Being here is so much

Do you hear the wind moving through the cottonwood leaves and the red winged blackbirds singing to each other? It’s hard because the ground is now covered with snow and the blackbirds have left for the winter. Try anyway. Close your eyes for a moment and listen. He is crouched in our garden planting sweet corn in an old, thin t-shirt, underwear, and leather moccasins.

His rows are perfectly straight.

Do you hear gravel crunching underneath tires? He is driving down the road to our farm in his Ford pickup he calls “old Blue.” I am sitting on his lap, gripping the steering wheel which is worn smooth from use, like a deer antler after a season of being rubbed against the trunks of trees. The ruts in the road are deep and keep the tires exactly where they need to be.

He lets me think I am driving us home.

Do you hear the hot, dry eastern Montana summer? I promise it has a sound. He is driving fast in old Blue down a gravel road in the hills south of town. Billows of dust follow us. The windows are down. “North Dakota air conditioning,” he says, a Budweiser in his hand. We are on our way home from changing a tractor tire. I hold my first camera in my lap. He turns and smiles. I press the shutter button.

The photo reminds me of the beauty there was in him.

Do you hear the thud of metal on wood? He swings his maul and the wood cracks down the center. His red beard is covered in icicles. He presses a finger to one nostril and blows snot out the other. “Farmer’s blow,” he says.

I have taught my niece this trick.

Do you hear the creak of a chain link gate opening? He walks into the yard and eight dogs jump up to greet him. They wiggle and lick and whine and bark almost knocking me over on their way to greet him.

A stranger told me I pet dogs like him. If nothing else, I know now that I have accomplished something important in my life.

Do you hear a shovel digging into hard packed dirt? He kneels next to his hunting dog, not stiff yet. He picks him up and lays him gently into the ground. I watch out of the corner of my eye as I gather stones for the grave.

Do you see how beauty is woven through our days, sometimes so fine that we don’t even notice?