The other night, one of the first of the (now many) super cold nights, I bundled up, pulled on my tall boots and headed to the barn for a late night check. The snow had stopped and the winds calmed. A few stars winked above and the only sound, the shoosh, crunch, shoosh crunch of my boots through the snow.
Everyone was fine, and I could have just returned to the house, but I stayed. I set out some extra hay and walked over to stand with Hank. Some sheep came out for the hay, some came over to visit with me, curious as to why I was there in the middle of the night. I could have should have stayed forever. A fine memory.
As I turned to go, I saw a truck pull into Stella's driveway. The snow was deep, but no match for a good four wheel drive. The driver crept up the long hill, past her house, disappearing around the bend. It was 11:30, but no reason for concern. I knew the truck well. It was the neighbor leasing her farm, headed back to check his cattle.
He is a good farmer. I see him every morning. We feed at nearly the same time every day. As I'm setting out hay for the horses, he's rumbling up the hill in his tractor with a load of silage for his cows (or back down empty depending on how many emails I answered before walking out the door ;-). He's too far away to see such a greeting, but I give him a nod.
I like seeing him. I like the sense of community, the feeling that I am keeping up. Hoping maybe he looks down the hill and thinks I, too, am a good farmer. Not everyone makes those late night treks. I don't always and neither does he. It meant something special to me on that crystal clear cold night, while the rest of the neighborhood slept, that a good farmer was still out. And I was there, too.
Such a fine memory.