Time changes everything as the old Bill Monroe tune says. And so it goes with our idyllic setting in Fearrington. No, the parks, trails, the stately oaks and the general nature of the Village aren’t changing, but the visual reminder of an earlier time, of an agrarian life, the last bit of if, when the land was worked and produced goods, is disappearing. Trees are being cut, and the big yellow machines have begun their scraping, digging and mounding, altering the face of the Weathersfield pasture. No, this is not a rant against “progress” as the quest for money is often characterized; it’s more like a sigh. I’m a farm boy derivative, a small-farm boy. I’ve seen the little family farms of my youth become mega-farms and the larger family cattle and wheat ranches of the American West become corporate entities. And the local grocery store and the the book mobile became Wall Mart and Amazon. So, what’s my point? Maybe my eighth decade taints my attitude, especially about some small things. So, for me, an unobstructed view of a sunset scene across the Weathersfield pasture, once part of a farm, will be a memory. The bluebirds will probably abandon the nesting boxes along the fence because the “neighborhood” will lose the openness they need. And the old ranch gate with its cross-wire support posts, relics of another time, won’t fit the modernized scenery. “Oh well” as my friend in Fort Collins says. Time changes everything, including me. I’m a bit slow at it though.
So, I’ll finish this with a few soon-to-be-memories.
Posted 5/23/23
An evening view across the Weathersfield pasture.
A neighbourhood crow amongst the Weathersfield bluebird boxes, calling his chums.
Late afternoon at the Weathersfield gate.