My dad called a couple weekends ago, asking me to meet him at a job site. He’s preparing to install a rather impressive residential solar PV system, and wanted me to snap a few shots of the “before.”
So, I grabbed my camera and set off toward adventure.
The home, you see, is something of a small farm. The owners lived their lives in the corporate world and academia; rather than retire to idle days, they decided to try their hand at farming . . .
They’ve several acres that board horses, raise cattle, and entertain chickens (fresh eggs are already on my list for the next visit, thank you very much) . . .
They’ve an orchard and an expansive garden—what they, their family, friends, and neighbors can’t eat, they donate (not to sound like a creeper or anything, but I love these people). Of course, a good deal of their garden space needed to be taken out, to make room for solar panels . . .
Needless to say, there was much to photograph. Dandelions, for instance . . .
Leaves, dangling by a thread . . .
My country shoes . . .
Amy, tall and skinny . . .
The workings of a cement truck . . .
A handsome pups . . .
With all my snapping of myriad oddities, there’s a good chance my dad was beginning to question my work ethic. Please. You get what you pay for.
Also, it could not be helped. It was gorgeous out there, on the fringes of the city. A hawk and a heron flew overhead, the birds sang; the air was crisp and clean, the atmosphere peaceful.
If I didn’t know any better, I might be tempted to pull up stakes and find a country estate all my own.
To keep my wits about me, I’ve been reciting S.J. Perelman’s Acres & Pains:
If you can spare the time to drive sixty miles into the backwoods of eastern Pennsylvania, crouch down in a bed of poison ivy, and peer through the sumacs, you will be rewarded by an interesting sight. What you will see is a middle-aged city dweller, as lean and bronzed as a shad’s belly (I keep a shad’s belly hanging up in the barn for purposes of comparison), gnawing his fingernails and wondering how to abandon a farm.
It’s all about knowing your limitations, people. I’m all for life on a farm—it’s the working I’m adverse to.
I guess I’ll just content myself with snapping photos of the bounty of others’ work . . .