Walking the Lines

October 7, 2021

Hal Borland was an author and editorialist for The NY Times from 1937 until his death in 1978. He was somewhat of an anomaly, writing for a big city newspaper with stories about the slower-paced country life on his farm in rural Connecticutt. In 1969, he published Homeland, chronicling the four seasons of the years 1963-1968, reflecting on the events of the day from a countryman’s perspective. It is a marvelous work that even years after first reading it, speak deeply to my soul. Allow me to whet your appetite with the dedication to his wife:

When I must leave, I pray it will be May,

For I’d remember earthly things this way:

An apple tree in bloom, the breath of dawn,

An oriole’s ecstasy, a dappled fawn,

A whippoorwill at dusk. I would heareafter

Remember now in terms of your sweet laughter.

In one of his chapters, Borland spoke of walking the lines, ie. the boundaries of his Connecticut farm. “It gives one a sense of belonging,” he wrote. I understand his heart. Our property can hardly be called a farm; it’s only about 2 1/2 acres of lawn, a few towering Douglas fir, some ash, maple, and oak. The ash are dying from ash borer infestation, but the other trees are pretty healthy.

I walked the lines this afternoon, checking my bees, and watching Emma splash in the creek. Earlier, I planted another apple tree; that makes four, which if all goes well, will in a few years give us more apples than we will know what to do with. Lord willing, I’ll live long enough to enjoy a few seasons of their bounty, but I didn’t plant them for myself only. A younger generation will reap the most benefit from them.

Growing up as I did in the suburbs, the idea of belonging to the land never occurred to me. A quarter acre lot in a housing development doesn’t lend itself to that kind of thought. I wasn’t introduced to this mindset until I met Linda, who grew up on the 75 acre farm her grandparents had tilled. It was a sad day when both her parents were gone and the homestead got split up among the grandkids. There wasn’t anywhere to belong any more. 

Fortunately, by then we had bought these 2 1/2 acres and begun to make it our own. Well…sort of. Actually, it’s the other way ‘round. This small shareholding doesn’t so much belong to us as we belong to it, as Borland would say. I know as the old gospel song puts it, “this world is not my home; I’m just a-passing through,” but even in his wanderings, Abraham had certain pleasant places where he put down stakes for awhile. This is that pleasant place for me, and I pity those who have never had the pleasure of sitting on the front porch in the evening, listening to the peepers while the sun sinks behind the ridge behind our home. 

Someday, what is left of these mortal bodies will be planted on the brow of the cemetery overlooking our place. I jokingly tell my kids I want a periscope put in the coffin so I can keep an eye on the place. I hope whoever winds up with it enjoys it as much, and treats it as kindly as we have tried to do, and that the day will come when they too, will transition from it belonging to them to them belonging to it. Thank you, Hal, for walking the lines those years ago.