi significant complication in Pandora’s adoption.  Mary’s friend takes the cat to her veterinarian for a checkup and shots.  The doctor announces that there is a little issue.  Oh, not a health problem exactly—it seems this cast-off cat possesses a pet microchip through which the vet can obtain all the contact information of the pet’s original owner.  These pet microchips are about the size of a grain of rice and are inserted via a special syringe beneath the pet’s skin in the area between the shoulder blades.  Pandora’s new owner is in a bit of shock as the vet calls the original owner and leaves a message on their phone answering machine, a new version of The Cat Comes Back in digital.  As the hours and days passed with no word from the party who paid $50 (less if the procedure was included with other services like “declawing”) plus the annual $17.50 registration fee to have their verbal and affectionate calico cat digitally branded, Mary’s friend got to feeling better.  I would love to know the story of how the cat came to the Farm and it intrigues me that Pandora likely carries the key just beneath her tri-color fur.

A perfect storm struck Redbud Creek Farm last Saturday.  There is probably no such thing as A perfect storm, it is probably supposed to be THE perfect storm because the nature of perfection is that it is quite rare.  This storm and the events that spawned it were not really so rare, and the way they came together was perfectly predictable to any scholar of Murphy’s Law if not to meteorology.

Though I understand the term “perfect storm” has existed for a long while, I only became aware of it when I read Sebastian Junger’s book by that name about a particularly severe Nor’easter that happened on Halloween in 1991.  The term entered popular culture when that book became a movie, and now one hears of perfect storms quite frequently.  The financial crisis of 2008 is sometimes described as having resulted from a perfect storm of events.  I think that a perfect storm is any kind of happening where rare combinations of inputs occur, drastically intensifying the resulting situation.

We knew in advance that weather forecasters were predicting a big change in the weather for last Saturday.  And given that the high was anticipated to be over 100 degrees with very high humidity and that there was an approaching cold front which would push the following day’s high temperature into the 70s, we could be fairly sure that a few thunderstorms might be generated.  Beyond normal storm factors, Nancy and I wanted to be out of town—far out of town, visiting our son in Florida.  Jackie, our currently senior-most young helper observed matter-of-factly, “Well, you know we always have big storms when you guys are gone—this is gonna help with the drought…”

And, as if this was not enough, a bus tour group was planning to visit the Farm Saturday afternoon.  We prepared diligently for their arrival; the fresh baked cookies and lemonade had been procured, Jackie had prepared with Nancy to give a talk and demonstration, and Phyllis had come out of semi-retirement to assist the presentation and generally make things run smoothly.  Even brother Ed was on the scene to assist where needed.  Just like in all the major dramas there was a little something to foreshadow what was surely coming.  The refrigerator where all that tasty lemonade, cool water and ice reposed was discovered to be non-functioning.

By the time the big “Greyhound-style” motor coach rumbles into the parking area the sky is looking gray and troubled.  The Farm staff members are glancing furtively between the radar images on their smart phones and the riled darkening sky.  Armed with information from a brother in Morris who was already experiencing a truly intense storm, Ed boards the bus.  He suggests to the tour director that since a dangerous storm is imminent, maybe it would be best for the participants to remain on the bus.  “Oh no—it’s not so bad,” the tour leader says and then she proceeds to direct the unloading of the bus.  Ed glances down at the radar image on his phone.  He thinks the angry blotches of red have gone purple.  And unlike any storm of any magnitude for the last three months, this one isn’t going north or south; it is poised for a direct hit.

The storm arrives with all of its promised fury.  Buckets of rain propelled by strong cold winds pummel the scorched land and absolutely vivid lightening strikes repeatedly resulting in a chorus of almost non-stop thunder.  The visitors crowd the Big Barn shop.  A mote forms between the Big Barn and Acorn Hall where the talk and demonstration are to be held.  But the storm goes on and on.  By the time the tour goers are freed from the Barn’s confines it is nearly time to reboard the bus and roll on.  So there is no talk or demonstration.  Some of the visitors have managed to see a bit of the Farm and they say upbeat things like it is (or was) beautiful and that they will come back.  Phyllis and Jackie do their best to hand out brochures and thank everyone for coming.

But there is no real disappointment as the bus pulls out.  The Farm didn’t get any new customers—but eventually some might return.  More importantly, we didn’t lose any potential customers or staff to lightening, a falling tree, or some other disaster.  And we got about two inches of blessed rain.  Ah, a perfect storm.       

 

Thinking of my old friend Schwartz, it would be nice if he were to visit the Farm today.  Henry Schwartz was an accountant who served the small business with which I was affiliated for many years.  I lost track of Schwartz about 20 years ago—he had finally retired and moved to Florida.  I presume that by now he is in CPA Heaven if there is such a place.

In the decade when I worked with him Schwartz looked like an accountant from central casting—older, slightly stooped with a vision problem that gave him a hawkish gaze.  To read he often positioned his mostly bald head about 15” above the page as he framed numbers and words with a magnifying glass.  In his practice with small business people he learned to report the figures and their implications without regard to how they might be received.  Without emotion he would deliver the news, “So based on the totals of the past quarter the fiscal year will generate a loss…” or “earnings are much stronger—we’ll have to make provisions to deposit more money with the IRS…” or “I can’t see based on these meager profit levels how your bonus can be funded…” As Schwartz moved beyond the figures into business consulting and general life issues his search for unvarnished facts and their meaning combined with his blunt presentation made him a valuable if not always very loveable colleague. 

I am imagining how this man whose whole career was about facts, figures, and their “fair interpretation” might view things at the Farm.  Nancy is just hanging up with an older customer whose two very mature clematis vines are totally brown.  Nancy tells her to remove all the dead material from the plants’ vicinity and to keep watering them.  The woman suddenly sounds stunned, “I’ve never watered these plants.”  Before Nancy can respond she says with great umbrage, “I’m on a fixed income—I can’t have my water bill climbing.”  Nancy says some soothing things and suggests that even now some regular watering might bring these clematis plants back from the brink.  It is a good thing someone like Schwartz doesn’t speak to this lovely but inept gardener.  With his “dry” humor he might have focused on the choice between a “climbing” vine and a “climbing” water bill.  But Schwartz was cheap too.  After he would have told the woman that she probably killed her plants, he might have suggested using rinse water from the dishes or from bathing and he would have commented that she got by pretty well all these years without ever watering and therefore maybe she saved enough effort if not money to be able to purchase new clematis vines if these don’t come back.

I visit with a man who owns a small metalworking factory.  He acknowledges that things are going pretty well and that they have been going pretty well for a while now.  I ask him how he views the future.  The man tells me his big concern is taxes.  He is fearing a big tax increase that will just shut him down like in early 2009 after the ripples from the financial crisis brought orders to a standstill. Not to diminish the significance of wise tax policy, but I am thinking of existential threats like the European debt crisis and opportunities in the improving sectors of the economy.  The man would not have wanted to talk about taxes with Schwartz.  During his lifelong practice of tax accounting Schwartz was always dealing with rates that are far higher than we know today.  

Nancy and I are trying to figure out what we should charge for some completed jobs.  As much as we like and need the jobs, we always seem to feel that what we did is worth more but for various reasons we are going to charge less.  Schwartz would understand this conundrum.  Bluntly he would say that we have to make a living.  He would ask pointedly about productivity, competition and customer expectations.  And then he would wonder how we got into such a crazy business where the weather is still one of the most important components of success and where people’s perceptions, whether justified or rational or remotely accurate, count for everything.  In the end I think Schwartz would understand and bless our efforts for he always counseled in the words of Joseph Campbell that it’s best to “follow your bliss.”  Even in drought.