Penny makes the butter. Photo by Dylan Griffin
I ran before first light this morning, in the gentlest of rain, the surface of the road just visible for just far enough to trust. Though of course I know the road well, know exactly where it dead ends, turns to a farm road, and then a woods road, and then a rutted four-wheeler track. So I guess it doesn’t really dead end, after all. It just shifts purpose.
It had been a while since I’d run, at least a week, maybe more, and I remembered how the last time the air had been full of a gathering snow. Rain. Snow. Rain again. November. The leaves are off the trees. All of them. Funny how I used to think this was an ugly time of year.
I was born in November, a whole bunch of years ago. There was a pretty big snowstorm, or at least that’s what my parents tell me. But you know how parents are about their children’s birthdays. There’s always some drama or another. Me, I like to tell people how the coyotes came hungry to our door in the nights of my sons’ births, and I tossed the placentas into their writhing midst.
Today I work at the farm down the road, siding a barn with my friend John. He’s 24, wears suspenders and smokes hand-rolled cigarettes, logs with horses. Bushy beard. We get on real good, talk about all sorts of things as we work. Animals, music, friends, chainsaws, women, children. But not necessarily in that order.
No, we definitely talk about women and chainsaws first.