Spring on the farm is just the “bomb”. I am slowly but surely weaning myself out of my puffer jacket and ugg boots, parking up my gumboots, packing away my “trackies” and sneaking my flouresant lily white legs into the big wide world. My home fire has all but gone out (apart from the occasional fire in the morning for the kids to get dressed for school) and the back of my woodshed is now clearly visible. I did glance at my husband the other day when he took away the wood barrow, thinking “what if we get a cold snap” but he just glared at me with those “don’t even think about asking me to chop another load of wood eyes!”
The farm has dried up and most of that hideous mud has gone, my car is now covered in dust instead of mud and I am told I have the dirtiest car in Rodney (not that I care as it is my bitter lonesome protest to Auckland Council over the condition of our roads) and apparently they don’t care either! A big indicator that it is spring for me is the continual flow of swallow poo on my decking; apparently my big old home turns into some sort of up-market housing estate for these little darlings during nesting season. It’s a small price to pay for the deliriously happy chirping sounds that they make and nothing that a water blaster can’t fix!
Farms like ours can often be lonely places, but not at this time of year. This place is buzzing with action – there are tractors screaming around the paddocks, making silage, ploughing dirt and sowing crops. All of this action creates the most wonderful kaleidoscope of colours and I tell you that sight would rival a Picasso. There is yellow from where the silage has been made, brown from where our dirt has been freshly turned and sowed, and a beautiful shade of green where they all meet – divine! The shearers have been and gone, and our crutching is finished (for those not in the know apparently sheep don’t like dirty bottoms either!)
My beautiful veggie garden suffers a tad from my sulkiness during winter but I am slowly creeping out there with vengeance. For the first time ever, I have managed to grow big plump artichokes and the daintiest sweet peas. The smell of the sweet peas is so intoxicatingly romantic that I sit amongst them and daydream about vintage prairie weddings and things of such. The sandpit is once again alive with the sounds of my children playing and just like the movie Toy Story, the sandpit toys are happy to be played with yet again.
Yes, my world is a stunning place to be in spring, my world is teeming with life and beauty. I am not going to miss a second of this time of year and I am going to be busy, very busy. I will drown myself in our glorious countryside, beautiful beaches and the perfect amount of sunshine. So, on that note, I must scurry as my picnic basket and blanket await me.