Under most circumstances, I generally consider myself to be fairly decent, if not entertaining, company. I think I am, as the kids would say, a pretty good hang. I do, however, have my little quirks and idiosyncrasies, that, if I’m being completely objective, could possibly be construed as minor annoyances.
One such habit, which I can’t seem to shake, is my obsession with the amount of daylight that accompanies each 24-hour period of the year. What can I say? I love me some sunshine. As silly as it may seem, regardless of the circumstances of the day following the summer solstice (usually around June 22), I can’t help but feel a touch of melancholy as we lose a few seconds of precious daylight. Never mind that the cows are out on the grass and summertime joy permeates everything around me, I always allow my inner Eeyore to make an appearance. And so it goes with each successive day until Dec. 22 when the daylight hours begrudgingly begin to lengthen, creeping ever so slowly to the glorious longest day of the year, at which time I can finally find joy in the lengthening of the days.
I must admit it seems a bit counterintuitive, but I suppose it’s kind of a coping mechanism to brighten the chill and gray of winter and temper my sometimes overexuberant expectations of summer. As we trudge toward calving season through the cold and dreariness of January and February, I find solace in my little shot of extra daylight, which amounts to about two minutes each day, barely perceivable to even the most ardent of my kind. Nevertheless, even if I can’t see it, I know the increase is there.
Though I’ve probably always been a mediocre student at best, regardless of the classroom, as a son of the high desert and mountain country of the Intermountain West, I’ve had plenty of opportunities to learn at the feet of Mother Nature. She’s at once a gentle and harsh schoolmistress.
As I snuck into the back of the chapel at church last week, 10 minutes after the beginning of services, the talk from the pulpit and amongst the congregants was of praying for moisture in the coming weeks to soak the ground and fill the reservoirs with the precious and necessary water to sustain the farm country for the upcoming growing season.
I admire the faith of my friends and neighbors, and I always, at least superficially, support their supplications for moisture. As a cowman, however, I tend to be a little more specific (or picky) about where and when I’d prefer the rain and snow to fall. While my farmer neighbors spend much of the wintertime hours in the shop or on some sort of vacation, I and my cowboy cohorts have no choice but to labor in the coarser section of the vineyard, beneath the canopy of whatever the weather brings. Hence, I want the snow to pile up in the mountains all winter long, but I prefer a more Mediterranean climate in the foothills and valleys, especially after the first of March when the calves start to come.
Yes, I know. Such an attitude brings my faithfulness into question, and I’m sure God just rolls his eyes at me. No doubt, my grade in His natural sciences course hovers in the C-range, and I’m sure I fall into the “beggars can’t be choosers” category. Still, I learn something from the class every year, however reluctantly it may be.
Whether it be my wife and her garden, the corn and soybean farmer in Iowa, the San Joaquin Valley almond grower, the alfalfa guy in Lovelock or my very own spud-growing neighbor, anybody who’s ever turned the soil knows the value of timing and moderation. No matter how much water the desert farmers may need for the crop to thrive, they can’t do all of their irrigating in a day or a week. There’s little value in a flood. The worth comes in the moderate, consistent delivery of heaven’s dew.
Likewise, my impatience notwithstanding, the delivery of light from the heavens, be it literal or metaphorical, will most likely be granted in small, perfectly timed doses. And, whether we recognize it or not, it is always there and always on its way.
