What is it about an image that plows one’s imagination and returns one’s soul to affections pastoral and powerful? Let me explain.
I had just returned to my lodging after teaching fellow soldiers. I changed out of my uniform and into shorts and tennis shoes and a t-shirt. The sun was still out and the afternoon sky was clear. I looked out across the fields. A John Deere tractor was moving broadside across my field of vision several hundred meters away, but the day was so clear, the sky a seemingly limitless blue, and the hardwood trees limning the fields showcased autumnal colors of amber, cider, orange, and rust. A cloud of dust followed just behind the tractor from where the farmer plowed.
It was several moments before I realized I had lost track of time. I may’ve even been looking through the window with my mouth open, I was so taken. Suddenly I was a boy again, and inhaling the sweet rich smells of the soil, and I could smell the trees, and feel the airs of autumn, and the odors of harvested corn, and see the imprints of the hooves of whitetails as they fed upon the corn, and feel the footfalls of my boots as their soles pressed almost silently in fields freshly plowed, and behold doves as they criss-crossed the fields of autumn and gleaned like Ruth, and feel autumnal breezes come with October and November, and leaves from oaks and hickories fluttered down, twirling from the boughs like God’s colors of confetti.
It was impossible to say what was reality and what was memory and imagination. The tractor made long furrows, the cloud of dust close behind. There was a richness here that cut lines in my heart as visceral as the furrows that stretched before my eyes, and I longed to never outgrow bucolic beauty that plucks the strings of my soul.
MIND & MATTERS 
O’ Jon, your elegant words bring back such memories that have laid dormant in the back of my mind. Memories of my brothers cropping tobacco, placing their gleanings under their arms the bundle growing until they went to the sled to unburden themselves. They always wore thick shirts, the tobacco stain growing and thickening until it was difficult for them to relax the arm in that sleeve. Being too young to work with the croppers, I always handed the leaves to the stringer in just the manner the stringer wanted three small leaves or two large. The only break I got was when the stick was full and needed to be changed. I also handed the full sticks up to my brothers, and others, who had climbed up in the barn. They placed sticks on rafters in the barn, just leaving enough space for the smoke and heat to reach their hanging leaves. Oh what memories of care-free days of my youth. I love you my brother, see you Sunday!
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That is beautiful, Mr. Henry. Our spirits are knit via multiple strands, dear brother. Love you, and I’ll see you Sunday.
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I grew up on a dairy farm in northeast Wisconsin. One of 9 siblings, we worked the land along with our parents. I loved autumn! With so many trees surrounding our fields, the trees showed their radiant, glorious colors this time of year. Because the crops were harvested, our huge family garden full of vegetables were canned and stored away for the winter, it was a time of rest, and yes, reflection. And hunting! My father and 2 of my brothers were avid deer hunters, especially with the bow. My father also hunted pheasant. Whenever I am blessed to return to the north woods this time of year, I so enjoy it as it brings back fond memories of my youth. Thank you, Jon, for refreshing my spirit.
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Love this. Road trip to WI! (And take me, please.)
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