Heart of Darkness

For ground that drinks the rain which often falls upon it and brings forth vegetation useful to those for whose sake it is also tilled, receives a blessing from God; but if it yields thorns and thistles, it is worthless and close to being cursed, and it ends up being burned. – Hebrews 6:7-8

The land we own was part of an old farm. It was more lucrative for the owners to sell it off in four pieces than to sell it all together. I certainly didn’t want the old house, or the forty that is mostly a sinkhole – though I’ll admit that where the neighbor set his house gives him a nice view. I ended up with an oddly shaped portion that is mostly level or very gently sloping out front. Behind the house, it drops off. Then I have a piece that runs up behind the acreage the original farmhouse is on. It’s only perhaps two acres or so and virtually all hillside. Come to think of it, I guess it’s kind of like a bootheel – the state of Missouri in miniature.

Anyway, my bootheel is where all the deer go to hang out. If it will grow around here, it’s growing there. Oak and hickory mast from a few, mature, scattered trees, rank fescue, sumac, blackberries, buckbrush, and various native grasses – aka, weeds are available. We have had an abundance of rain the last couple of years and the growth in the bootheel has been extravagant. I kept meaning to get to it with my tractor and bushhog, but it’s a bit of trouble, and I just haven’t had time. In fact, I had not even taken the dog for a run back there for months. It’s one of her favorite haunts because of all the smells and the fact that she gets to splash in the tiny spring-fed brook that we have to cross at the bottom of the hill.

The dog was looking a little mournful yesterday, so, in spite of knowing both she and my jeans would come back covered in beggar lice, I took her that direction when it was time to play. Even going down the slope to the brook before we entered the bootheel, I could see the consequences of neglect. Where I could ride through on my ATV just last fall had closed in until it was something of a struggle to get through on foot. Beginning the climb up into the bootheel, it was even worse. The last really bad ice storm we had resulted in lots of downed limbs and split tree trunks. One tall, twenty year old hickory had bent about ten feet above the ground. It never straightened, but it never split either. It’s still all alive, growing horizontally instead of vertically. I hadn’t cut it because it wasn’t in the way that much, and I’m just a little uncertain about what might happen as the weight comes off. Now I see I’m going to have to do something because the other brush is growing up around it. And the problem is the same all over the bootheel. I’m sure the deer like it right now, but if I don’t intervene, the spouts and briers will reclaim all of it and their luxurious accommodations will become just another hiding place.

Rain is almost always a positive thing for people who live on hills. The clay base isn’t that far down, and it tends to drain off and dry out fairly quickly. Cool, rainy years like this one mean prosperity for agriculture in this part of the country. But the same rain that gives good hay and corn crops and keeps the pastures thick and green can cause other, less desirable growth.

I think my bootheel is a picture of some areas of my life. A certain amount of wildness is good, but I can’t completely ignore it and let it go, any more than I can the more visible, manicured front. I need to do some sawing, chopping, trimming and pruning in order to continue to keep things going in the right direction. The first thing to do is face up to it. As the Daredevils say in Black Sky, “It’s the grass in the back that you never did mow.” Folks just driving by think we look pretty good, but those closer to us may be aware that all is not as it should be. The blessings we have received, filling us with joy and contentment, feed the dark, wild, and unseen parts as well.