'Green Acres,' Stephen King & Gentle Ben

June 13, 2002

Dear Ken,

DC and I were listening to our loan officer explain the multitudinous forms we were signing to refinance our house when she came to one asking if we'd changed jobs since applying for the loan.

Does farmer count?

Monday we officially became the caretakers of Amity Hills Farm while our friend, Edwin, is away in Santa Fe doing artistic things. The current census is: five miniature donkeys, two Great Pyrenees dogs named Ben and Mickey, one deaf mutt named Dandy, miscellaneous cats and kittens, five geese, 38 pigeons, and an unruly army of chickens.

When DC went our to the farm Monday evening to feed the animals for the first time, she discovered that the huge, ancient maple tree in the barnyard had split in two and fallen to the ground as if cleaved by a stupendous sword. We saw no lightning in the sky that day. We don't know whether the demise of the tree is a sign from God or a scene from a Stephen King novel.

There was no loss of life as far as we know, but who knows what might be buried beneath the branches. The barnyard is engulfed by branches and leaves. The chickens have a new jungle gym.

I fed the animals the next day. Great Pyrenees are majestic dogs that were bred to guard livestock. But Gentle Ben, as DC calls him, was in the barn toying with a baby chick's life.

Returning home, I told DC that she probably needs to prepare herself for the way things sometimes go in the natural world of the farm. The census can change daily.

DC is worried about Gentle Ben's psychological state, reasoning he's upset because a fallen maple tree has taken over his territory. She's also fretting over the fate of a rooster that got into the feed bin and refused to be caught. He was gone when she went back to the farm worried that he had no water.

My guess is, roosters kings in an old barn who are not constrained by doors.

The "Green Acres" theme gets sung to us sometimes when we tell people we're doing some farming this summer. They're right. My agricultural experience consists of living on farm one summer in college. We rode horses bareback and went to sleep to the lullabies of insects and wild animals city dwellers can't hear. The only thing I grew was a beard.

DC loves animals more than anything. You wonder if that's a good qualification for a farmer to have.

But we know we want to do this. We love the peacefulness of being at the farm at sundown when the animals' day is ending. The clucking and honking and braying cease. The grasses in the pastures glow in the disappearing sun. It is an hour of idyllic pleasure.

Maybe we simply like caring for beings other than ourselves.

Edwin left instructions and phone numbers for veterinarians to call in the case of an animal emergency. There are other people to summon when the two pregnant jennies give birth.

Edwin is out of touch at the moment, so DC called some of his friends who live near the farm to ask what they we should do about the maple tree. Wait a week and then trim off the branches with a chainsaw, they said. They think Edwin will want the tree trunk to make sculptures.

In less than a week, we've lost a tree and at least one little peeper. What would Eddie Albert do?

Love, Sam

Sam Blackwell is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.