Our car makes its way down the road. It's just a swatch of asphalt with yellow splashes separating those headed west from those headed east. It's not needed, though, the yellow divider. We don't pass any cars.
Rice fields turn into orchards. Neatly planted; their leaves are a faded green. They'll become bare soon. Once seventy degree autumn days turn into fifty degree winter ones. But for now, they're a wordless haiku, capturing autumn in northern California.
Our car passes a sign: population 400 people.
Is it a town? Or a community?
Amid orchards, buildings stand. Farmland is an entity encapsulated in slow-moving time. The twenty first century is still found, but it's growth is slower. Jade green and sunshine yellow market the newest styles from John Deere. Orchards, fields, barns, and silos stand as testimony: agriculture is the heartbeat of the land.
"This is where my brother works," I murmur aloud. I'm not sure which orchard he tends.
It doesn't matter. He's part of the land, part of the age-old system of planting, growing, and harvesting.
We pass neat farms and quaint white buildings. Mennonite farms. Neatly tended and reminiscent of a different era.
There's a vitality to the landscape, a beauty that finds its form in sincerity. Some people worship the land, but don't understand it. I find the beauty in its usefulness. Here, in the middle of rice fields and orchards, November is found and known.
The skies hold a clarity only November can bring, a crispness that only rural landscapes hold.
I find my November there. I'm reminded of the thankful season, of crops harvested and winter prepared for.
The tempo is slower here. That country life oft romanticized and worshiped. It is is neither romantic nor worthy of worship. It is simply life. Long hours spent planting, months spent waiting, and then long hours spent harvesting.
Our destination is reached. I bury my bare feet into the ground, relishing the rough embrace of chilled air and dry grass. My husband says something and I laugh, and I'm thankful for him and his ability to make me laugh.
The landscape is brown, green, and yellow. A semblance of cliche autumn, but beautiful nonetheless. I am home, surrounded by the smells, rhythms, and memories of my childhood. My husband is next to me, smiling because he, too, is home. And I am thankful.
A country road has brought me home, and reminded me of all I love. The season of thankfulness, and amid my favorite fields, I find it.
No comments:
Post a Comment