Drought

"Evening’s hushed summer mist tries to comfort her earth and lays down like a whisper a blanket of soft purple haze."

Here in Western New York State, we don't experience the kinds of drought conditions that we read about in the western and southern United States. When we have a drought, it means that we haven't had enough rain over the course of a season, or over several weeks. It is especially hard on our local farmers who have a short growing season and deadlines to meet for harvesting summer and fall crops.


I happen to be familiar with how this affects farm families because I grew up on a cash crop farm, and I worked in the agricultural sector with an outreach program that was associated with and housed at my alma mater, Cornell University. I now reside close to the agricultural area where I grew up. I guess I have come full circle. There isn't a lot of development happening here in the way of cul-de-sacs and 2-story homes. The developments you see cropping up on the local landscape are bigger barns to house the ever-growing herds of dairy cattle and the ever-growing specialized equipment used to plant and harvest the acres and acres of crops that are grown in this and the surrounding counties.


I try to remain practical in my thoughts about farmers. After all, running a farm is just like running any business. There are the same management decisions, stressors, and hopefully . . . rewards. The only difference is that it is so dependent on the weather. Regardless of the type of farm . . . a fruit farm, a dairy farm, or a cash crop farm . . . the weather can make or break you. Managing the business and anticipating the future go hand in hand, but one is something you can look at on paper and the other is one you can only pray about. So, practical thoughts don't really make sense when I look at the brown fields and empty creeks. My heart starts to ache for each farm family, their employees and the ag-businesses that serve them. It is a close-knit community and they are dependent upon each other's success.


My post today is a personal one, not only because I identify with the agricultural community that surrounds me; but also because I am sharing with you something I wrote twenty years ago. I dig it out every now and then to read . . . only to put it back in its' dog-eared file folder and stash it back on the shelf. I don't know what to call it. A poem, an ode, a ballad? Maybe a ballad, if I wrote some music to go along with it, or perhaps it is just the beginning of a project I have contemplated over the years to make it into a little black and white movie. Unfortunately, the actor I had chosen for the main character, Sam Shepard, passed away last year. Not that I am certain he would have even been interested! But I loved him in the movie "Country", as well as many other roles he portrayed, and I thought he would be a good fit.


I have come to the conclusion that in many parts of my creative life, I have waited too long to step out in faith and put my work out there. I am trying to break that habit and this is a big step for me.

There's really no time like the present, so without any more excuses, I give you my poem, "Drought".

Drought

The summer’s been a dry one.

Crops are burning in the field.

We’ve lost hope of any chance

of eking a living from their yield.

It’s mid-July – almost harvest time.

The corn stands short, brown and stilted.

Tempers flare and payments bounce.

Feel like a lover who’s been jilted.

The chance of rain is zero.

Hasn’t been a cloud in the sky for days

Looking out over parched hard scrabble,

evening’s hushed summer mist

tries to comfort her earth

and lays down like a whisper

a blanket of soft purple haze.

The wind lifts behind me.

Cool air chills the nape of my neck.

Feels like it might be raining somewhere

Shoot! I must be dreaming.

The weatherman said we don’t have a prayer.

Neighbors pass by on their evening ride,

tip their hats and cast their eyes low.

Palms up, they gesture skyward,

for rain they are pleading.

It’s a feeling too well we all know.

The tractors stand idle,

but ready and waiting still . . .

since in springtime when they tilled.

The men at the co-op are waiting, too, all set to mill.

But the summer’s been a dry one.

Crops are burning in the field.

We’ve lost hope of any chance

of eking a living from their yield.

The folks in the city think the cost

of food is too high

while we fight for fair prices

to earn a living unsubsidized.

Holding out for the promise

I made when I first plowed this land . . .

to till it season after season

and make a living with my hands.

My faith in God sustains me.

On Him I must rely.

With Him I have a line of credit

and I am valued in His eyes.

I pray to Him in the quiet night,

crouched on the back porch step.

“Take care of me Lord.

I’ll take care of Your earth.

Please give me some sign of Your plan.”

Heat lightning flashes

in the distant black sky.

I know He is listening,

but is that His reply?

I hang my head low,

cup my face in my hands.

My body feels heavy from woe.

My eyes start to burn,

my face feels on fire,

and the tears begin to roll.

Down my cheeks

and through my fingers they stream.

The salt burns my parched sunburned skin.

I hear the creak of a door

and the voice of my wife

saying, “Honey, it’s time you came in.”

I sit for a moment,

then rise up with a sigh,

unsure if I want her to see that I’ve cried.

She wraps her arms ‘round me

and softens the pain.

Her touch is gentle and warm . . .

like my memory of rain.

The moon washes white

the cracked sun-dried earth,

and my farm looks like a

world I don’t know.

Unreal and lifeless . . .

cold and barren . . .

a ghostly image

created by the

sterile moonglow.

In silence we walk

up the steps to the kitchen

and stand still in the shadowy night.

We both feel beaten by an unseen aggressor.

All we want is to make a good living . . .

not live an existence where each day’s a fight.

“I’m going to turn in now,”

I say to my wife,

and climb the back stairs to our room

where I used to find rest and wake up refreshed . . .

Nights are now spent

in restless dreams of a prisoner

closed in by calico walls.

Trapped in farm fields dressed in black,

where I can’t find my way

to answer my family’s distant

and desperate calls.

I awake in the night,

my heart pounding from terror,

my pillow soaking wet from my brow.

Staring into the darkness, my mind carries me back to

the day we recited our vows.

“for better or for worse,

for richer or for poorer,”

didn’t mean then

what they do now.

But the summer’s been a dry one.

Crops are burning in the field.

We’ve lost hope of any chance

of eking a living from their yield.

I feel a breeze from the west window

rush through the silent dark room

and hear a distant rumbling noise.

The lifeless gauze curtain jumps and starts billowing

out from the old papered wall.

I’d be crazy to think it might start to rain

just because the wind came up in the night.

But that noise . . .

sounds like thunder . . .

and I can hear the penned heifers

restlessly kicking their stalls.

Could this really mean rain?

Or am I still in a dream?

Is my subconscious

playing a cruel joke?

My heart starts to race

and beats loudly in my ears.

As I strain to listen for the sound of rain drops,

I sink my head into the pillow –

afraid of a sound I won’t hear.

My eyes burn from exhaustion.

My lids close and I drift off to sleep.

Just about dawn,

I awake to the squeals

of my children running wide-eyed and barefooted

down the hallway into our room.

“Daddy, did you hear the thunder?”

“Mommy, can we crawl in with you?”

Another loud clap

And there are five in our bed . . .

Three scared and two breathless with hope.

On the tin roof outside our window,

I hear the faint sound of raindrops

gently falling on the empty woodshed.

My wife takes my hand and gives it a squeeze

and the lump in my throat almost chokes me.

The sky opens up, the rain pours down from it,

and my eyes well up with tears.

My youngest beside me whispers,

“Don’t be scared Daddy.

It’s okay.

I’m right here.”

I put my arms around her,

hold on to her tightly,

and sob into her soft brown hair.



Our dry spell ended this week. We've had two and a half inches of rain.
We are hoping and praying we will get more rain this week.

Thank you for taking the time to read my post. As always, your questions and comments are welcome. You can leave them below or on Facebook. I will read them and I will reply. And until we meet again, may the Lord hold you in the hollow of His hand.


Emmy